mi

 
 WOTS-KSOF^ 
 
 •Box.sovi.Te- 
 
 • KEELI 
 
 ."•(D-Vffili.* 
 
 »J3EAJP£je. 
 
 T3EJEEV #^ 
 
 • EIEMIMGHAM 
 
 ^" ON AVON 
 
 VESHAM 
 
 SURV 
 
 LTEKTHAM 
 
 • basing sroscer 
 
 •T2A32JEINt3r>0(IsJ V*?4>t*a~J3. 
 
 •NSWTOMVALvVHieE.

 
 AMONG ENGLISH INNS
 
 UNIFORM VOLUMES 
 
 * 
 
 Little Pilgrimages Among 
 
 English Inns 
 
 By Josephine Tozier 
 
 Little Pilgrimages Among 
 
 French Inns 
 
 By Charles Gibson 
 
 Little Pilgrimages Among 
 
 Bavarian Inns 
 
 By Frank Roy Fraprie 
 
 Little Pilgrimages Among 
 
 Old New England Inns 
 By Mary Caroline Crawford 
 
 The Fair Land Tyrol 
 By W. D. McCrackan 
 
 Among Italian Lakes 
 By W. D. McCrackan 
 
 ¥ 
 
 Each, I vol., library i2mo, cloth, gilt 
 top, profusely illustrated, $2.00 
 
 L. C. Page <T& Company 
 
 New England Building 
 Boston, Mass.
 
 9 
 
 -^•^-^-^^•^«g-^ 
 
 » 
 
 $ 
 * 
 * 
 * 
 * 
 $ 
 $ 
 9 
 $ 
 * 
 $ 
 $ 
 $ 
 $ 
 $ 
 
 LITTLE PILGRIMAGES 
 
 Among €ngli$b Tmt$ 
 
 THE STORY OF A PILGRIM- 
 AGE TO CHARACTERISTIC 
 SPOTS OF RURAL ENGLAND 
 
 $ 
 * 
 
 * 
 9 
 
 * 
 
 * 
 * 
 * 
 $ 
 9 
 * 
 * 
 $ 
 $ 
 9 
 
 BY 
 
 3oacpbfne So3fer 
 
 ILLUSTRATED 
 
 BOSTON * » * * * 
 
 X. G. page & Company 
 
 * * » * * PUBLISHERS 
 
 * 
 
 ^•$^^^^^^ 
 
 $
 
 Copyright, IQ04 
 By L. C. Page & Company 
 
 (incorporated) 
 
 All rights reserved 
 
 Published July, igo4 
 
 Eighth Impression 
 October, 1907 
 
 ffolonfal $rtB8 
 
 Electrotyped and Printed by C H. Simonds & Co. 
 
 Boston. Mass., U.S.A.
 
 tt™™ THE MBRARY 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA- 
 SANTA BARBARA 
 
 TO 
 
 THOSE FRIENDS 
 
 WHOSE CONSTANT ENCOURAGEMENT 
 
 AND SINCERE INTEREST IS RESPONSIBLE FOR 
 
 THIS LITTLE RECORD, MY 
 
 BOOK IS AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED.
 

 
 PREFACE 
 
 THIS little work was undertaken at the 
 request, and for the use, of friends, who la- 
 mented that they had seen nothing of rural 
 England, because they needed a guide to lead 
 them to interesting places and characteristic 
 spots. It has been the writer's endeavour to 
 collect here facts about the country districts 
 not mentioned in the ordinary guide-book. 
 
 This volume has been several years in the 
 making, and during that period the writer 
 has been several times carefully over the route 
 she has selected principally for the combina- 
 tion of noted villages with others seldom 
 visited by the average tourist, and distin- 
 guished for a variety of interest, historical 
 and literary, and for diversity of prospect. 
 
 The tour can be made in a fortnight, or 
 extended to a month or six weeks. It is 
 planned for those who wish to travel in simple 
 style. 
 
 Journeying in England is not cheap in the 
 generally accepted term. The tariff at the 
 
 vii
 
 Preface 
 
 country inns for board and lodging ranges 
 from twelve shillings ($3.00) to twenty-five 
 ($5.00) shillings a day. It is always wise to 
 secure rooms in advance, a very simple matter 
 in a land where a telegram costs but a few 
 pence. The inns are small, and consequently 
 the accommodation is limited. Those who 
 can afford a little extra luxury will do well 
 to engage a private sitting-room. This grati- 
 fication will not be found very expensive, and 
 will add greatly to the enjoyment and comfort 
 of the party. 
 
