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 kingdom.

It would be necessary to coin a new word if one were sought to
contain and convey the distinctive characteristic 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 counter-marching 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 man's forehead,
however business affairs may go with him outside. No one is in a
hurry to sit down or to arise from the table. The whole economy of
the establishment is to make you as much at home as possible; to
individualise you, as far as it can be done, in every department of