Cerise: A Tale of the Last Century

by G. J. Whyte-Melville

Where there is a village there will be thirst, and thirst seems to be an Englishman’s peculiar care and privilege; therefore, instead of slaking and quenching it at once by the use of water, he cherishes and keeps it alive, so to speak, with the judicious application of beer. A public-house is, accordingly, as necessary an adjunct to an English hamlet as an oven to a cookshop, a copper to a laundry, or a powder-magazine to a privateer.

The village of Nether-Hamilton possessed, then, one of these indispensable appendages; but, fortunately for the landlady, its inhabitants were obliged to ascend a steep hill, for the best part of a mile, before they could fill their cans with beer;—I say fortunately for the landlady, because such an exertion entailed an additional draught of this invigorating beverage to be consumed and paid for on the spot. The “Hamilton Arms,” for the convenience of posting, stood on the Great North Road, at least half a league, as the crow flies, from that abrupt termination of upland, the ridge of which was crowned by the towers and terraces of Hamilton Hill. Twice a week a heavy lumbering machine, drawn by six, and in winter, often by eight horses, containing an infinity of passengers, stopped for a fresh relay at the “Hamilton Arms”; and when this ponderous vehicle had once been pulled up, it was not to be set going again without many readjustments, inquiries, oaths, protestations, and other incentives to delay.

The “Flying-Post Coach,” as it was ambitiously called, did not change horses in a minute and a half; a bare-armed helper at each animal to pull the rugs off, almost before the driver had time to exchange glances with the barmaid, in days of which the speed, esteemed so wondrous then, was but a snail’s crawl compared with our rate of travelling now. Nothing of the kind. The “Flying-Post Coach” was reduced to a deliberate walk long before it came in sight of its haven, where it stopped gradually, and in a succession of spasmodic jerks, like a musical-box running down. The coachman descended gravely from his perch, and the passengers, alighting one and all, roamed about the yard, or hovered round the inn door, as leisurely as if they had been going to spend the rest of the afternoon at the “Hamilton Arms,” and scarcely knew how to get rid of the spare time on their hands. Till numerous questions had been asked and answered—the weather, the state of the roads, and the last highway robbery discussed—packets delivered, luggage loaded or taken off, and refreshments of every kind consumed—there seemed to be no intention of proceeding with the journey. At length, during a lull in the chatter of many voices, one lumbering horse after another might be seen wandering round the gable-end of the building; two or three ostlers, looking and behaving like savages, fastened the broad buckles and clumsy straps of harness, in which rope and chain-work did as much duty as leather, and after another pause of preparation, the passengers were summoned, the coachman tossed off what he called his “last toothful” of brandy and ascended solemnly to his place, gathering his reins with extreme caution, and imparting a scientific flourish to the thong of his heavy whip.

The inexperienced might have now supposed a start would be immediately effected. Not a bit of it. Out rushed a bare-armed landlady with streaming cap-ribbons—a rosy chambermaid, all smiles and glances—a rough-headed potboy, with a dirty apron—half-a-dozen more hangers-on of both sexes, each carrying something that had been forgotten—more oaths, more protestations, more discussions, and at least ten more minutes of the waning day unnecessarily wasted—then the coachman, bending forward, chirped and shouted—the poor sore-shouldered horses jerked, strained, and scrambled, plunging one by one at their collars, and leaning in heavily against the pole—the huge machine creaked, tottered, wavered, and finally jingled on at a promising pace enough, which, after about twenty yards, degenerated into the faintest apology for a trot.

But the portly landlady looked after it nevertheless well pleased; for its freight had carried off a goodly quantity of fermented liquors, leaving in exchange many welcome pieces of silver and copper to replenish the insatiable till.

Mrs. Dodge had but lately come to reside at the “Hamilton Arms.” Originally a plump comely lass, only daughter of a drunken old blacksmith at Nether-Hamilton, and inheriting what was termed in that frugal locality “a tidy bit of money,” she was sought in marriage by a south-country pedlar, who visited her native village in the exercise of his calling, and whose silver tongue persuaded her to leave kith and kin and country for his sake. After many ups and downs in life, chiefly the result of her husband’s rascality, she found herself established in a southern seaport, at a pot-house called the “Fox and Fiddle,” doing, as she expressed it, “a pretty business enough,” in the way of crimping for the merchant service; and here, previous to the death of her husband, known by his familiars as “Butter-faced Bob,” she made the acquaintance of Sir George Hamilton, then simple captain of ‘The Bashful Maid,’ little dreaming she would ever become his tenant so near her old home.

