THE RURAL WATERING-PLACE.
A great deal has been written about our fashionable watering-places, but
there is another class of watering-places quite as amusing in their way,
of which the public knows little or nothing. There are the rural
watering-places, which are part and parcel of our subject, without which
any picture of rural life would be incomplete; and which I shall here
therefore take due notice of. These are the resort of what may be styled
the burgher and agricultural part of our population. The farmer, the
shopkeeper, the occupant of the clerk’s desk, or the mercantile
warehouse,--each and all of these feel the want of a periodical
relaxation from business and care, and the want of that change of scene
and circumstance, that may give a fresh feeling of both mental and
physical renovation. These, as they stand wearily sweltering in the hot
field, or bending over the everlasting counter, suddenly see in their
mind’s eye the flashing of the sea, and feel the breezes blow upon them
like a new life. They resolve on the instant “to go to the salt-water”
before the summer is over, and begin contriving when and how it shall
be, and what wives and children, or old cronies, can go with them. The
farmer sees that the only time for him will be in the interval between
hay and corn harvest, and speedily he has inoculated some of his friends
with the same desire. Many a jolly company is thus speedily made, and at
the fixed time away they go, in gigs and tax-carts, or on scampering
horses, with more life and spirit than most people return from more
celebrated places. In Lancashire the better class of the operatives in
the manufacturing districts, consider it as necessary “to go to the
salt-water” in the summer, as to be clothed and fed all the rest of the
year. From Preston, Blackburn, Bolton, Oldham, and all those great
spinning and weaving towns, you see them turning out by whole wagon and
cart-loads, bound for Blackpool and such places; and they who have not
seen the swarming loads of these men and women and children, their fast
driving, and their obstreperous merriment, have not seen one of the most
curious scenes of English life.
In one of those strolls through different parts of the country in which
I have so often indulged myself, and in which I have always found so
much enjoyment, from the varieties of scenery and character which they
laid open to me, I once came upon a watering-place on the coast, that
afforded me no small matter for a day or two’s amusement. What could
have been the cause of the setting up of such a place as a scene of
pleasurable resort, it would be difficult to tell, except that it
possessed a most bounteous provision of two great articles in demand in
the autumnal months in cities--salt water and fresh air, for which a
thousand inconveniences would be endured. It was situated quite on the
flat coast of a flat country, a few miles from one of its sea-ports, yet
near enough to obtain speedily thence all those good things which hungry
mortals require--and who are so hungry as people bathing in sea water,
and imbibing sea air, and taking three times their usual exercise
without being distinctly aware of it?
Strolling along the coast, I found a good hotel, with all the usual
marks of such an establishment about it. There were quantities of
people loitering about the sands in front and in the garden, and other
quantities looking out of windows with the sashes up; some of them,
particularly the ladies, holding colloquies out of the windows of upper
stories with some of the strollers below; post-chaises, and gigs, and
shandray carts, standing here and there in the side scenes; a row of
bathing-machines on the shore, awaiting the hour of the tide; and a loud
noise of voices from a neighbouring bowling-green. The odours of
roasting and baking that came from the hotel, were of the most inviting
description. I inclined to take up my abode there for a few hours at
least, but on entering, I found that as to obtaining a room, or a tithe
of a room, or even a chair at the table of the ordinary, it was quite
out of the question. “Lord bless you, sir,” said the landlady, a woman
of most surprising corporeal dimensions, in a white gown, an
orange-coloured neckerchief, and a large and very rosy face, as she
stood before the bar, filling the whole width of the passage; “Lord
bless you, sir, if you’d give me a thousand golden guineas in a silken
purse, I should not know where to put you. We’ve turned hundreds and
