. Historic fields and mansions of Middlesex. d cheer, was the White Horsein Old Boston Town. The horsehas always been a favorite symbolwith publicans. However tediousthe way may have been, howevershambling or void of spirit yourhackney of the road, the steed onthe hostel sign always prancedproudly, was of high mettle, andof as gallant carriage as was everblazoned on Saxons shield. The Eed Horse in Sudbury was built about 1686. Fromthe year 1714 to near, if not quite, the completion of a cen-tury and a half, it was kept as an inn by generation after gen-eration of the Howes, the last being Lyma
. Historic fields and mansions of Middlesex. d cheer, was the White Horsein Old Boston Town. The horsehas always been a favorite symbolwith publicans. However tediousthe way may have been, howevershambling or void of spirit yourhackney of the road, the steed onthe hostel sign always prancedproudly, was of high mettle, andof as gallant carriage as was everblazoned on Saxons shield. The Eed Horse in Sudbury was built about 1686. Fromthe year 1714 to near, if not quite, the completion of a cen-tury and a half, it was kept as an inn by generation after gen-eration of the Howes, the last being Lyman Howe, who servedthe guests of the house from 1831 until about 1860. Thetavern stood about half-way on the great road to Worces-ter, measuring twenty-three good English miles from BostonTown-House. Well, those were good old times, after all. A traveller, aftera hard days jaunt, pulls up at the Eed Horse. The landlordis at the door, hat in hand, with a cheery welcome, and a shoutto the blacks to care for the strangers beast. Is it winter, a. SIGN OF THE WAYSIDE INN. 422 HISTORIC FIELDS AND MANSIONS OF MIDDLESEX. mimic conflagration roars on the hearth. A bowl of punch isbrewed, smoking hot. The guest, nothing loath, swallows themixture, heaves a deep sigh, and declares himself better fora thousand pounds. Soon there comes a summons to table,where good wholesome roast-beef, done to that perfection ofwhich the turnspit only was capable, roasted potatoes withtheir russet jackets brown and crisp, and a loaf as white as thelandladys Sunday cap send up an appetizing odor. Our guestfalls to. Hunger is a good trencherman, and he would havescorned your modern tidbits, —jellies, trufiies, and jxites ctfoisgras. For drink, the well was deep, the water pure and spark-ling, but home-brewed ale or cider was at the guests elbow,and a cup of cliocolate finished his repast. He begins to bedrowsy, and is lighted to an upper chamber by some prettymaid-of-all-work, who, finding her pouting lips
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Keywords: ., bookcentury1800, bookdecade1870, bookidhistoricfiel, bookyear1874
