The Rural Life of England

Septimus Scallop laughed at the hostler’s repartee, and I laughed too, but my amusement had a different source from his. There was something irresistibly ludicrous in the generous rushing forth of the whole company to the aid of the poor carrier, except the witty brother! But he was quite right: in about an hour, in came the good-natured men, streaming with rain like drowned rats, and declaring that after running three miles and finding no wagon, they bethought themselves of turning back to where the carrier said it was lost; and there they had nearly run their noses against it, standing exactly where he left it.

So much for the village inn. Every traveller must have seen in such a place many a similar piece of country life. A new class of alehouses has sprung up under the New Beer Act, which being generally kept by people without capital, often without character; their liquor supplied by the public brewers, and adulterated by themselves; have done more to demoralize the population of both town and country, than any other legislative measure within the last century. In these low, dirty, fuddling places, you may look in vain for

In manufacturing towns, and agricultural districts, they alike multiply the temptations to the poor man, and by their low character are sure to deteriorate his own. Against the swarms of these, in many places, the quiet respectable old village inn has little chance. It must disappear, or be kept by a different and a worse class of people; and when it goes, it goes with Goldsmith’s graphic lamentation—for very different are the shops that succeed it:

CHAPTER IX.
POPULAR PLACES OF RESORT.—WAKES, STATUTES, AND FAIRS.

Besides the remains of the ancient festivals, the country people find a great source of amusement in these gatherings. The Wake is the parochial feast of the dedication of the church. It has now dwindled into a village holiday, shorn by the Reformation of all its ecclesiastical and sacred character. But it furnishes a certain point in every year, in every individual parish, to which the rural people can look forward as a point of rest and mutual rejoicing. It is a time which leads them to clean up their houses, to look forward and prepare for a renewal of their wardrobe; and which cheers the spirit of many an otherwise solitary and labouring person with the prospect of a short season of relaxation, a short pause in the otherwise ever-going machinery of servitude. The old people—parents, and grand-parents, say—when telling of their children out at service, in some distant place, or married and settled far off: “Well, well, we shall see them at the wake. They’ll all be here, thank God, well and hearty, I hope.” The children, as they groan at times under the tedium of perpetual labour, suddenly cheer up, and say,—“Well, but we shall go home at the wake;”—a thing which is regularly stipulated for at hiring; and the vision of that joyful time, though but a moment in itself, puts out all the twilight of their weary waiting. The time comes. The merry bells of the church are ringing on the anniversary of that church’s completion, perhaps five or seven hundred years ago. Merrily they ring; and simple and glad creatures, young maidens, and youths, and comely pairs with a troop of children round them, hear them, as they come over hill and dale, approaching from all quarters the place of their nativity, and the place of their ancestors: the one place, however small and however obscure, tinged all over with the memories of childhood, and filled with the stories and legends that were interwoven with the very grain of their minds by their parents’ recitals in early life—the one place, therefore, which seems the most important in the universe. They, like the Chinese, always place in the maps of their simple thoughts their native village in the centre of the earth. Over hill and dale they are coming, all in their holiday array; and in many a bright little cottage, basking in the sunshine of morning, are eager hearts looking out for them; wondering how Grace and Thomas will look; whether they are much altered; and whether the children of the married ones will be much grown. The beauty of these village feasts is, that they do not occur all at one time, so that the friends and acquaintance of the inhabitants of one place, come pouring in to see them, and are ready in their turn to receive them at their feast.

They are times of pleasant exchange of hospitalities and renewals of simple friendships. Out of doors there are stalls of toys and sweetmeats, and whirligigs for the children; within, there is, for once, plum-pudding and roast beef, and an infinity of such talk as best pleases their tastes. Old notes of by-gone years are compared. Many are recalled to remembrance who have not been thought of for a long time. The hearts of the old are warmed by retracing their early exploits, and early acquaintance, with all the pleasant exaggerations of memory; and the young listen, and think with wonder on those good old times.