hundreds of most genteel people away, that we have, within this very
week, and the house is fit to burst now, it’s so hugeous full. But
you’ll get accommodated at the town.” “What town?” said I; “is there a
town near?” “Why, town we call it, but it’s the village, you know; it’s
Fastside here, not more than a mile off; if you follow the bank along
the shore, you’ll go straight to it. You can’t miss it.” Accordingly,
following the raised embankment along the shore, I soon descried
Fastside, a few scattered cottages, placed amongst their respective
crofts and gardens, and here and there a farm-house, with its
substantial array of ricks about it, denoting that the dwellers were
well off in the world. But I soon found that all the cottages, and many
of the farm-houses, had their boarders for the season, and that there
was scarcely one but was full. I had the good luck to spy an equipage,
and something like a departing group at the door of one of the cottages,
and as it moved away, to find that I could have the use of two rooms, a
parlour and chamber over it, if I liked to go to the expense. “Perhaps,”
said the neat cottage housewife, “as a single gentleman, you may not
like to occupy so much room, for just at this season we charge rather
high.” “And pray,” said I, “what may be the enormous price you are
charging for these rooms, then?” “Seven shillings a-week each room, and
half-a-crown for attendance,” looking at me with an inquiring eye, as if
apprehensive that I should be astounded at the sum. “What! the vast
charge of sixteen and sixpence per week,” I replied, smiling, “for two
rooms and attendance?” “Yes,” said the simple dame; “but then, you see,
you will have to live besides, and it all comes to a good deal. But may
be you are a gentleman, that doesn’t mind a trifle.” Having assured her
that there would, at all events, be no insurmountable obstacle in her
terms, I entered and took possession of two as rustic and nicely clean
rooms as could be found under such a humble roof. I had taken a fancy to
spend a few days, or a week at least, there. It was a new scene, and
peopled with new characters, that might be worth studying. The cottage
stood in a thoroughly rural garden, full of peas, beans, and cabbages,
with a little plot round the house, gay with marigolds, hollyhocks, and
roses, and sweet with rosemary and lavender. The old dame’s husband was
a shrimper, or fisher for shrimps, whom I soon came to see regularly
tracing the edge of the tide with his old white horse and net hung
behind him. She had, besides me, it seemed, another lodger, who, she
assured me, “was a very nice young man indeed, but, poor young
gentleman, he enjoyed but very indifferent health. Sometimes I think
he’s been crossed in love, for I happened to cast my eye on one of his
books--he reads a power of books--and there was a deal about love in it.
It was all in poetry, you see, and so on; and then again, I fancy he’s
consumptive, though I wouldn’t like to say a word to him, lest it should
cast him down, poor young man; but he reads too much, in my opinion, a
great deal too much; he’s never without a book in his hands when he’s in
doors; and that’s not wholesome, you are sure, to be sitting so many
hours in one posture, and with his eyes fixed in one place. But God
knows best what’s good for us all; and I often wonder whether he has a
mother. I should be sorely uneasy on his account, if I were her.” So the
good dame ran on, while she cooked me a mutton chop and took an account
of what tea and sugar and such things she must send for by the postman,
who was their daily carrier to the town. I listened to her talk, and
looked at the pot of balm of Gilead, and the red and white balsams
standing in the cottage window, and the large sleek and well-fed tabby
cat sleeping on the cushion of the old man’s chair, and was sure that I
was in good hands, and grew quite fond of my quarters. Before the day
was over, I became acquainted with the old shrimper, who came in after
his journey to the next town with his shrimps, and who was as
picturesque an old fellow as you would wish to see, and full of
character and anecdotes of the wrecks and sea accidents on that coast
for forty years past. I had been informed all about who were the
neighbours inhabiting the other cottages and farms, and had a good
inkling of their different characters too. I had walked out to the bank
when the tide was up, and round the garden, and actually got into
conversation with “the poor young man,” my fellow lodger.
