There is a good tale told of a certain innkeeper, who, had he received the advantages of an university education, would certainly have taken high mathematical honours. To him came a traveller, who demanded a tankard of treble X. Thereupon the innkeeper, having hesitated a moment, left the tap-room, to reappear shortly afterwards with a foam-crowned pewter. The traveller tasted, and exclaimed angrily, “This is not what I ordered!” “It is,” shortly replied Boniface; and retired to avoid discussion. The traveller was a connoisseur in beer, and knew he had been given table ale. Calling the potboy, he questioned him “No, master kept no strong beer,” said the lad; “nothing more than double X.” The traveller then summoned the landlord, and the meeting was stormy. The traveller asserted, the host denied, and came off finally triumphant with, “I know I don’t keep treble X, { 194} but I can make it. I just gave you half double X and t’other half single X, and if two and one don’t make three, my name’s not Boniface.”
The very grotesque figure which adorns this page represents Cornelius Caton, landlord of the “White Lion,” Richmond, about the middle of last century. Beginning life as a potboy, he rose through various stages till he became landlord of the house. He was almost a dwarf, and his whimsical character and unfailing good humour brought him much custom. The illustration is taken from a very rare print.
The portrait of an old Cumberland landlord of the hard-drinking days is drawn in the following ballad, which was written by some wandering bard, in the album kept at the “Rising Sun,” Pooley Bridge:— { 195}
Will Russell was a landlord bold, A noble wight was he, Right fond of quips and merry cranks, And every kind of glee.
Full five and twenty years agone, He came to Pooley Height, And there he kept the Rising Sun, And drunk was every night.
No lord, nor squire, nor serving man, In all the country round, But lov’d to call in at the Sun, Wherever he was bound.
To hold a crack with noble Will, And take a cheerful cup Of brandy, or of Penrith ale, Or pop, right bouncing up.
But now poor Will lies sleeping here, Without his hat or stick, No longer rules the Rising Sun, As he did well when quick.