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Chapter 1
I am an innkeeper, and know my grounds,
And study them; Brain o' man, I study them.
I must have jovial guests to drive my ploughs,
And whistling boys to bring my harvests home,
Or I shall hear no flails thwack.
It is the privilege of tale-tellers to open their story in an inn, the free rendezvous of all
travellers, and where the humour of each displays itself without ceremony or restraint.
This is specially suitable when the scene is laid during the old days of merry England,
when the guests were in some sort not merely the inmates, but the messmates and
temporary companions of mine Host, who was usually a personage of privileged
freedom, comely presence, and good-humour. Patronized by him the characters of the
company were placed in ready contrast; and they seldom failed, during the emptying of
a six-hooped pot, to throw off reserve, and present themselves to each other, and to
their landlord, with the freedom of old acquaintance.
The village of Cumnor, within three or four miles of Oxford, boasted, during the
eighteenth of Queen Elizabeth, an excellent inn of the old stamp, conducted, or rather
ruled, by Giles Gosling, a man of a goodly person, and of somewhat round belly; fifty
years of age and upwards, moderate in his reckonings, prompt in his payments, having
a cellar of sound liquor, a ready wit, and a pretty daughter. Since the days of old Harry
Baillie of the Tabard in Southwark, no one had excelled Giles Gosling in the power of
pleasing his guests of every description; and so great was his fame, that to have been
in Cumnor without wetting a cup at the bonny Black Bear, would have been to avouch
one's-self utterly indifferent to reputation as a traveller. A country fellow might as well
return from London without looking in the face of majesty. The men of Cumnor were
proud of their Host, and their Host was proud of his house, his liquor, his daughter, and
It was in the courtyard of the inn which called this honest fellow landlord, that a traveller
alighted in the close of the evening, gave his horse, which seemed to have made a long
journey, to the hostler, and made some inquiry, which produced the following dialogue
betwixt the myrmidons of the bonny Black Bear.
"What, ho! John Tapster."
"At hand, Will Hostler," replied the man of the spigot, showing himself in his costume of
loose jacket, linen breeches, and green apron, half within and half without a door, which
appeared to descend to an outer cellar.
"Here is a gentleman asks if you draw good ale," continued the hostler.