CHAPTER VII. IN THE HARE AND HOUNDS.
In the tavern with the sign of the Hare and Hounds, a fire of peat was burning on the hearth. A huge oak settle occupied the side of the fireplace opposite to the window; and beneath and before the window was a long table, the end of which admitted of being drawn out so as to make it serve as a shuffle-board for the use of such as liked to play at that game so popular in the reign of Elizabeth, illicit in the time of the Commonwealth, and at the epoch of my story almost obsolete, except in stray corners remote from fashion.
The settle was of a construction then usual, now rarely met with, and therefore deserving a description as a domestic curiosity. The seat was on hinges, and could be raised, disclosing beneath it a cavity like a clothes chest; the settle back opened in compartments and revealed sides of bacon and hams that had been smoked, and there awaited cutting up. Above the heads of those who sat in the settle was a sort of projecting roof to cut off all down draught; but this also served as a cupboard for vinegar, salt, spices, and other groceries. The chest, that was also seat, to a mother with an infant, was of extraordinary service; when she was engaged at the fire, baking or cooking, she raised the lid or seat and buttoned it back, then she planted the babe in the box, where it lay warm and secure, close to her, without the chance of coming to harm. If the child were in the age of toddledum, then it ran up and down in the box with the little hands on the edge, saw its mother, crowed to her, watched her proceedings, and ran no risk of falling into the fire, or of pulling over and breaking the crockery. Altogether the settle was a great institution, and the march of culture, instead of improving it, has abolished it. More is the pity.
The fireplace was of granite uncarved, but rudely chamfered, very wide and very deep, so deep as to allow of a seat recessed in the wall at the side, in which a chilly old man might sit and toast his knees, protected from the down draught and falling soot by the arched roof of the recess. It used to be said of one of these great fireplaces, in which wood and peat were burned, that a necessary accompaniment was an old man and a pair of tongs, for the logs when burnt through in the midst fell apart, and required some one at hand to pick the ends up, and reverse them on the hearth, and to collect and repile the turfs when they fell down. At the fire-breast burnt, what was called a "spane," that is, a slip of deal steeped in resin, which lighted the housewife at her operations at the fire. But the "spane" emitted more smoke than light. Opposite to the ingle-nook was the "cloam" oven, that is, the earthenware oven let into the wall for baking.
In more ancient times ovens were constructed with enormous labour out of granite blocks, which were scooped out in the middle, but the disadvantage attendant on granite was that it became in time resolved into sand by heat, and crumbled away like sugar.[1] These were rapidly got rid of when the earthenware oven was introduced, and hardly a specimen remains. Not so, however, with the stone frying-pan, which is only just, and not altogether, superseded. Housewives contend that the iron pan is not so good at frying as the scooped-out pan of stone, and that rashers of bacon done in the latter are incomparably superior to those burnt in iron. Thus, it will be seen that in the West we are only recently, in some particulars emerging from the Stone-Age, but it is with a leap over that of Bronze into the era of Iron.[2]
The walls of the "mug-house" of the Hare and Hounds were well white-washed and ornamented with a quantity of broadside ballads, the illustrations very generally bearing no intelligible relation to the letterpress.
A single rush-candle burning on the table, served to light the room. The servant-wench was expected to act as snuffer, and she regularly at intervals of ten minutes left the work on which she was engaged, cooking, washing, drawing ale, and like the comet that sweeps up to and about the sun, and then dashes back into obscurity, so did she rush up to the candle, snuff the wick between the forefinger and thumb, and plunge back to the work on which she was engaged, at the fire, in the back-kitchen, or in the cellar.
At the fire and about the table were seated Anthony Cleverdon, Fox Crymes, the host of the Hare and Hounds. Mr. Solomon Gibbs, also a quaint old grey-haired man in sorry garb, and a couple of miners from the moor.
At the time of the tale, and, indeed for a century after, it was customary for men of all classes to meet at the alehouse, parson and Squire, surgeon, farmer, and peasant, comrades all in merry-making—and at that period there was no social-democracy, no class-hatreds—how could there be, when all classes met, and gossiped, and smoked, and boozed together? No good thing comes without bringing a shadow after it. Perhaps it is well that parson and Squire do not now go to the tavern to take pipe and glass with yeoman and ploughboy, but—the misfortune is that there has come class-alienation, along with this social amelioration of the better sort.
Mr. Solomon Gibbs was at the table. He had occupied the corner of the settle all the afternoon, searching for his niece in the bottom of his tankard, but after a while, as evening settled in, he declared he felt the heat too greatly by the fire, and then withdrew to the table. In fact, when occupying the settle, his can of ale had stood on a three-legged stool between his feet, and whenever he lusted after a drink he was obliged to stoop to take it up. As the ale got into his head, he found that this stooping produced a fulness of the veins that made him giddy, and he had fallen forward once on his hands, and upset the stool and his ale. Then he deemed it advisable to retire to the table, but as men never give direct and true reasons for their proceedings, he explained to those who were present that——
"There was thunder in the air, and when there was, he was liable to fits of giddiness; moreover, the heat of the fire was insufferable."