The next morning I was up early, and out to reconnoitre the place and
neighbourhood; and this young man having found out that I was also
addicted to the unwholesome practice of reading books, took at once a
great fancy to me, and went with me as guide and cicerone. I found that
all the mystery about him was, that he was a youth articled to an
attorney in great practice, and had stooped over the desk a little too
much, but was soon likely to be as strong and sound as ever, being
neither consumptive nor _crossed_ in love, although in love he certainly
was. A more simple-hearted, good-natured fellow, it was impossible could
exist. He had the most profound admiration of all poets and
philosophers, and read Goldsmith, Shenstone, and Addison, with a relish
that one would give a good deal for. As for Sir Walter Scott, and Lord
Byron, and Tom Moore, he knew half of their voluminous poetical works by
heart; mention any fine passage, and he immediately spouted you the
whole of it; and as for the Waverley Novels, he had evidently devoured
them entire, and was full of their wonders and characters. Yet, thus
fond of poetry and romance, it was not the less true that he had a fancy
for mathematics, and played on the fiddle and the flute into the
bargain. Nor was this all the extent of his tastes, he had quite a
_penchant_ for natural history; had he time, he declared he would study
botany, ornithology, geology, and conchology too; and yet, although such
a book-worm himself, he seemed to enjoy the company of the other
visiters there who never read at all. There was a whole troop that he
made acquaintance with, and whose characters he sketched to me,
particularly those of a merry set who lodged at a cottage opposite,
where he often went to amuse them with his fiddle. As my business was to
see what were the characters and the amusements of such a place, I
desired him to introduce me to them, but in the first place to let us
run a little over the country.
The country was rich and flat, divided into great meadows full of
luxuriant grass, grazed by herds of fine cattle, and surrounded by noble
trees, which served to break up the monotony of the landscape. Here and
there you saw the tall, square, substantial tower of a village church
peeping over its surrounding screen of noble elms. We were accustomed to
stroll into these churchyards, admiring the singularly large and
excellent churches, all of solid stone; the spacious graveyard and the
large heavy headstones, adorned with carved skulls and cross-bones; and
gilded angels with long trumpets figured above the simple epitaphs of
the departed villagers. The farm-houses, too, surrounded also with tall
elms, and with a great air of wealth and comfort, drew our attention. As
we approached nearer to the sea, the country was more destitute of wood;
consisted of very large fields of corn, then beginning to change into
the rich hues of ripeness; fields also of woad, a plant used in dyeing,
and there extensively cultivated; and these fields intersected no longer
by hedges, but by deep wide ditches called dykes, in which grew plenty
of reeds, water-flags, a tall and splendid species of marsh ranunculus
(_R. lingua_) and yellow and white water-lilies. As we drew near to the
village, if village such scattered dwellings could be called, we were
struck with the peculiar aspect of the dry lanes, and the plants which
grew there, so different to those of an inland neighbourhood. They were
exactly such as Crabbe has described them in such a situation:--
There, fed by food they love, to rankest size,
Around the dwelling docks and wormwood rise;
Here the strong mallow strikes her slimy root;
Here the dull nightshade hangs her deadly fruit;
On hills of dust the henbane’s faded green,
And pencilled flower of sickly scent is seen;
At the wall’s base the fiery nettle springs,
With fruit globose and fierce with poisoned stings.
Above, the growth of many a year, is spread
The yellow level of the stonecrop’s bed;
In every chink delights the fern to grow,
With glossy leaf and tawny bloom below.
The great embankment secured all this from the invasion of the sea, and,
winding along the flat sands, formed a delightful walk when the tide was
roaring up against it. Here also the male portion of the visiters came
to bathe; and, when the tide was up, nothing could be more delicious.
They could undress on the sunny sward of the mound at whatever distance
from the others they pleased, for there were many miles of the bank; and
the waves dashing gently against the grassy slope, received them on a
secure and smooth sand, at a depth sufficient to allow them either to
wade or swim. They generally, however, undressed near enough to swim or
wade in company, and to splash one another and play all manner of
practical jokes.
