The ostler at “Keston Cross” is the most remarkable of its obliging, humble servants. The poor fellow has lost an eye, and is like the “high-mettled racer” in his decline—except that he is well used. While looking about me I missed W., and found he had deemed him a picturesque subject, and that he was in the act of sketching him from behind the door of the stable-yard, while he leaned against the stable-door with his corn-sieve in his hand. I know not why the portrait should not come into a new edition of Bromley’s Catalogue, or an appendix to Granger: sure I am that many far less estimable persons figure in the Biographical History of England. As an honest man, (and if he were not he would not be in Mr. Young’s service,) I craved my friend W. to engrave him on a wood-block; I have no other excuse to offer for presenting an [impression] of it, than the intrinsic worth of the industrious original, and the merit of the likeness; and that apology it is hoped very few will decline.
Dr. Johnson derives “ostler” from the French word “hostelier,” but “hostelier” in French, now spelt “hotelier,” signifies an innkeeper, or host, not an ostler; to express the meaning of which term the French word is wholly different in spelling and pronunciation. It seems to me that “ostler” is derived from the word “hostel,” which was formerly obtained from the French, and was in common use here to signify an inn; and the innkeeper was from thence called the “hosteller.” This was at a period when the innkeeper or “hosteller” would be required by his guests to take and tend their horses, which, before the use of carriages, and when most goods were conveyed over the country on the backs of horses, would be a chief part of his employment; and hence, the “hosteller” actually became the “hostler,” or “ostler,” that is, the horse-keeper.
We will just glean, for two or three minutes, from as many living writers who have gone pleasantly into inns, and so conclude.
Washington Irving, travelling under the name of “Geoffrey Crayon, gent.” and reposing himself within a comfortable hostel at Shakspeare’s birth-place, says:—“To a homeless man, who has no spot on this wide world which he can truly call his own, there is a momentary feeling of something like independence and territorial consequence, when, after a weary day’s travel, he kicks off his boots, thrusts his feet into slippers, and stretches himself before an inn fire. Let the world without go as it may; let kingdoms rise or fall, so long as he has the wherewithal to pay his bill, he is, for the time being, the very monarch of all he surveys. The arm chair is his throne, the poker his sceptre, and the little parlour, of some twelve feet square, his undisputed empire. It is a morsel of certainty, snatched from the midst of the uncertainties of life; it is a sunny moment gleaming out kindly on a cloudy day; and he who has advanced some way on the pilgrimage of existence, knows the importance of husbanding even morsels and moments of enjoyment. ‘Shall I not take mine ease in mine inn?’ thought I, as I gave the fire a stir, lolled back in my elbow chair, and cast a complacent look about the little parlour of the Red Horse, at Stratford-on-Avon.”——
Elia, to illustrate the “astonishing composure” of some of the society of “friends,” tells a pleasant anecdote, which regards a custom at certain inns, and is therefore almost as fairly relatable in this place, as it is delightfully related in his volume of “Essays:”—“I was travelling,” says Elia, “in a stage-coach with three male quakers, buttoned up in the straitest non-conformity of their sect. We stopped to bait at Andover, where a meal, partly tea apparatus, partly supper, was set before us. My friends confined themselves to the tea-table. I in my way took supper. When the landlady brought in the bill, the eldest of my companions discovered that she had charged for both meals. This was resisted. Mine hostess was very clamorous and positive. Some mild arguments were used on the part of the quakers, for which the heated mind of the good lady seemed by no means a fit recipient. The guard came in with his usual peremptory notice. The quakers pulled out their money, and formally tendered it—so much for tea—I, in humble imitation, tendering mine—for the supper which I had taken. She would not relax in her demand. So they all three quietly put up their silver, as did myself, and marched out of the room, the eldest and gravest going first, with myself closing up the rear, who thought I could not do better than follow the example of such grave and warrantable personages. We got in. The steps went up. The coach drove off. The murmurs of mine hostess, not very indistinctly or ambiguously pronounced, became after a time inaudible—and now my conscience, which the whimsical scene had for a while suspended, beginning to give some twitches, I waited, in the hope that some justification would be offered by these serious persons for the seeming injustice of their conduct. To my great surprise, not a syllable was dropped on the subject. They sate as mute as at a meeting. At length the eldest of them broke silence, by inquiring of his next neighbour, ‘Hast thee heard how indigos go at the India House?’ and the question operated as a soporific on my moral feeling as far as Exeter.”