In some old-fashioned places, these feasts are named from and mingled with the remains of other old church rites. At Ilkeston in Derbyshire, it is called the Cross-Dressing, and the cross in the village is dressed up with oaken boughs, with their leaves gilt and spangled. At Tissington, near Dovedale, the Well-Dressing or Well-Flowering, when they dress up a beautiful spring with flowers, and have dances and processions and much merriment, is their great feast, though it may not happen to fall exactly on the day of the dedication of the church. At Blidworth, in the old demesnes of Sherwood, it is their Rocking; I suppose from its happening to fall on the day after Twelfth-day, or St. Distaff’s-day, the custom of which is described by Herrick:—

In different villages, different customs have allied themselves to the great annual feast, the season of meeting of friends and relatives. Long may these meetings remain bound up with, at least, one bright day in the year. I trust, however knowledge and refinement may extend themselves, they will never refine these rural holidays away. Let them root out cruelty and rudeness, and drunkenness, as they have done already in a great degree—for where now are bull-baitings, bear-baitings, dog-fights, and cock-fights, which twenty years ago were the invariable accompaniments and great attraction of these wakes? Let Christian knowledge root out these things, and thus perfect this one white season of the cottager’s year—making it entirely an occasion for cultivating the best affections, and knitting together family ties.

STATUTES.

These, which are called provincially Statitz, or Statice, are meetings for hiring of farm and household servants, “according to statutes made and provided,” and are held in certain central and convenient places. They are attended merely by farmers, and people who happen to want men or maid-servants, and by the servants themselves. By the latter they are looked forward to with much interest. They furnish occasion for a holiday. They are for the time their own masters, having left, or being about to leave their places, and either to re-engage themselves, or to seek new ones. They here meet their old acquaintances, and compare notes of the past year, of the character of the different places they have had; of what extraordinary has befallen them; and are full of new schemes and speculations as to where they shall go; what advance of wages they shall obtain; in what capacity they shall hire themselves. In many parts of the country he who offers himself as a shepherd appears with a lock of wool in his hat, placed under the band; the wagoner has a bit of whipcord stuck there; the groom a bit of sponge; the milkmaid in her bonnet a tuft of cow-hair; and the general run of farm-servants are conspicuous enough as to what they are, by their carters’-frocks, or slops, hob-nailed ankle boots, and out-of-door, half-waggish, half-sheepish looks.

It is a true country scene, to see all these rude sons of the soil collected together from their farm-yards and solitary fields, where, far from towns, they have gone whistling after the plough, sowing, or gathering in harvest; and the girls that have been scrubbing, churning, and milking, and occasionally helping in the hay or corn fields, here dressed out in their rustic finery, and shewing such robust forms and rosy faces as might astonish our over-delicate citizens. To see the farmers going amongst them, inquiring after their accomplishments and qualities, and cheapening them much as they would cheapen a horse; and their no less wary wives negotiating with the buxom damsels of the mop and pail. These matters all satisfactorily disposed of, and the Earnest, or money given on account of future services, or as it is otherwise called, the Fastening-penny, from its formerly being a penny, though now a shilling, being given, away go the farmers and farmeresses, and leave the lads and lasses to a day of jollity and fun. The swains lose no time in selecting each his chere-amie for the day; and the afternoon is spent in eating, flirting, drinking, and dancing, and then all separate their several ways, for at least another year.

Some of these Statutes in agricultural districts bring together a vast concourse of people. In Warwickshire, Oxfordshire, and many other parts of the country, these statutes are held about Old Michaelmas-day, when all the servants, men and women, are at liberty from their servitude, and have a week’s holiday to attend the different neighbouring statutes, mops, or bull-roastings, as they are called. All work is at an end. Day-labourers are the only men who can be got to do out-of-doors offices; charwomen take the place of housemaids within; and good housewives are often at their wits’ end what to do. As you enter towns you find them swarming with the country lads and lasses, and oxen roasting in the streets; booths, shows, eating, treating, and dancing the order of the day. As you go along the highways you meet the young country people streaming along in their rustic finery to or from the towns; and when you arrive at a country inn, probably the door is barred and bolted, if it be towards evening,—the servants being all gone to be hired, the master to hire, and the mistress left alone, and no little afraid of the loose strolling fellows who are abroad at this unsettled time. I once went, when a boy, with my schoolmaster to Polesworth Statute, in Warwickshire, and well remember that such was the crowd, that although I saw a penny on the ground, and made many attempts to stoop down and pick it up, I found it impossible to do it. In Northumberland, Durham, and the south of Scotland, similar meetings are held, where the hinds hire their Bondagers.