When the tide was out, from this bank you had a view of a great extent
of level sands, monotonous enough in themselves, but animated by the
view of vessels in full sail passing along the Channel to or from the
neighbouring port, and by the flight and cries of the sea-birds. Along
these sands we ranged every day to a great distance, collecting shells,
leaping the narrow channels of salt water left in the hollows, shooting
gulls, watching the shrimps that were floating in the tide, and amusing
ourselves with the crabs, which, left in the holes in the strand, were
running sideways here and there in great trepidation, yet never so much
alarmed as not to be ready to seize and devour those of their own
species that were less in personal bulk and prowess than themselves.
Then, again, we found a good deal of employment in botanising amongst
the patches of sea-wilderness, which were not so often submersed by the
tide as to destroy the vegetation altogether, or to produce only fucus
and other sea-weeds. The rest-harrow, the eringo with its cerulean
leaves, the stag’s horn plantain, the glasswort or common (not the true)
samphire--these and many others had all an interest for us. In one place
we found the sea-convolvulus blowing in its rich and prodigal beauty on
the sands; and then we came to wild hills of sand thrown up by the
billows of ages, a whole region of desolation, overgrown with the
sea-wheat, and the tall yellow stems and umbels of the wild celery.
Such was the scenery; the people of the cottages were generally
fishermen, with their families; and the visiters, farmers and persons of
that class, often with their families. At the house opposite us, as I
have said, was the merriest crew. My friend the young lawyer was in the
habit of running in and out amongst them as he pleased. He proposed that
we should go and dine with them, as they had a sort of ordinary table,
where you could dine at a fixed and very moderate charge, as all charges
indeed were there. Here we found about a dozen people. One, who appeared
and proved an old gentleman-farmer, a Mr. Milly, always took the head of
the table; and a merrier mortal could not have been there, except he who
occupied the other end, a fellow of infinite jest, like Sir John
Falstaff, and to the full as corpulent. Who and what he was, I know not,
save that he was a most fat and merry fellow, and went by the name of
Sir John between the young lawyer, whom I shall call Wilson, and myself.
This joyous old gentleman had his wife and son and daughter with him.
The son was a young man as fond of a practical joke as his father was of
a verbal one; nay, he was not short of a verbal one too, on occasions.
He was of a remarkably dark-brown complexion, and on some one asking him
how he came to be so dark, when the rest of his family were fair, he at
once replied, “Oh, can’t you fancy how that was? It happened when I was
a child in the cradle. I got turned on my face, and had like to have
been smothered. I got so black in the face, I have never recovered my
colour again. My mother can tell you all about it--can’t you mother?” At
this repartee, all the company laughed heartily, and truly it was a
company that could laugh heartily. They had merry hearts. Then there was
a good worthy farmer of the real old school. I was near saying that John
Farn was old, but, in fact, he was not more than five-and-thirty, but
his gravity gave him an appearance of something like age. He was dressed
in a suit of drab, with an ample coat of the good old farmerly cut, and
jack-boots like a trooper. But John Farn had a deal of sober sound
sense, and a mind that, had it been called out, would have been found
noble. I became very fond of John. The rest were young farmers and
tradesmen, full of youth and life. They had brought their horses with
them, and some of them gigs, and were fond of all mounting and scouring
away on the shore for miles together.
The great business, indeed, was to bathe, and eat and drink, and ride or
walk, and play at quoits or bowls. If the tide was up early in the
morning, all would be up and out, and have their dip before breakfast.
