CHAPTER XIV.
BATH.—WARMINSTER.—SURLY POSTMASTER.—A DOUBTFUL CHARACTER.—POLITE INNKEEPER AND PRETTY CHAMBERMAID.—THE TAP-ROOM FIRESIDE.—RUSTIC CIVILITY.—RAINY MORNING IN A COUNTRY INN.—COMING TO MARKET.—THE ROAD IN A STORM.—SCUDDING.
It was raining hard when I again reached Bristol, and I at once jumped on board a train ready to leave for Bath. Here I found that my friends had walked on, and after looking at the “pump-room” and a grimy old cathedral, and getting a dinner, I determined to follow them. There was no public conveyance that evening, and I started on foot, thinking to overtake them at Warminster.
At the top of a high hill I stopped under a tree during a temporary torrent of rain, and looked back at what I could not help thinking would be a grand view if there were but a gleam of sunshine upon it; but perhaps it was grander by help of the imagination in the obscurity of the rain and drifting scud and murky cloud of smoke that was swept fragrant towards me from the city. Bath is situated among and up the sides of extensive hills, and the country about it is much of it well wooded and studded with numerous villas. The town is remarkably well built, with numerous stately terrace-houses, of the same fine, soft-tinted sandstone (Bathstone) that I described at Liverpool. It is a famous old watering-place, you know; “a mort of merry-making” there has been in it in days past, but now, though by no means a decayed town, I believe its glory in this respect has departed. I should judge it still to be a place of great wealth and elegance, but less distinguished for gayety and folly than formerly. All I can say of the inhabitants really, from personal observation, is, that they “know enough to stay in when it rains,” for I hardly saw one in the streets, except the men who were waiting by the little covered “chairs,” such as Mrs. Skewton is represented by Cruikshanks to be wheeled about in by her miserable, lanky page. I saw hundreds of these, ranged in the streets as hackney-coaches are in our towns, but no carriage of any kind, public or private; perhaps the association of Bath coachmen had “met to a cold swarry.”
After a walk of two miles into the country, I found I had been misdirected, and had a good deal of difficulty in finding the right road. I once asked the way of two labourers, and their replies were in such language, and they were so stupid, that I could not get the least idea of what they meant. My guess was, that they either could not understand what I wanted, or that they did not know themselves whether or not it was the Warminster road that they were at work upon. It was after four o’clock when I at length got upon the straight road, with seventeen miles before me—a hilly road, with a thin, slimy chalk-mud under foot. I stopped once again during another tremendous torrent, taking the opportunity to bait at a neat little inn, and reached Warminster, after a hard pull, at nine o’clock. The first building in the town, as you come from Bath, is a fine old church, going round the yard of which you enter abruptly upon a close-built street of old thatched two-story houses—so different from the gradually thickening and improving houses, as you approach the cluster of churches and centre of a New England village.
The postmaster had no letters for me, and seemed to be very angry that I should have expected him to have. I looked from one inn to another, not finding my friends, and finally, muddy, wet, and tired enough, stopped at what seemed the last in the street, a house of humble appearance.
I desired to be showed to my room. Master, mistress, maid, and Boots, immediately surrounded and eyed me closely, and I could not but remember that I might, probably, bear a suspicious appearance to them. As I take off my cape, maid—a nice, kind-looking, black-eyed little girl—catches it up, and runs off to hang it by the kitchen fire (an absurd operation, as it is made of oiled silk)—she is back in a moment with a light, and, lifting my knapsack, shows me up to a pleasant room, with a deep, dark-curtained bed—slides out, and again is back in a moment with slippers, and asks to take my shoes to be dried, and what would I wish for supper? I decline supper, and intend to go to bed at once. Down she goes, and, after a moment more, in pops the landlord—“Was you understood aright, sir?—no supper, sir!—not coming down, sir!—going to bed, sir!—directly, sir, without supper, sir!” and while saying this, he bustles about the room, and locks the closet doors, puts the keys in his pocket, and then turns towards me with a suspicious look at my knapsack. “Yes,” I answer, quietly; and, drawing out shirt, socks, and tooth-brush, “I find myself much heated, and wet with perspiration and the rain; I took supper upon the road, and I thought I had best get my clothes off, and at once to bed.” “Ah! I see, sir; quite right, sir; ah! yes, sir; dry socks too, sir; yes, sir; indeed, sir, I was not aware; beg pardon, sir: but indeed, would you step down stairs a moment, sir—fine fire in the tap, sir—dry yourself, if you would please, for a moment, I would have the room put in better order for you, sir; indeed, the bed is hardly—if you would, sir—thank you, sir.”
In the tap-room were three fellows with smock frocks. As I approached, one called to another, who was nearer the fire, to give me his seat, and offered me, with truly rustic grace and politeness, his half-emptied pot of beer. I have a strong stomach, and dislike to repulse what is meant for kindness; so I tasted it, and tried to enter into conversation with them. I soon found it was impossible; for I could make nothing of two-thirds of their replies, and I doubted if they could understand me much better. So I contented myself with listening, while they continued to talk or mumble with each other. The subjects of their conversation were beer and “the girls:” of the latter topic they said nothing to be repeated; of the former, they wished the farmers never gave worse drink than that they were now enjoying—“it was most good for nothing, some of it, what they gave out.” And one told how he had had to drink so much of it once, it had made him clear sick; and then another told how, on the other hand, he had made himself sick one day, when somebody wouldn’t give him as much beer as he wanted, by taking a draught of cold water.