FAIRS.

Statutes are places where the working class of the rural districts amuse themselves, but fairs are great sources of pleasure to all classes of country people. The farmers, and their wives and daughters; the villagers of all descriptions; the cottagers from the most secluded retreats; the squire and his family from the hall—all flock to the fair of their county town, and find some business to be transacted, and a world of pleasure to be enjoyed. There are cheese, cattle, horses, poultry, geese, and a hundred other things, to be sold; and multitudes of household articles, clothing, and trinkets to be bought; and, besides all this, a vast of seeing and being seen to be done. I will describe the great October Fair of Nottingham, called Goose-Fair, as a good specimen of a country fair on a large scale.

In the country, for many miles round, this fair is looked forward to by young and old with views of business and recreation for months; and what was done, and said, and seen at Goose-Fair; who was met there, and what matches were made, serve for conversation for months afterwards. The buyers and sellers of cheese, apples, onions, and a variety of other articles, are making their preparations to be there; some of them from distant counties; horse-jockeys are getting ready their strings of horses; young people are putting their wardrobes in order, and expecting all that such young people do expect on such occasions. In the town, two or three days before, the signs of the approaching fair increase. Huge caravans incessantly arrive, with their wild beasts, theatricals, dwarfs, giants, and other prodigies and wonders. Then come trotting in those light, neat covered wagons, containing the contents of sundry bazaars that are speedily to spring up. As you go out of the town at any end, you meet caravan after caravan, cart after cart, long troops of horses tied head and tail, and groups of those wild and peculiar-looking people, that are as necessary to a fair as flowers are to May;—all kinds of strollers, beggars, gipsies, singers, dancers, players on harps, Indian jugglers, Punch and Judy exhibitors, and similar wandering artists and professors.

For some days before the general fair commences, the horse-fair is going on. You recognise all the knowing-ones in horse-flesh from all the country round; country gentlemen and smart young farmers, and cunning jockeys with their long drab great coats, short old boots, and their jockey whips stuck carelessly under their arm. Horses of all kinds, light and heavy, full blood, half blood, and no blood at all, are ridden and driven to shew their action, along the pavement in all directions, as if the aim of the riders was to run over everybody they could, and break their own necks into the bargain.

Then on the authentic day of the fair, forth comes the procession of the corporation to proclaim the fair, and march up the market-place and down again in their scarlet robes, mayor and aldermen, the mace borne and the trumpet blown before them, and the beadles with their staves behind. Having made this procession to the wonder of all children, and sight-loving adults, they ascend into the Town-Hall, there, oddly enough, called the Exchange, and the crier proclaims the fair from the charter, at the prompting of the town-clerk. The fair is proclaimed, and is already in existence. There is the market-place, an area of six acres, jammed full of stalls, shows, bazaars, and people. From the earliest hour of the morning, wagons loaded with cheese have been arriving, which are now seen on one side of the market-place, pitched down in piles, and in quantities enough, one would think, to serve all England for a twelvemonth. There are the farmers, and their wives and daughters, well wrapped up in good market coats, with numerous capes, surveying with pride the workmanship of their hands, and the product of their summer’s dairy; and there are the dealers busy amongst it with their cheese-tasters, tasting and chaffering, and buying, and sending off their purchases by wagons to the wharfs. It is incredible in what a little time those great heaps of cheese vanish from the stones, and nuts and onions in abundance.