Mrs. Dodge made lamentable outcries for her pedlar when she lost him; but there can be no question she was much better off after his death. He was dishonest, irritable, self-indulgent, harsh; and she had probably no better time of it at the “Fox and Fiddle” than is enjoyed by any other healthy, easy-tempered woman, whose husband cheats a good deal, drinks not a little, and is generally dissatisfied with his lot. He left her, however, a good round sum of money, such as placed her completely beyond fear of want; and after a decent term of mourning had expired, after she had received the condolences of her neighbours, besides two offers of marriage from publicans in adjoining streets, she took her niece home to live with her, sold off the good-will of the “Fox and Fiddle,” wished her rejected suitors farewell, and sought the hamlet of her childhood, to sit down for life, as she said, in the bar of the “Hamilton Arms.” “It would be lonesome, no doubt,” she sometimes observed, “without Alice; and if ever Alice took and left her, as leave her she might for a home of her own any day, being a good girl and a comely, why then;” and here Mrs. Dodge would simper and look conscious, bristling her fat neck till her little round chin disappeared in its folds, and inferring thereby that, in the event of such a contingency, she might be induced to make one of her customers happy, by consenting to embark on another matrimonial venture before she had done with the institution for good and all. Nor, though Mrs. Dodge was fifty years of age, and weighed fifteen stone, would she have experienced any difficulty in finding a second husband, save, perhaps, the pleasing embarrassment of selection from the multitude at her command. And if her aunt could thus have “lovyers,” as she said, “for the looking at ’em,” it may be supposed that pretty Alice found no lack of admirers in a house-of-call so well frequented as the “Hamilton Arms.” Pretty Alice, with her pale brow, her hazel eyes, her sweet smile, and soft gentle manners, that made sad havoc in the hearts of the young graziers, cattle-dealers, and other travellers that came under their comforting influence off the wild inhospitable moor. Even Captain Bold, the red-nosed “blood,” as such persons were then denominated, whose calling nobody knew or dared ask him, but who was conspicuous for his flowing wig, laced coat, and wicked bay mare, would swear, with fearfully ingenious oaths, that Alice was prettier than any lady in St. James’s; and if she would but say the word, why burn him, blight him, sink him into the lowest depths of Hamilton Mere, if he, John Bold, wouldn’t consent to throw up his profession, have his comb cut, and subside at once into a homely, helpless, henpecked, barndoor fowl.

But Alice would not say the word, neither to Captain Bold nor to any honester man. She had been true to her sailor-love, through a long weary time of anxiety, and now she had her reward. Slap-Jack was domiciled within a mile of her, by one of those unforeseen strokes of fortune which he called a “circumstance,” and Alice thanked heaven on her knees day and night for the happiness of her lot.

It may be supposed that her sweetheart spent much of his leisure at the “Hamilton Arms.” Though he got through half the work of Sir George’s household, for the foretopman never could bear to be idle, his occupations did not seem so engrossing as to prevent a daily visit to Alice. It was on one of these occasions that, gossiping with Mrs. Dodge, as was his wont, he observed a gold cross heaving on her expansive bosom, and taxed her with a favoured lover and a speedy union forthwith.

“Go along with you,” wheezed the jolly landlady, in no way offended by the accusation. “It’s our new lodger as gave me this trinket only yesterday. Lovyers! say you. ‘Marry!’ as my poor Bob used to say, ‘his head is not made of the wood they cut blocks from;’ an’ let me tell you, Master Slap-Jack, a man’s never so near akin to a fool as when he’s a-courting. Put that in your pipe, my lad, and smoke it. Why Alice, my poppet, how you blush! Well, as I was a sayin’, this is a nice civil gentleman, and a well spoken. Takes his bottle with his dinner, and, mind ye, he will have it o’ the best. None of your ranting, random, come-by-chance roysterers, like Captain Bold, who’ll sing as many songs and tell as many—well, lies I call ’em, honest gentleman—over a rummer of punch, as would serve most of my customers two gallons of claret and a stoup of brandy to finish up with.”