Temperance > Autobiography and personal recollections of John B. Gough

ROUTE TO SCOTLAND.
245
“I suppose you are John Gough; we heered you was a-
coming.”
We chatted of old times, and old people, till we ar¬
rived at the “New Inn,”—it was the “New Inn” when I
was a boy,—where we took rooms. I was too uneasy to
remain there, so I strolled out alone, to look at the place;
—the same long, straight street, the same names on the
shop-fronts,—Jemmy Bugg, the cobbler; George, the bar¬
ber; Reynolds, the baker; Saunders, the shoemaker; the
Fleur-de-Lis, kept by Flisher, as of old; Draynor, the fish¬
monger. I might have left but a week ago for all the
change in the main street. “There’s the castle!” How
my heart leaped! Our house is just round the corner;
but there is change here; what is it? Ah! I see now,—
the village green, where the fairs were held, is gone, and
there is a large National school in front of “our house;”
not so picturesque, but more practical; yet I should have
liked to see again the green where I had so often played
“cutters,” or “all the birds in the air.”
But the house—yes, there it is—the same, the very
same. The boulders my father had laid so evenly in front,
—the same lead-coloured paint,—no change; it did not
\ look older, only smaller. I slowly walked by it, my heart
full, and passed round by the inn, once kept by Mr.
Beattie,—the “Martello Tower,”—in the tap-room of
which I had often “spoken a piece.” Another name is on
the sign—then the Beatties are gone! I wandered about
till drawn back to the house. As I turned the corner, and
came in sight of it, I saw a group of women near the door.
Then I heard, “There he is! that’s him!” and they came
toward me. “Why Johnny, don’t you know me?” “It is
Mrs. Beattie.” “Bless his heart—he remembers me!” And
the dear old lady threw her arms about me, regardless of
the proprieties,—which did not disturb me in the least. I