In the centre of the churchyard stood an old
yew-tree, with immense trunk, which was all decayed within, so that it is
a wonder how the tree retains any life,--which, nevertheless, it does.
It was called "the old Yew of Eastham," six hundred years ago!
After passing through the churchyard, we saw the village inn on the other
side. The doors were fastened, but a girl peeped out of the window at
us, and let us in, ushering us into a very neat parlor. There was a
cheerful fire in the grate, a straw carpet on the floor, a mahogany
sideboard, and a mahogany table in the middle of the room; and, on the
walls, the portraits of mine host (no doubt) and of his wife and
daughters,--a very nice parlor, and looking like what I might have found
in a country tavern at home, only this was an ancient house, and there is
nothing at home like the glimpse, from the window, of the church, and its
red, ivy-grown tower. I ordered some lunch, being waited on by the girl,
who was very neat, intelligent, and comely,--and more respectful than a
New England maid. As we came out of the inn, some village urchins left
their play, and ran to me begging, calling me "Master!" They turned at
once from play to begging, and, as I gave them nothing, they turned to
their play again.
This village is too far from Liverpool to have been much injured as yet
by the novelty of cockney residences, which have grown up almost
everywhere else, so far as I have visited.
Pages:
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101