 The food at an English inn is very simple, 
 and its want of variety meets with criticism 
 from the average citizen of the United States, 
 but what is offered the guest is clean, whole- 
 some, and the best of its kind. The mutton 
 is a revelation, and the flavour of the vege- 
 tables more delicate than those grown in 
 American soil. A fixed price is usually 
 charged for the meals, varying anywhere be- 
 tween two shillings and sixpence (about sixty 
 cents) for a luncheon to a dinner at six shil- 
 lings (a dollar and a half). The bread sel- 
 dom meets with approval, and the coffee is 
 a surprising and impossible beverage. Good 
 coffee is very expensive, absurdly so, for it 
 costs fifty cents a pound, and is only obtainable 
 
 viii
 
 Preface 
 
 in shops devoted to its sale in the larger towns. 
 With the best will in the world, the landlady 
 can neither buy coffee in her village, nor brew 
 it so that it is fit to drink. Take tea if pos- 
 sible. 
 
 The manager at an inn, usually a woman, 
 should be consulted about the best walks and 
 drives. She knows the advantages of the 
 immediate neighbourhood, all the most in- 
 teresting sights, and the best vehicle to choose 
 for excursions. She is always ready and 
 pleased to give information, but she will never 
 offer it unless asked. Frame your questions 
 carefully; she can save you much loss of time 
 and pleasure, but she has a very literal sense 
 of comprehension. 
 
 The fees given the inn servants should be 
 regulated by the stay and the amount of at- 
 tention demanded of them. A shilling for 
 those in constant attendance, and a sixpence 
 for others less useful, will be taken with 
 thanks. A charge for service is made in the 
 bill for some unknown reason, but the servants 
 always expect a fee, and no English guest ever 
 fails to bestow it. 
 
 There is a system at railway stations by 
 which, when the price of sixpence is paid on 
 each piece, luggage can be delivered at your 
 
 ix
 
 Preface 
 
 abiding-place, or sent forward to the cloak- 
 room at the station which is your ultimate 
 destination. This is called " Luggage in Ad- 
 vance," but unfortunately the promise of the 
 title is not invariably fulfilled. 
 
 It is safer to watch your luggage. See it 
 put in the van when you start, note that par- 
 ticular van, and get into the carriage to which 
 it is attached. This will facilitate matters. 
 You will probably change cars on your jour- 
 ney. When that happens, the traveller must 
 snatch a porter in all haste, find the luggage 
 for him, and see it transferred. The fact that 
 the trunks are labelled through to the end of 
 the journey will not prevent them from being 
 left on the platform of a junction, to follow 
 at the sweet leisure of the officials, or to repose 
 in that overcrowded institution, The Lost 
 Property Office, until rescued by tracers of 
 one kind or another. A porter expects a fee 
 of from twopence to sixpence for carrying 
 your trunk to a van. In this case the size of 
 the trunk should determine the amount be- 
 stowed. More than sixpence will make him 
 stare, and mark you for a stranger to British 
 travelling methods. 
 
 Choose to buy third-class tickets, except 
 when travelling at night or on a holiday. You
 
 Preface 
 
 will find yourself perfectly comfortable, and 
 in company more than respectable socially. 
 First-class fare is nearly double in price, and 
 on some of the English railways there are no 
 second-class carriages. It looks knowing to 
 use third-class. 
 
 The writer wishes to assure that she has 
 not drawn on her imagination for a single 
 one of the incidents set down in this book, al- 
 though some of the minor occurrences have 
 changed their locality at her will; the experi- 
 ences are all facts, and happened as she relates 
 them. She trusts, in presenting this book to 
 future tourists in Rural England, that what- 
 ever lack of material comfort they may ex- 
 perience by following in her footsteps will 
 be more than overlooked and recompensed 
 by the diversity of the scenery, the charm of 
 this garden-land, the quaintness of the ham- 
 lets, and the universal civility of the inhab- 
 itants. 
 
 The Author. 
 
 XI

 
 CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER 
 I. 
 II. 
 
 m. 
 
 IV. 
 
 v. 
 
 VI. 
 VII. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 IX. 
 
 X, 
 
 The Queen's Arms, Selborne, Hampshire . 
 At "The Three Crowns," Chagford, 
 
 Devon ..... 
 Clovelly .... 
 