His wig was very much awry; underneath it was a strong stubbly growth, for Mr. Gibbs had not had his head shaved for a fortnight. His mulberry coat was much stained with ale, and the elbows were glossy.
The old man in the threadbare coat occupied a chair near the table, and he stood up, turned his eyes to the ceiling, extended his arms rigidly before him, planted his legs apart, and began to sing a song at that time exceedingly popular, "The Catholic Cause;" his voice ranging through an extensive scale, from bass to falsetto.
O the Catholic Cause! now assist me, sweet Muse,
How earnestly I do desire thee!
Faith I will not go pray to St. Bridget to-day,
But only to thee to inspire me.
The singer was interrupted by a groan from all in the room, and a shout from Mr. Solomon Gibbs, "Calvinist Géneva and Hollands for me! Catholic French Claret is thin—deuced thin liquor!"
Then the Church shall bear sway, the State shall obey,
Which in England will be a new wonder!
Commons, Nobles, and Kings, and Temporal things
Shall submit, and shall truckle under!
The miners jumped to their feet, and began to swear that they'd rather be crushed in their adits, than live to see that day.
"Things are coming fair on towards it, sure as the clouds have been rolling up, and portending a thunderstorm," said the host.
"Ah!" growled Solomon; "give the Devil his due. Old Noll, who didn't sit by right Divine, knew how to make Britain free and honoured."
"No Dutch in the Medway, then! No burning of Spithead and His Majesty's fleet under His Majesty's nose," said the old singer.
"'Tis a pity," said one of the men present, "that there were not a few more drowned on the Lemon and Ore than those who did. Nay, rather, that certain who escaped should not have sunk, and such as drowned should not have escaped."
This had reference to a sandbank near Yarmouth, on which the frigate bearing the Duke of York had struck, when about a hundred and thirty persons were drowned.
"Here!" called Sol Gibbs. "Here's bad luck to Lemon and Ore for doing the work so foully!" and he put his jug of ale to his lips.
"Lemon and Ore," said each who drank, "better luck next time."
"Folks do say," put in the landlord, "that the King, God bless him, was really married to Lucy Walters. If that be so, why then the Duke of Monmouth should be King after him." Then he shook his head, and added, "But, Lord! I know nought about such matters."
"Here's a health to the Protestant Duke!" said the miners, and looked about them. "Now, my masters! Won'ty all drink to the Protestant Duke?"
"To be sure I will—drink to any one," said Solomon Gibbs.
"Why should he not have married her?" asked the singer. "Didn't the Duke of York marry Mistress Ann Hyde? And Lucy Walters was a gentlewoman every whit as much. When the Duke of Monmouth was born, then His Majesty was Prince Charles, in France, with small chance of coming to his own again; for Old Noll was then in full flower, and making the earth quake at the name of England."
"When the Duke of Savoy was persecuting the Protestants, did not Old Noll hold up his finger, and at the sight of his nail the Duke stayed his hands?" said Anthony Cleverdon. "By the Lord! If it had been in my time, I would have drawn the sword for them."
"When all the giants are dead, every Tom Thumb boasts he would have been a Jack of Cornwall," sneered Fox Crymes.
"What is that you say?" asked Anthony, hotly.
"I was merely saying that it ill becomes a man of spirit to boast of what he would have done had things been other than they are."
"Do you mean to hint that I am a coward?"
"I hinted nothing of the sort. I made a general observation. If the time should come when your sword would be wanted to sustain the Protestant cause, I make no doubt that you will be ready to prop it up—on the point."
"No quarrels here," shouted Solomon Gibbs; then he sang:—
Let nothing but harmony reign in your breast,
Let comrade with comrade be ever at rest.
We'll toss off our bumper, together we'll troll,
Give me the punch-ladle—I'll fathom the bowl.
Then he called to the united assembly, "What say you all—shall we have a punch-bowl? Nem. con. Carried. That is it which lacked to establish sweetest concord. Landlord! Bring us the needful, and we'll brew."
From France cometh brandy, Jamaica gives rum,
Sweet oranges, lemons from Portugal come.
Of ale and good cyder we'll also take toll,
Give me the punch-ladle—I'll fathom the bowl.
The host called to his wife to produce the requisite ingredients, and went in quest of the ladle, which he kept upstairs, as it had a silver piece of Charles I. let into it.
"I ax," said one of the miners, throwing out his arm as if proclaiming defiance, "how it came about that London was burnt? Warn't them Poperies seen a doing of it—a firing it in several places?"
