Many of them are very old, and cannot long contend against
the fiery eloquence of the young temperance orator, the newly fledged
justice of the peace, or the budding member of Parliament who tries to
win votes by pulling things down.
We have, however, still some of these old hostelries left; medieval
pilgrim inns redolent of the memories of the not very pious companies
of men and women who wended their way to visit the shrines of St.
Thomas of Canterbury or Our Lady at Walsingham; historic inns wherein
some of the great events in the annals of England have occurred; inns
associated with old romances or frequented by notorious highwaymen, or
that recall the adventures of Mr. Pickwick and other heroes and
villains of Dickensian tales. It is well that we should try to depict
some of these before they altogether vanish.
There was nothing vulgar or disgraceful about an inn a century ago.
From Elizabethan times to the early part of the nineteenth century
they were frequented by most of the leading spirits of each
generation. Archbishop Leighton, who died in 1684, often used to say
to Bishop Burnet that "if he were to choose a place to die in it
should be an inn; it looked like a pilgrim's going home, to whom this
world was all as an Inn, and who was weary of the noise and confusion
of it.
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