Then they would come back hungry as hunters, and devour their coffee,
beef, and broiled ham, and shrimps fresh from the cauldron, and then
out, some to ride round to have a look at the neighbouring farms, or on
the shore to see the fishing smacks go out or come in. Others got to
quoits or bowls till dinner; and after a hearty meal and a good long
chat, they would slowly saunter up to the hotel, and see what company
was there, and take a glass and a pipe with some of them, and see the
newspaper, and perhaps have a game at bowls there, and then back to tea;
after which they grew very social, and called on the other boarders at
the cottages near, and strolled out with the ladies to the bank, which
was not far off; and so wiled the time away till supper. Four meals
a-day did they regularly sit down to, and enjoy themselves as much as if
they had not eaten for a day or two, praising all the time the wonderful
property of sea-air for getting an appetite. As sure as shrimps appeared
at breakfast, did soles at supper; and after supper one drew out his
bottle of wine, and another got his brandy and water, and all grew
merry. Those that liked it took a pipe, and it annoyed nobody. There was
plenty of joking and laughter, that it would have done the most
fastidious good to hear, and as much wit, and perhaps a good deal more,
than where there does not exist the same freedom. More jovial evenings I
never saw. Wilson gave them a tune on his flute, or took his fiddle;
they cleared the floor of the largest room, invited some of the
neighbouring visiters who had wives or daughters with them, and had a
dance. On such evenings Sir John Falstaff sat in the large bay-window of
the apartment for coolness, and wiped his brow and sang his merriest
songs. His songs were all merry, and he had a host of them: it was a
wonder where he had picked them up. His son often joined him, sometimes
his wife and daughter too. It was a merry family. Surely never could
care have found a way into their house. Not even the young man’s brown
complexion could give him a care; it only furnished him with a joke, and
made laughter contagious. Never could the old man have been so fat, had
care been able to lay hold on him. The whole of that huge bulk was a
mass of rejoicing. How his eyes did shine and twinkle with delight as he
sang! what silent laughter played around his mouth, and stole over his
ruddy cheeks, like gleams of pleasantest lightning of a summer’s night,
as he lifted his glass to his head, and listened to some one else! But,
alas! all his mirth was well-nigh closed one day. He was tempted by the
fineness of the weather into the tide, contrary to his wont, and his
doctor’s order. Some one suddenly missed him; all looked round: at a
distance something like a buoy was seen floating; it was Sir John; his
fat floated; his head had gone down like a stone; they just pulled him
up time enough to save him, but he was blacker in the face than ever his
son had been in the cradle, and got a fright that spoiled all his mirth
for some days.
But there was a ball at the hotel, and every body was off to it; all
except Wilson, who was not well, and myself, who stayed to keep him
company. Even grave John Farn, in his drab suit and jackboots, would go.
Who would have thought that there was such a taste for pleasure in John
Farn? John Farn was very fond of hearing Wilson and myself talk of
books. He would come to our cottage, and sit and listen for hours to our
conversation, or take up some of our books himself, and read. I
perceived that there was an appetite for knowledge in him that had never
been called out, because it had had nothing to feed on; but it was clear
that it would soon, if it was in the way of aliment and excitement,
become fearfully voracious. When he found the name of Dryden in a
volume, he declared that he was born in the same parish. He put the book
into his pocket, and was missed all that day. Somebody, by chance, saw
him issue out of a great reed bed towards evening; he had read the
volume through, and declared that he should think ten times better of
his parish now for having produced such a man. Who would have thought
that John Farn, the Northamptonshire farmer and grazier, and who had
lived all his life amongst bullocks, and whose whole talk was of them,
would have fastened thus suddenly on a volume of Dryden’s poems? But
John used to accompany Wilson and myself, botanising along the shore
and the inland dykes; and it was curious to see with what a grave
enthusiasm he would climb in his great jack-boots over the roughest
fences; how he would leap across those wide dykes; how he would splash
through the salt-water pools and streams to tear up a flower or a
sea-weed that he wanted; and with what an earnest eye he would look and
listen as we mentioned its name, and pointed out its class in the
volume, or related its uses! There was an undiscovered world, and a
great one, in the soul of that John Farn.
