of the same
colors; the Black and White Swans and Harts; the Crown and Anchor,
the Royal George, Queen's Head, and a few others of similar
designation. These names have figured in volumes of English
literature which he has perused. But let him travel on the turnpike
road through country towns and villages, and he will meet with names
he never thought of before, mounted over the doors of some of the
most comfortable and delightful houses of entertainment for man and
beast that can be found in the world. Here are a few that I have
noticed: "The Three Jolly Butchers," "The Old Mash Tub," "The Old
Mermaid," "The Old Malt Shovel," "The Chequers," "The Dog-in-
Doublet," "Bishop Boniface," "The Spotted Cow," "The Green Dragon,"
"The Three Horseshoes," "The Bird-in-Hand," "The Spare Rib," "The
Old Cock," "Pop goes the Weasel." There are wide spaces between
these names which may be filled up from actual life with numbers of
equal uniqueness. But it is not in architecture nor in name that
the country inn presents its most attractive characteristic. These
features merely specialise its outward corporeity. The living,
brightening, all-pervading soul of the establishment is the
LANDLADY. Let her name be written in capitals evermore. There is
nothing so naturally, speakingly, and gloriously English in the wide
world as she. It is doubtful if the nation is aware of this, but it
is the fact. Her English individuality stands out embonpoint, rosy,
genial, self-complacent, calm, serene, happyfying, and happy. She
is the man and master of the house. She permeates it with her
rayful presence, and fills it with a pleasant morning in foggy and
blue-spirited days. She it is who greets the coming and speeds the
parting guest with a grace which suns, with equal light and warmth,
both remembrance and anticipation. It is not put on like a Sunday
dress; it is not a thin gloss of French politeness that a feather,
blown the wrong way, will brush off. It is not a color; it is a
quality. You see it breathe and move in her like a nature, not as
an art. Let no American traveller 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