Chapter VII: The England of Fielding

Again I was the only guest at the inn which was called, perhaps, "The Dappled Hart," but there was an excellent dinner waiting for any who might stop. There was lamb as tender as one could wish, and peas which had not been withered by transportation, and a cherry tart, over which custard had been poured, which, I fear, came out of a bottle such as the advertisements on the boardings illustrate with a picture of a greedy little girl waiting impatiently to be helped! When I praised the freshness of the peas the young woman, who served me none too graciously, I know not why, unless because I had no chauffeur, said they had been picked in the garden that same morning. This menu, I may say, seldom changed, though sometimes the lamb had grown to mutton, or even changed to some other animal; but, whatever the meat was called, it was invariably excellent, and far better cooked than one would find in a place of the same size at home.

When I had dined, or, as there was no soup, I suppose I should say lunched, I asked if I might smoke. But the uncompromising young woman said "Certainly not," and pointed the way to the bar. This was reached by crossing the paved way which led from the side street to the stables, passing under an archway. The bar proved to be a low, damp room, in which, I think, if one sat long alcohol would become a necessity. There were several small tables arranged for those who wished to be semiprivate, but I noticed that the few customers preferred to lean against the bar and talk to the landlord, much as in the saloons at home. After a casual glance they paid no attention to me, and I sipped my coffee and smoked my pipe in silence.

Then a man entered who seemed to be a stranger, but who evidently knew the Masonic sign, for he soon fell into conversation with them. He was evidently what we call a "drummer," but had none of the jollying manner of the guild as we know it, for there were long pauses in the conversation. Then entered a man who was evidently quite at home, and felt himself to be of some importance. He immediately began to lay down the law on every subject mentioned, to which the others submitted meekly. But not the drummer! He too had his opinions, and was willing to have them known, and, encouraged by the landlord, plucked up spirit and began to give as well as take. I now anticipated some interesting talk, and was not disappointed. The dominating man had ordered whiskey and soda, or rather it had been prepared by the landlord as if he were familiar with his customer's taste. As he slowly sipped it he looked at me, as much as to say: "My friend, I shall make short work of you when I am ready." But I was saved by the drummer. He began by explaining some of the inconveniences to which a stranger, such as he, is subjected in a strange town, and rashly suggested that provincial England would be improved by the establishment of places of "Convenience," such as every traveller on the Continent is familiar with.

This is what the village doctor--for such I now learned he was--was waiting for. He took high moral ground and proved to his own satisfaction--and I think carried the house with him--that this would be the beginning of the end of English morality. "Did the gentleman mean to suggest that England should become as France?"

The gentleman "meant to suggest nothing of the sort," and rather cleverly shifted the ground from the moral to the physical. But here, of course the doctor was too much for him, remarking with a complacent smile: "I think I may be allowed to speak with a little authority on that aspect of the question, being a medical man myself."

I do not know how great his authority may have been, but I can answer for his dogmatism! How often the two are confused!

If you were not temporarily blind and so dependent upon Miss Fuller to read your letters, I would repeat the conversation which followed in full. Not that there was anything improper in it. The disputants were as solemn as if they were discussing religion, only they "called a spade a spade." But we have grown so squeamish, or so unmoral, that we hide "Tom Jones" under the sofa-cushion and place "The Visits of Elizabeth" on the parlor table. But rural England, I learned that day, while it has changed superficially, is still the England of Fielding. Squire Westons can still be found in certain counties--indeed Dogberry is not unknown in remote villages.

When I had listened to as much as I dared without bursting with laughter, which came when the landlord stoutly declared that his "midden" was not public property, I escaped to the stable-yard and, as I drove by the bar-window, heard the exasperating voice of the doctor proclaiming, "Indeed, I could tell you of a case, not five miles from here, to which, if I had not been called immediately," etc.