88 A Walk from 



like a nature, not as an art. Let no American travel- 

 ler fancy he has seen England if he has not seen the 

 Landlady of the village inn. If he has to miss one, 

 he had better give up his visit to the Crystal Palace, 

 Stratford-upon-Avon, Abbottsford, or even the House 

 of Lords, or Windsor itself. Neither is so perfectly 

 and exclusively English as the mistress of " The Brindled 

 Cow," in one of the rural counties of the kingdom. 



It would be necessary to coin a new word if one were 

 sought to contain and convey the distinctive charac- 

 teristic of inn-life in England. Perhaps homefulness 

 would do this best, as it would more fully than any 

 other term describe the coziness, quiet, and comfort to 

 be enjoyed at these places of entertainment. Not one 

 in a hundred of them ever heard the sound of the 

 hotel-going bell, as we hear it in America. You are 

 not thundered up or down by a vociferous gong. Then 

 there is no marching nor countermarching of a long 

 line of waiters in white jackets around the dinner table, 

 laying down plate, knife, fork, and spoon with uniform 

 step and motion, as if going through a dress parade or 

 a military drill. There is no bustle, no noise, no eager 

 nor anxious look of -served or servants. Every one is 

 calm, collected, and comfortable. " The cares that 

 infest the day" do not ride into the presence of that 

 roast beef and plum pudding on the wrinkles of any 