When the little maid came in to say that my bed was now “quite ready,” and I rose to withdraw from the circle, they all gave a singular jerk forward of their heads and touched their foreheads with their right hand, as a parting salutation.
“Would you let me take something else down to be dried now, sir, your coat, sir, or any thing—the socks, sir; thank you, sir. Hope you’ll sleep well, sir.”
I didn’t do any thing else till, when I stopped, I found it nine o’clock the next morning. There was a steady roar upon the tiles—the rain still continued—I drew the window-curtain, and there was Geoffrey Crayon’s picture almost to the life: a sleepy old gray mare “letting it rain;” a draggle-tailed cock on a smoking dunghill eyeing with the air of a miserable sick saint the riotous orgies of a company of mad ducks deep in their favourite liquor; half-a-dozen doves huddled moping together on the thatch of the stable—a sombre tone over every thing, and rain, rain, rain.
“Hope you rested well, sir,” said the landlord as I reached the foot of the crooked stairs; “a dirty day, sir. Have your shoes, sir? What’ll you please to have for breakfast, sir? Steak, sir! O yes, sir—or chop, sir; give you very nice chop, sir; yes, sir, thank you, sir. Walk in here, sir? Ready shortly, sir.”
To get to the breakfast I was led through the kitchen, a large room with saddles and box-coats and whips and straps hung up with the bacon on the ceiling and walls. The breakfast-room (dining-room) was also much larger than any room you would have supposed from the front of the house it was likely to contain. Its plan was octagonal, with a single great red-curtained bow-window, and stately, high-backed chairs, suggesting a corporation banquet.
It is a rainy day in a country inn, dull enough; nothing to do but write, and for writing I am not inclined. I determine to take the road again and overtake J. and C., who will perhaps be waiting for me somewhere on the way to Salisbury.
“Going on, sir—yes, sir.” All my things are brought, dry and warm, and nicely folded; and now I have curiosity to know what value is placed upon so much suavity and care for my comfort. The landlord meets my request with deprecating gesture and grimace, as if it was a pity that the custom of society made such a form necessary between a host and his guest—as if he were about to say—“I am grieved that you should mention it; really it is I that am indebted to you for this honour—but if you insist, why”—ending the aside, but still low, hurried, and indistinct—“sixpence for bed and a shilling for breakfast, and—(shall I say thre’pence?) for Boots, sir.” “Yes, and the rest of this to that excellent little chambermaid, if you please.” “Oh, my little girl, sir; oh, thank ye, sir, you are very good, sir—yes, sir, you can’t miss it, sir, straight road after you pass the gate, sir. Good-morning, sir; should be glad to see you if you are this way again, sir, or any of your friends. Good-morning, sir. Hope you’ll have a fine day yet, sir! It’s slacking up e’en now, I think. Indeed it is, sir! Ah, you’ll have a fine day for a walk, sir. Good-morning, sir.”
If it slackens at all, it is only for a moment, and then the rain is poured down again densely and with renewed vehemence; and the wind, coming from behind, fairly twists one about, and hurries one along in its strong, fitful gusts. It is market-day in Warminster, and, as I go out, every body else and every thing else seems to be coming in. Men, women, and children, in all sorts of English vehicles—spring-carts, taxed-carts, great broad-wheeled carts, or long wagons, with bodies of a curious curved form flaring out over the wheels, canvas tops, stretched over all, upon hoops; sometimes two horses abreast, drawing them in a double set of shafts; oftener two or three, and frequently four, five, or six, all in a line, (tandem,) great, intelligent beasts, keeping well to the left, where none will interfere with them, and they can legally harm no one. (“Keep the left,” is the rule of the road in England; not the right, as with us.) They are driven without reins; and more than once this morning I saw the driver, well dosed with beer, I suppose, and fatigued with night-work, fast asleep on the top of his load. Once I saw a gentleman, who had nearly run against one of these sleeping fellows, strike him smartly with his whip as he passed—“You had best wake up, sir; who’s your master?” “Mr. ——, of ——, sir,” answered the man, rubbing himself. “Very well, I shall let him know what sort of a carter he has.” A Yankee driver, so waked up, would have replied to the whip first.
Gentlemen come up at a spanking pace, with tall, lithe, worried-looking horses, in dog-carts, or in the saddle, screwing their heads as deep as they can into their drab coats, bending low, and their hats pulled down tight upon their brows, never hardly with an umbrella, but with a groom with gold hat-band by their side sometimes. They look scowlingly, as they approach, at me; with my hat-brim turned up before and down behind to shed the water from my face, my water-proof cape tightly fastened at my waist behind, and swelling and fluttering before, my arms folded under it, I return their inquiring stare complacently; and some, as they come up, draw their lips resolutely tighter, and give me about quarter of a nod, as if they understood and approved my arrangement.
Men on foot, and women, too, with clogs and pattens and old green and blue umbrellas, and bundles and bags and baskets and hampers, and cages and parcels in handkerchiefs; old and young, lasses and lads, generally three or four couples together, coming to town for a holiday, loudly laughing and coarsely joking; bound to enjoy themselves spite of the shameful indelicacy of the wind, and the chill drenching of the rain, and the most misplaced attachment to their finery of the spattering mud.