University of Virginia Library

TRAVELLING.

Doctor Mirrie-Man, 1609.

The Squire has lately received another shock
in the saddle, and been almost unseated by his
marplot neighbour, the indefatigable Mr. Faddy,
who rides his jog-trot hobby with equal zeal,
and is so bent upon improving and reforming
the neighbourhood, that the Squire thinks in a
little while it will be scarce worth living in. The
enormity that has just discomposed my worthy
host, is an attempt of the manufacturer to have
a line of coaches established, that shall diverge

from the old route, and pass through the neighbouring
village. I believe I have mentioned that
the Hall is situated in a retired part of the country,
at a distance from any great coach road; in
so much that the arrival of a traveller is apt to
make every one look out of the window, and to
cause some talk among the ale drinkers at the
little inn. I was at a loss, therefore, to account
for the Squire's indignation at a measure apparently
fraught with convenience and advantage,
until I found that the conveniences of travelling
were among his greatest grievances.

In fact, he rails against stage coaches, post
chaises, and turnpike roads, as serious causes of
the corruption of English rural manners. They
have given facilities, he says, to every hum-drum
citizen to trundle his family about the kingdom,
and have sent the follies and fashions of town
whirling in coach loads to the remotest parts of
the island. The whole country, he says, is traversed
by these flying cargoes; every by-road is
explored by enterprizing tourists from Cheapside
and the Poultry; and every gentleman's park

and lawns invaded by cockney sketchers of both
sexes, with portable chairs and portfolios for
drawing.

He laments over this as destroying the charm
of privacy, and interrupting the quiet of country
life; but more especially as affecting the
simplicity of the peasantry, and filling their
heads with half city notions. A great coach
inn, he says, is enough to ruin the manners of
a whole village. It creates a horde of sots and
idlers; makes gapers, and gazers, and news-mongers
of the common people, and knowing
jockies of the country bumpkins. The Squire
has something of the old feudal feeling. He
looks back with regret to the “good old times,”
when journeys were only made on horseback,
and the extraordinary difficulties of travelling,
owing to bad roads, bad accommodations, and
highway robbers, seemed to separate each village
and hamlet from the rest of the world.

The lord of the manor was then a kind of
monarch in the little realm around him. He
held his court in his paternal hall, and was

looked up to with almost as much loyalty and
deference as the king himself. Every neighbourhood
was a little world within itself; having its
local manners and customs; its local history and
local opinions. The inhabitants were fonder of
their homes, and thought less of wandering. It
was looked upon as an expedition to travel
out of sight of the parish steeple; and a man
that had been to London was a village oracle for
the rest of his life.

What a difference between the mode of travelling
in those days and at present; at that
time, when a gentlemen went on a distant visit,
he set forth like a knight errant on an enterprize;
and every family excursion was a pageant.
How splendid and fanciful must one of
those domestic cavalcades have been. When
the beautiful dames were mounted on palfreys
magnificently caparisoned, with embroidered
harness, all tinkling with silver bells; attended
by cavaliers richly attired, on prancing steeds,
and followed by pages and serving men, as we
see them represented in old tapestry. The gentry,

as they travelled about in those days, were
like moving pictures. They delighted the eyes
and awakened the admiration of the common
people, and passed before them like superior
beings; and they were so; there was a hardy
and healthful exercise connected with this
equestrian style, that made them generous and
noble.

In his fondness for the old style of travelling
the Squire makes most of his journeys on horseback;
though he laments the modern deficiency
of incident on the road, from the want of fellow
wayfarers, and the rapidity with which every
one else is whirled along in coaches and post
chaises. In the “good old times,” on the contrary,
a cavalier jogged on through bog and mire
from town to town, and hamlet to hamlet, conversing
with friars and Franklins, and all other
chance companions of the road; beguiling the
way with travellers' tales, which then were truly
wonderful, for every thing beyond one's neighbourhood
was full of marvel and romance; stoping

at night at some “hostel,” where the bush
over the door proclaimed good wine, or a pretty
hostess made bad wine palatable; meeting at
supper with travellers like himself; discussing
their day's adventures, or listening to the song
or merry story of the host, who was generally a
boon companion, and presided at his own
board; for, according to old Tusser's “Innholder's
Poise:”

The Squire is fond, too, of stopping at those
inns which may be met with here and there, in
ancient houses of wood and plaister, or Callimanco
houses, as they are called by antiquaries,
with deep porches, diamond-paned bow windows,
and panelled rooms and great fireplaces.
He will prefer them to more spacious and modern
inns, and will cheerfully put up with bad
cheer and bad accommodations, in the gratification
of his humour. They give him, he says,

the feeling of old times, insomuch that he almost
expects in the dusk of the evening to see
some party of weary travellers ride up to the
door, with plumes, and mantles, trunk hose, wide
boots, and long rapiers.

