MISS MEHETABEL’S SON

I

THE OLD TAVERN AT BAYLEY’S FOUR-CORNERS

You will not find Greenton, or Bayley’s Four-Corners as it is more usually designated, on any map of New England that I know of.  It is not a town; it is not even a village:  it is merely an absurd hotel.  The almost indescribable place called Greenton is at the intersection of four roads, in the heart of New Hampshire, twenty miles from the nearest settlement of note, and ten miles from any railway station.  A good location for a hotel, you will say.  Precisely; but there has always been a hotel there, and for the last dozen years it has been pretty well patronized—­by one boarder.  Not to trifle with an intelligent public, I will state at once that, in the early part of this century, Greenton was a point at which the mail-coach on the Great Northern Route stopped to change horses and allow the passengers to dine.  People in the county, wishing to take the early mail Portsmouth-ward, put up over night at the old tavern, famous for its irreproachable larder and soft feather-beds.  The tavern at that time was kept by Jonathan Bayley, who rivaled his wallet in growing corpulent, and in due time passed away.  At his death the establishment, which included a farm, fell into the hands of a son-in-law.  Now, though Bayley left his son-in-law a hotel—­which sounds handsome—­he left him no guests; for at about the period of the old man’s death the old stage-coach died also.  Apoplexy carried off one, and steam the other.  Thus, by a sudden swerve in the tide of progress, the tavern at the Corners found itself high and dry, like a wreck on a sand-bank.  Shortly after this event, or maybe contemporaneously, there was some attempt to build a town at Greenton; but it apparently failed, if eleven cellars choked up with debris and overgrown with burdocks are any indication of failure.  The farm, however, was a good farm, as things go in New Hampshire, and Tobias Sewell, the son-in-law, could afford to snap his fingers at the traveling public if they came near enough—­which they never did.

The hotel remains to-day pretty much the same as when Jonathan Bayley handed in his accounts in 1840, except that Sewell has from time to time sold the furniture of some of the upper chambers to bridal couples in the neighborhood.  The bar is still open, and the parlor door says PARLOUR in tall black letters.  Now and then a passing drover looks in at that lonely bar-room, where a high-shouldered bottle of Santa Cruz rum ogles with a peculiarly knowing air a shriveled lemon on a shelf; now and then a farmer rides across country to talk crops and stock and take a friendly glass with Tobias; and now and then a circus caravan with speckled ponies, or a menagerie with a soggy elephant, halts under the swinging sign, on which there is a dim mail-coach with four phantomish horses driven by a portly gentleman whose head has been washed off by the rain.  Other customers there are none, except that one regular boarder whom I have mentioned.