 Clerk's Hill Farm, Evesham . 
 Peacock Inn, Rowsley 
 Hardwick Inn 
 
 The Dukeries .... 
 The Peacock and Royal, Boston 
 The Maid's Head, Norwich 
 Angel Inn, Acle Bridge . 
 
 PAGB 
 I 
 
 66 
 
 84 
 
 •3' 
 
 149 
 
 163 
 
 193 
 
 210 
 
 236
 
 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 The Three Crowns, Chagford {Seepage 37) Frontispiece 
 The Queen's Arms. — On Gracious Street. — The 
 
 Entrance to the Village .... 8 
 The Main Street of Selborne . . .10 
 
 The Wakes, from the Hanger . . . .13 
 Jane Austen House, Chawton .... 16 
 The Carrier's Cart. — Selborne Street. — The 
 
 Squire's Bulldog, " Peter." — « Our Piggies " 25 
 Tombstone of Private Fletcher. — General View 
 
 of Winchester. — Winchester Cathedral . 30 
 
 The Three Crowns, Chagford 
 
 A Street in Chagford 
 
 Leigh Bridge, The Teign, Chagford 
 
 Fingle Gorge 
 
 The Stepping - Stones 
 
 A Clovelly Street. — Clovelly Fishermen 
 
 Looking down Clovelly Street. — Looking up 
 
 Clovelly Street 
 
 A Heart of Oak. — Clovelly Foliage 
 Clerk's Hill Farmhouse. — The Bell Tower 
 
 Boat Lane 
 
 Cropthorne Cottages. — Interior of Cropthorne 
 
 Church 
 
 Home of Penelope Washington. — Last Resting- 
 
 Place of Penelope Washington 
 The Bell Inn, Tewkesbury 
 On the Way to Rowsley 
 
 38 
 43 
 46 
 
 54 
 56 
 68 
 
 7i 
 80 
 
 96 
 
 100 
 
 106 
 124 
 133
 
 List of Illustrations 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Peacock Inn, Rowsley. — Rowsley Street. 136 
 
 Hardwick Inn 152 
 
 Bolsover Castle ....... 164 
 
 A Glade in Sherwood Forest . . . . 171 
 
 St. Botolph's Church, Boston .... 196 
 
 Boston Market -Place. — Sheep Market in the 
 
 Wide Bar Gate 204 
 
 The River Wytham and St. Botolph's Church. 
 — Old Boston Warehouses. — The Maud 
 
 Foster Drain 206 
 
 The Maid's Head, Norwich 210 
 
 Blickling Hall Garden 220 
 
 The Ruins of Wymondham Priory. — The Green 
 
 Dragon Inn, Wymondham A Thetford 
 
 Window. — The Inn at Blickling . . . 234 
 
 On the Norfolk Broads 236 
 
 On the Broads, near Acle. — A View near Nor- 
 wich 240 
 
 An Inn Doorway. — Acle Bridge. — In Acle Vil- 
 lage. — A Boat Dyke 246
 
 Among English Inns 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 THE QUEEN'S ARMS 
 Selborne, Hampshire 
 
 HE steamer tHat goes 
 between Havre and 
 Southampton was 
 just rounding the Isle of 
 Wight, when three de- 
 jected - looking young women 
 stepped out of a deck cabin 
 into the clear air of the July 
 morning. They had survived and endured 
 with bitter complaints one of those noted pas- 
 sages of which the English Channel has the 
 monopoly. 
 
 The waves had dashed furiously all night 
 
 i
 
 Among English Inns 
 
 long against the small ship; it had groaned 
 and shivered in response, and these three 
 women had groaned and shivered in concert 
 with each creaking timber. 
 
 They had denied themselves the pleasure of 
 longer wanderings in lovely France for the 
 sake of a short tour through rural England. 
 My persuasive tongue it was which had 
 brought them to this decision and over the 
 rough waters of the Channel. I had therefore 
 not only suffered with seasickness myself 
 through all the wild night, but had joined to 
 physical pain the mental agonies of responsi- 
 bility and remorse. The bright sun now 
 above, smooth water around, and green land 
 within sight dispelled regrets and reproaches; 
 we met with smiling faces. 
 
