The thrashing-machine has thrown the lubber-fiend out of employment; but the Welsh still declare themselves honoured by the continuance of these night-wanderers. They have still the corpse-candles; and hear Gabriel’s hounds hunting over the hills by night, and stoutly avow that the fairies are as numerous there as ever. There is a waterfall at Aberpergum, called the Fairies’ Waterfall, where they are, almost any night to be heard singing; and I have heard a very grave Friend declare that he has seen them dancing in a green meadow, as he rode home at night. How long, indeed, this may continue, one cannot tell; for old Morgan Lewis, who for fifty years has acted as guide to the beautiful waterfalls of Neath Valley, and is a most firm believer in all the Fairy faith, especially of their luring children away by assuming the forms of their deceased relatives, and offering them fairy-bread to eat, which changes their natures, and they are compelled to join the Elfin troop—declares that they are now gone from that neighbourhood; that “the spirit of man is become too strong for them.” A fair friend has sketched for me, the old man in the attitude of describing to a party the exact spot on which his father saw their very last appearance. Behind him rises the Dînas Rock, from time immemorial the sanctum sanctorum of Welsh fairyland; and old Morgan is exclaiming, “They are gone! they are gone! and we’ll never see them more!”
CHAPTER VIII.
THE VILLAGE INN.
There is nothing more characteristic in rural life than a village alehouse, or inn. It is the centre of information, and the regular, or occasional rendezvous of almost everybody in the neighbourhood. You there see all sorts of characters, or you hear of them. The whereabout of everybody all around is there perfectly understood. I do not mean the low pothouse—the new beer-shop of the new Beer-bill, with LICENSED TO BE DRUNK ON THE PREMISES blazoned over the door in staring characters—the Tom-and-Jerry of the midland counties—the Kidley-Wink of the west of England. No, I mean the good old-fashioned country alehouse; the substantial, well-to-do old country alehouse—situated on a village green, or by the road-side, with a comfortable sweep out of the road itself for carriages or carts to come round to the door, and stand out of all harm’s way. The nice old-fashioned house, in a quiet, rural, out-of-the-way, old-fashioned district. The very house which Goldsmith in his day described—
Where grey-beard mirth and smiling toil retired,
Where village statesmen talked with looks profound,
And news much older than their ale went round.
It is a low, white-washed, or slap-dashed, or stuccoed, or timber-framed house, with its various roof, and steep gables; its casement windows above, bright and clean, peeping out from amongst vines or jasmines, where the innkeeper’s neat daughter, who acts the parts of chambermaid, barmaid, and waiter, may be seen looking abroad; and its ample bay-windows below, where parties may do the same, and where, as you pass, you may occasionally see such parties—a pleasant-looking family, or a group of young, gay people, with merry, and often very sweet faces amongst them;—their post-chaise, travelling-carriage, barouche, or spring-cart, according to their several styles and dignities, standing at the door, under the great spreading tree. Ay, there is the old spreading tree, that is as old, and probably older than the inn itself. It is an elm, with a knotty mass of root swelled out around the base of its sturdy stem into a prodigious heap—into a seat, in fact, on holiday occasions, for a score of rustic revellers, or resters. In some cases, where the root has not been so accommodating, a good stout bench runs round it; or where the root is at all endangered by scratching dogs, picking and hewing children, or rooting pigs of the village, it has heaped up a good mound of earth round it; or it is protected by a circle of wattled fence.
You see the tree is a tree of mark and consequence; it is, indeed, the tree. It is looked upon as part and parcel of the concern; of as much consequence to the house as its sign; and it is often the sign itself:—The Old Elm-Tree! Or it may be a yew—the very yew out of which Robin Hood and Little John, Will Scarlett, or Will Stutely cut their bows—yes, that house is “The Robin Hood.” Or it may be a mighty ash—the One-Ash, or the Mony-Ash, as in the Peak of Derbyshire. Or it is an oak of as much dignity—The Royal-Oak. Or it is a whole grove or cluster, by character or tradition—The Seven-Sisters—or The Four-Brothers—or The Nine-Oaks—all of which sisters, brothers, or nine companions, except one, are decayed, dropped off, or thrown down, as many a family beside has been. See!—the sign hangs in it, or is suspended on its post just by, bearing the likeness of the original tree, attempted by some village artist.
Just such a tree and such a house, all my Surrey, and many of my metropolitan readers are familiar with at the foot of St. Anne’s Hill, by Chertsey. The Golden-Grove, kept by James Snowden,—who does not know it, that loves sweet scenery, sweet associations, or a pleasant steak and pipe, or a tea-party on a holiday of nature, in one of the most delicious nests imaginable? Yes! there is a nice old village inn for you; and such a tree! There you have the picture of the Golden-Grove all in a blaze of gold—somewhat dashed and dimmed, it is true, by the blaze of many suns,—but there it is, in front of the inn, and by the old tree. The inn, the hanging gardens and orchards, the rustic cottages scattered about, the rich woods and splendid prospects above, the beautiful meadows and winding streams below; why, they are enough to arrest any traveller, and make him put up his horse, and determine to breathe a little of this sweet air, and indulge in this Arcadian calm, amid these embowering woodlands. And where is he? Below, in those fair meadows, amid those cottage roofs and orchard trees, rises the low, square church-tower of Chertsey:—Chertsey, where Cowley lived and died; and where his garden still remains, as delicious as ever, with its grassy walk winding by his favourite brook, and the little wooden bridge leading into the richest meadows. And where his old house yet remains, saving the porch pointing to the street, which was taken down for the public safety, but the circumstance and its cause recorded on a tablet on the wall, with this concluding line—