The whole market-place is now one mass of moving people, and unintermitted din. Wombwell’s Menagerie displays all its gigantic animals on its scenes; Holloway’s “Travelling Company of Comedians” are dancing with harlequin and clown in front of their locomotive theatre; wonderful women, and children, and animals; wonderful machinery, panoramas, and prodigies are displayed on all sides in pictorial enormity, and the united sounds of Wombwell’s fine band of musicians in their beef-eater costume, the band of Holloway, the smaller ones of other shows, and the bawlings, and invitings, and oratorical declamation of a dozen different showmen, with bellowing of gongs and clashing of cymbals, make up a sound enough to drive to distraction more swine than ran into the sea of Gennesaret, but which seems, notwithstanding, wonderfully delightful to ears grown weary of country quiet. It is curious to see the numbers pouring in and out of these places; to see the dense crowd of upturned faces collected before every show where there are antics playing, and clowns and fools talking nonsense for their entertainment. To hear the hearty laughs which follow their standing jokes, is to feel how cheaply pleasure can be furnished to hungry spirits.

But the crowd of fair-goers walking round and round this annual Babel! During the morning, business is the chief engrossment; but from noon till eleven or twelve o’clock at night, pleasure is the pursuit. The farmers’ daughters, who stood in their caped coats before their piles of cheese, are now metamorphosed into most extraordinary belles, and have found beaus as dashing as themselves. At all the stalls, purchases of gingerbread, sweetmeats, nuts and oranges, are going on; and through the bazaars—those modern additions to fairs, goes a perpetual stream of gay people, admiring the endless variety of things that are there displayed on either hand. Tea-caddies, workboxes of rosewood and pearl, china, cut-glass, drums and trumpets, and all kinds of toys; bracelets and necklaces, and all species of female trinkets; fans, and parlour bellows, figures in porcelain and painted wood; purses, musical boxes, and, in short, all the thousand contents of a bazaar.

This afternoon portion of the fair is called the gig-fair, because people come driving in their gigs to it; i. e. it is the pleasure-fair, where smart people from all quarters come to see, and to be seen. The second day of the fair, I believe, is the earliest on which very genteel people make their appearance, and then you may often see numbers of country families of good standing mingling in the moving mass of Vanity Fair. It is amusing enough to sit at a window, and look over all the stirring and motley scene. To see the eternal stream of smart dresses and fair faces go by. Round and round they move, in one dense throng, every one apparently driven forward by the weight of the coming crowd; and, taking into consideration the press, the noise, the weariness of such thronged and continued walking, one is apt to wonder how any human beings can find pleasure in it. But that they do find pleasure, and an intense pleasure, their eager and multitudinous flocking thither sufficiently denote. They come out of a quietness that presents a little noise and dissipation as an agreeable contrast. They come to attractions adapted to their taste. The greater part of them are full of youth and expectation. There is no occasion on which so many country flames are struck up as at a fair. And in truth, you see numbers of fine healthy forms of both sexes in this crowd, and beautiful faces in numbers sufficient to make you feel with the poet:

It is a time, in fact, of universal country jollity, pleasure-taking, love-making, present-making, treating, and youthful entertainment, enjoyed to an extent that people of different tastes can form no conception of. Many an important connexion is dated from the fair; many a freak, a pleasure, a piece of wit and fun, are thence registered, and talked of at country firesides to the latest period of life; and these are all so much part and parcel of our common nature, that there must be a stony place in the heart which does not strongly sympathise with the actors and partakers of them. Joy, therefore, to all fair-goers! and with the growth of greater intelligence and taste, long may the healthy capacity of being lightly pleased retain its hold on the robust forms and sweet faces of English Rural Life.

I have often thought that we have artists who go all over the world in quest of novelties of scene, costume, character, and grouping, many of whom, if they came to an English fair, with minds capable of entering into what they saw, might give us scenes and figures of more real interest than they often bring back after years of absence. The dancing-scene before Holloway’s; the figures and coquetting of country belles and their lovers; and the picturesque simplicity of the old men gazing like children on some wonder-promising showman, and now full of consternation and amaze at some of them finding their purses clean vanished from their pockets, would form good subjects for the pencil.

CHAPTER X.
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:—

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.