The good Squire's remarks brought to mind
a visit which I once paid to the Tabard Inn, famous
for being the place of assemblage, from
whence Chaucer's pilgrims set forth for Canterbury.
It is in the borough of Southwark, not
far from London bridge, and bears, at present,
the name of “the Talbot.” It has sadly declined
in dignity since the days of Chaucer, being a
mere rendezvous and packing place of the great
wagons that travel into Kent. The court yard,
which was anciently the mustering place of the
pilgrims previous to their departure, was now
lumbered with huge wagons. Crates, boxes,
hampers and baskets, containing the good things
of town and country, were piled about them;
while, among the straw and litter, the motherly
hens scratched and clucked, with their hungry
broods at their heels. Instead of Chaucer's

motly and splendid throng, I only saw a group
of wagoners and stable boys, enjoying a circulating
pot of ale; while a long bodied dog sat
by, with head on one side, one ear cocked up,
and wistful gaze, as if waiting for his turn of
the tankard.

Notwithstanding this grievous declension,
however, I was gratified at perceiving that the
present occupants were not unconscious of the
poetical renown of their mansion.

An inscription over the gate-way proclaimed
it to be the inn where Chaucer's pilgrims slept
on the night previous to their departure, and at
the bottom of the yard was a magnificent sign,
representing them in the act of sallying forth.

I was pleased too at noticing, that though the
present inn was comparatively modern, yet
the form of the old inn was preserved. There
were galleries round the yard, as in old times, on
which opened the chambers of the guests. To
these ancient inns have antiquaries ascribed the
present forms of our theatres. Plays were originally
acted in inn yards.

The guests lolled over the galleries, which
answered to our modern dress circle; the critical
mob clustered in the yard instead of the pit; and
the groups gazing from the garret windows were
no bad representatives of the gods of the shilling
gallery. When, therefore, the drama grew important
enough to have a house of its own, the
architects took a hint for its construction from
the yard of the ancient “Hostel.”

I was so well pleased at finding these remembrances
of Chaucer and his poem, that I took my
dinner in the little parlour of the Talbot. Whilst
it was preparing, I sat by the window musing and
gazing into the court yard, and conjuring up recollections
of the scenes depicted in such lively
colours by the poet, until by degrees bales, boxes,
and hampers, boys, wagoners, and dogs, faded
from sight, and my fancy peopled the place with
the motly throng of Canterbury pilgrims. The
galleries once more swarmed with idle gazers,
in the rich dresses of Chaucer's time, and the
whole cavalcade seemed to pass before me.
There was the stately knight on sober steed, who

had ridden in Heathenesse, and had “foughten
for our faith at Tramissene.” And his son, the
young Squire, a lover and a lusty bachelor, with
curled locks and gay embroidery, a bold rider, a
dancer, and a writer of verses, singing and fluting
all day long, and “fresh as the month of May.”
And his “knot beaded” yeoman, a bold forester in
green, with horn and baldric and dagger, a mighty
bow in hand, and a sheaf of peacock arrows
shining beneath his belt. And the coy, smiling,
simple nun, with her gray eyes, her small red
mouth, and fair forehead, her coral beads about
her arm, her golden broach with a love motto,
and her pretty oath “by Saint Eloy.” And the
marchant solemn in speech and high on horse,
with forked beard and “Flaunderish bever hat.”
And the sleek lusty monk, on berry brown palfrey;
his hood fastened with gold pin wrought
with a love knot, his bald head shining like
glass, and his face glistening as though it had
been anointed. And the lean, logical, sententious
clerke of Oxenforde upon his half-starved
scholar-like horse. And the bowsing sompnour,
[OMITTED] red haired miller playing the bag-pipes before
them, and the ancient host of the Tabard, giving
them his farewell God-send to Canterbury.

When I told the Squire of the existence of
this legitimate descendant of the ancient Tabard
Inn, his eyes absolutely glistened with delight.
He determined to hunt it up the very first time
he visited London, and to eat a dinner there, and
drink a cup of mine host's best wine, in memory
of old Chaucer.

The general, who happened to be present, immediately
begged to be of the party, for he liked
to encourage these long established houses, as
they are apt to have choice old wines.