"And Sir Edmondbury Godfrey—weren't he cruelly and bloodily murdered by 'em?" asked the second.
"Ay! and whose doing is it that that worthy gentleman, my Lord Russell, has been done to death? That every one knows. 'Tis said the Earl of Bedford offered a hundred thousand pounds to save his life; but the Catholic Duke would not hear of his being spared. And the Duke of York will be King after his present Gracious Majesty. By heavens! I would draw sword for the Protestant Duke and swear to his legitimacy."
"I'll tell you what it is," said Fox Crymes, "if this sort of talk is going on here, I'm off and away. If you are not speaking treason, you go pretty nigh to it, too nigh it for safety, and I'll be off."
"There are no informers and spies here," said the yeoman.
"I reckon us be all true Protestants and loyal to the Crown and Constitution. The Constitution! God bless it!"
"You can't go, Fox," said Anthony, "for here comes the storm we have been expecting." He spoke as a flash illuminated the room, and was followed by a boom of near thunder, then down came the rain like the fall of a water-spout on the roof.
Our brothers lie drowned in the depths of the sea,
Cold stones for their pillows, what matters to me?
Mr. Solomon Gibbs was erect, supporting himself on the table by his left hand, whilst he mixed the bowl of punch and stirred it, and sang in snatches:
We'll drink to their healths and repose to each soul,
Give me the punch ladle—I'll fathom the bowl.
"Now, then, landlord! Where's the lemons? Bless my soul, you're not going to make us drink unlemoned punch? As well give us a King without a Crown, or a parson without a gown."
Your wives they may fluster as much as they please—
Haven't got one, I'm thankful—a sister don't count—
Let 'em scold, let 'em grumble, we'll sit at our ease.
In the ends of our pipes we'll apply a hot coal.
Give me the punch ladle—I'll fathom the bowl.
"—So! the lemons at last? Where's a silver knife to cut them with? Bless my soul! How it rains! I thank Providence the water is without, and the spirit is within."
"This rain will dowse the fires on the moor," said the yeoman.
"And would have washed your Tory zeal out of you," laughed Anthony, "had you gone out in it just now, shocked at our Whiggery."
"Oh! you," sneered Fox, "you took good care to say nothing. You were wise not to come within seeing distance with a pair of perspective glasses of Tyburn gallows, where men have been hung, disembowelled, and drawn for less offence than some of the words let drop to-night."
"Now—no more of this," shouted Mr. Solomon Gibbs, "I am president here. Where the punch-bowl is, there is a president, and I waive my sceptre, this ladle, and enforce abstention from politics, and all such scurvy subjects. You began it, Taverner, with your damnable ballad of the Catholic cause, and you shall be served last. Comrades! 'To the King, God bless him!'"
"And the Protestant cause!" shouted Taverner.
"Ay, ay, which His Majesty swore to maintain," said the miners.
"Bar politics!" cried Mr. Gibbs, "or, curse it, I'll throw the punch out of the door. I will, I swear I will. Taverner, give us something cheerful—something with no politics in it to set us all by the ears."
"Shall I give you something suitable to the evening, Mr. Gibbs?"
"Certainly—tune up. I wish I had my viol with me to give a few chords; but I set out to look for my niece who had strayed, and I forgot to take my viol with me."
The grey-haired ballad-singer stood up, cleared his throat, and with the utmost gravity sang, throwing marvellous twirls and accidentals into the tune, the following song:
My Lady hath a sable coach
And horses, two and four,
My Lady hath a gaunt bloodhound
That runneth on before.
My Lady's coach has nodding plumes,
The coachman has no head.
My Lady's face is ashen white,
As one that long is dead.
"Now, pray step in," my Lady saith,
"Now, pray step in and ride!"
"I thank thee, I had rather walk,
Than gather to thy side."
The wheels go round without a sound
Of tramp or turn of wheels,
As a cloud at night, in the pale moonlight,
Onward the carriage steals.
"Now, pray step in," my Lady saith,
"Now, prithee, come to me."
She takes the baby from the crib,
She sets it on her knee.
The wheels go round, etc.
"Now, pray step in," my Lady saith,
"Now, pray step in, and ride,"
Then deadly pale, in wedding veil,
She takes to her the bride.
The wheels go round, etc.
"Now, pray step in," my Lady saith,
"There's room I wot for you."
She waved her hand, the coach did stand,
The Squire within she drew.
The wheels go round, etc.
"Now, pray step in," my Lady saith,
"Why shouldst thou trudge afoot?"
She took the gaffer in by her,
His crutches in the boot.
The wheels go round, etc.
I'd rather walk a hundred miles,
And run by night and day,
Than have that carriage halt for me,
And hear my Lady say:
"Now, pray step in, and make no din,
I prithee come and ride.
There's room, I trow, by me for you,
And all the world beside."[3]