The more I saw of that man, the more I liked him. The stores of yet
unstirred life, both of intellect and feeling in his frame, became every
day more strongly apparent. He would sit with us on the sea-bank for
hours watching the tide come up, or watching its play and the play of
light and shadow over it when at flood, and drink down greedily all that
was said of this or other countries, all that had in it knowledge of any
kind. His whole body seemed full of the joyous excitement of a youth
that in years should have passed over him, but was yet unspent, and was
now only found. He rose up one day and said, “Let us hire a ship, and
sail out to some other country.” At the moment we laughed at the idea,
but John Farn persisted with the utmost gravity in his proposal, and
eventually we did hire a smack and sailed across to Norfolk. We visited
Lynn; walked over the grounds of the school where Eugene Aram was an
usher when he was taken for the murder; and nothing but the threatening
of the weather would have prevented us crossing over to the Continent.
As it was, it was delightful to see the childlike enjoyment with which
that grave man saw the breezy expanse of ocean, the fiery colour of its
waters as the vessel cut through them in the night, the seals that lay
on a mid-sea rock as we sailed along, and the birds of ocean screaming
and plunging in its billows.
There was a legion of things in the bosom of John Farn that he knew
nothing of all the years that he had been buying and selling cattle, but
were now all bursting to the light with a startling vigour. I wonder
whether they have since troubled him, like blind giants groping their
way to the face of heaven, or whether, amid his cattle and his quiet
fields, they have collapsed again into dim and unconscious dreams; but
the last action which I witnessed in him, made me sure that his moral
feeling was as noble as I suspected his intellectual strength to be
great.
There was a robbery at Uriah Sparey’s. Money and other articles were
missed from the packages of the guests. The suspicion fell on a servant
girl. Great was the stir, the inquiry, and the indignation. Mrs. Uriah
Sparey was vehement in her wrath. She insisted that the affair should
not be talked of lest it should bring discredit on her house; but to
satisfy her guests, she would turn the girl out of it that instant. The
girl with tears protested her innocence, but in vain. When she came to
open her own box, she declared that she was robbed too. Her wages, and
the money given her by visiters, were all gone. Mrs. Sparey exclaimed,
that “never did she see such an instance of guilty art as this! The girl
to remove from herself the charge of theft, to pretend that she herself
was robbed!”
If the girl was guilty, she most admirably affected innocence; if she
was of a thievish nature, never did nature so defend vice under the fair
shield of virtuous lineaments. All saw and felt this; all had been much
pleased with the appearance and behaviour of the girl. Her vows of
innocence were now most natural; her tears fell with all the hot
vehemence of wronged truth; she earnestly implored that every search and
every inquiry should be made, that she might at least regain her
character; her money she cared little for. But Mrs. Uriah Sparey only
exclaimed, “Minx! get out of my house! I see what you want; you want to
fix the theft upon me!” All started at that singular exclamation, and
fixed their eyes on Mrs. Sparey; she coloured; but no one spoke. The
girl stood weeping by the door. Then said John Earn, “Go home, my girl,
go home, and let thy father and mother see into the matter for thee.” At
these words, the girl, whose tears were before flowing fast but freely,
burst into a sudden paroxysm of sobs and cries, and wrung her hands in
agony. “What is the matter?” asked John Farn; “has the poor girl no
parents?” “Yes, yes!” she exclaimed, suddenly looking at him, and the
tears stopping as if choked in their bed; “but how can I go to them with
the name of a thief?” The colour passed from her face, and she laid hold
on a chair to save herself from falling. “Mary!” said John Farn, “I will
not say who _is_ the thief; but this I say, I will hire thee for a year
and a day, and there is a guinea for earnest, and another to pay thy
coach fare down. Be at my house in a fortnight, and till then go and see
thy mother. Let them call thee thief that dare!” With that he rose up,
gave Mary his address, paid his bill to Mrs. Sparey, and marched out of
the house with his little round portmanteau under his arm. We all
hurried out after him, gave him by turns a hearty rattling shake of the
hand as he was about to mount his horse; and that was the last I saw of
John Farn. I know no more of him, yet would I, at a venture, rather take
the heart of that man, though compelled to take the long drab coat and
the jack-boots with it, than that of many a lord with his robes of
state, and all his lands and tenements besides.
Such were a few days and their real incidents passed by me at a Rural
Watering-place some years ago.
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