the village of east bedfont, three miles from hounslow, is a picturesque surprise, after the long flat road. the highway suddenly broadens out here, and gives place to a wide village green, with a pond, and real ducks! and an even more real village church whose wooden extinguisher spire peeps out from a surrounding cluster of trees, and from behind a couple of fantastically clipped yews guarding the churchyard gate.

the bedfont peacocks

the ‘bedfont peacocks,’ as they are called, are not so perfect as they were when first cut in 1704, for the trimming of them was long neglected, and these curiously clipped evergreens require constant attention. the date on one side, and the churchwardens’ initials of the period on the other, once standing out boldly, are now only to be discerned by the eye of faith. the story of the peacocks is that they were{79} cut at the costs and charges of a former inhabitant of the village, who, proposing in turn to two sisters also living here, was scornfully refused by them. they were, says the legend, ‘as proud as peacocks,’ and the mortified suitor chose this spiteful method of typifying the fact. of course, the story was retailed to travellers on passing through bedfont by every coachman and guard; nor, indeed, would it be at all surprising to learn that they, in fact, really invented it, for they were masters in the art of romancing. so the fame of the peacocks grew. an old writer at once celebrates them, and the then landlord of the ‘black dog,’ in the rather neat verse:—

harvey, whose inn commands a view

of bedfont’s church and churchyard too,

where yew-trees into peacock’s shorn,

in vegetable torture mourn.

image unavailable: east bedfont.

east bedfont.

{80}

at length they were immortalised by hood, the elder, in a quite serious poem:—

where erst two haughty maidens used to be,

in pride of plume, where plumy death hath trod,

trailing their gorgeous velvet wantonly,

most unmeet pall, over the holy sod;

there, gentle stranger, thou may’st only see

two sombre peacocks. age, with sapient nod,

marking the spot, still tarries to declare

how once they lived, and wherefore they are there.

alas! that breathing vanity should go

where pride is buried; like its very ghost,

unrisen from the naked bones below,

in novel flesh, clad in the silent boast

of gaudy silk that flutters to and fro,

shedding its chilling superstition most

on young and ignorant natures as is wont

to haunt the peaceful churchyard of bedfont!

if any one can unravel the sense from the tangled lines of the second verse,—as obscure as some of browning’s poetry—let him account himself clever.

the ‘black dog,’ once the halting-place of the long extinct ‘driving club,’ of which the late duke of beaufort was a member, has recently been demolished. a large villa stands on the site of it, at the corner of the green, as the village is left behind.

staines

the flattest of flat, and among the straightest of straight, roads is this which runs from east bedfont into staines. that loyal bard, john taylor, the ‘water poet,’ was along this route on his way to the isle of wight in 1647. he started from the ‘rose,’{81} in holborn, on thursday, 19th october, in the southampton coach:—

we took one coach, two coachmen, and four horses,

and merrily from london made our courses,

we wheel’d the top of the heavy hill call’d holborn

(up which hath been full many a sinful soul borne),

and so along we jolted to st. giles’s,

which place from brentford six, or nearly seven, miles is,

to staines that night at five o’clock we coasted,

where, at the bush, we had bak’d, boil’d, and roasted.