, and
which their worthy friend Blotton had exposed. Blotton was the only long-
headed, creditable man they had. _He_ ought to have been their
president. But he had been turned out by the "_lick-spittles_" of the
society.

CHAPTER X. ROADSIDE INNS

I.--The Bell at Berkeley Heath

In the animated journey, from Bristol to Birmingham, the travellers
stopped at various posting-houses where the mercurial Sawyer would insist
on getting down to lunch, dine, or otherwise refresh--his friends being
always ready to comply after a little decent hesitation. It was thus
that they drew up at The Bell at Berkeley Heath, which our writer
presently sketches. It will be seen there is more of the drink at the
Bell than of the Bell itself. It is, indeed, no more than _coecum
nomen_--much as though we read the name at the end of "Bradshaw"--yet,
somehow, from the life and movement of the journey, it offers a sort of
attraction: it seems familiar, and we have an interest in it. The Bell
now "goes on," as the proprietor tells me. There are travellers who come
there and drink Boz's health in the snug parlour. It is, in fact, a
Pickwickian Inn, and is drawn within the glamour of the legend, and, what
a marvel! the thing is done by the magic of those three or four lines.
"The Bell," says Mrs. Hooper, "lies back on the main road from Bristol to
Gloucester, and is just nineteen miles from Bristol. It is a rambling
old house and a good deal dilapidated, and of good age."

With this meagre record it yet offers such Pickwickian interest that, not
many months ago, a photograph was taken of it which was engraved for the
_Daily Graphic_. There is no Mr. Pickwick's room to be shown, as
undoubtedly there _would_ be had that gentleman only stayed the night
there; but he only lunched and then went forward. There is a mistiness
as to whether the Pickwickians sat in the public coffee-room or had a
private "settin'-room." It was to a certainty the coffee-room, as they
only stayed a short time. So the proprietor, with a safe conscience,
might exhibit "the room where Mr. Pickwick lunched." On the face is
imbedded a tablet bearing the date 1729, and there is an ancient farmer
close by who was born in "The Bell" in the year 1820. If we lend
ourselves properly to the delusion, he might recall Mr. Pickwick's chaise
drawing up full sixty years ago. "Ay, I mind it well. I were joost then
fifteen. A stoutish gent in gaiters--might 'ave