 " Here comes Polly, as fresh and rosy as 
 the morn," exclaimed the chief Invalid, as 
 the youngest of our quartette appeared smil- 
 ing at the gangway door. " She must get us 
 some coffee." 
 
 " She can't," answered the blooming Polly. 
 " There is neither tea nor coffee fit to drink 
 on board. I have tried both. A jovial old 
 Englishman suggested beer, but as I did not 
 wish to spoil my record as a good sailor, I 
 declined that morning beverage." 
 
 2
 
 The Queens Arms 
 
 " Here are some tablets of chocolate, one 
 for each." 
 
 I had forgotten in my despairing mood that 
 I had wisely provided food for this very 
 emergency. 
 
 " Must all these other poor seasick creatures 
 travel to London without food?" sighed the 
 sympathetic Invalid. The Southampton docks 
 being now within sight, we lost interest in 
 everything but the business of landing. We 
 seized our bags and left the boat as rapidly 
 as possible. 
 
 Pennies liberally distributed, and the simple 
 formalities of the English Customs passed, we 
 crossed the dockyard and turned down the 
 street toward the Great South Western Hotel, 
 and breakfast! Our normal appetites had re- 
 turned with increased vigour after we felt 
 firm ground beneath our feet. We were fol- 
 lowed on our way by our small luggage, piled 
 upon a hand-cart and drawn by a red-headed 
 porter. 
 
 Breakfast soon waited our pleasure in the 
 sunny dining-room. Toasted muffins, hot 
 coffee, marmalade, and all the various acces- 
 sories of that most comfortable English meal, 
 while the proprietor of the hand-cart went 
 away murmuring because, having demanded 
 
 3
 
 Among English Inns 
 
 three shillings, Polly gave him but half that 
 amount, — quite enough for his service. Such 
 encounters are sport for Polly. We have con- 
 stituted her Treasurer and Financier-in-chief 
 of the party. She proved so able in France, 
 that we have voted unanimously to continue 
 her in office on our present journey. To speak 
 truly, she alone of the entire quartette does 
 not consider arithmetic simply a matter of 
 fingers. 
 
 The cheery breakfast so completely restored 
 the entire party that the Invalid and the 
 Matron began to make anxious inquiry about 
 our immediate destination. " Just take us 
 where you like, and surprise us," both the 
 Invalid and the Matron had entreated when 
 they constituted me guide of the party, and 
 now two cups of coffee had excited them to 
 indiscreet curiosity. 
 
 The Matron, be it told right here, is not so 
 venerable as the name would imply. She is 
 young, but owes her title to the possession of 
 a husband. He is concealed somewhere in the 
 mazes of the United States, engaged in the 
 most fascinating sport of money-making, while 
 she assumes, as a consequence of his existence, 
 a dignity we spinsters do not presume to imi- 
 tate. She also has an excuse to retire and 
 
 4
 
 The Queen's Arms 
 
 write letters to the absent gentleman whenever 
 she feels bored in our society. 
 
 " You promised to ask no questions," says 
 my lieutenant, the Treasurer. " The tickets 
 are in my pocket, the luggage is labelled, and 
 the train will be ready in half an hour to 
 bear us away to Alton, where we are to take 
 carriage for Selborne." 
 
 " Gilbert White's Selborne?" inquires the 
 Invalid, in a whisper. Before any one both- 
 ers to answer, we are rolling away from 
 Southampton, past Winchester, to Alton. The 
 Treasurer puts us into third-class carriages; 
 she insists that two cents a mile is quite all 
 we can pay. The Invalid and the Matron 
 felt at first inclined to rebel at the economy, 
 but finding third-class so much better than 
 they expected, they spend half the time of the 
 journey talking about it. 
 
 One of the eccentricities of the British rail- 
 way system is the aversion the officials dis- 
 play to calling out the name of a station. At 
 the extreme end of each small platform, hid- 
 den among brilliant invitations to " Use 
 Pear's Soap " or " Take Beecham's Pills," the 
 name of the town is shyly concealed by a 
 modest gray sign. My party almost refused 
 
 5
 
 Among English Inns 
 
 to follow me, when I began to pull down the 
 bags at Alton. 
 
 " How do you know where we are? " asked 
 the Matron. 
 
 There was no time to explain, so I bundled 
 her on to the platform and quieted her fears 
 by introducing her to the host of the Queen's 
 Arms, who sat on the box of his wagonette 
 waiting to drive us to Selborne. We had sent 
 him a telegram from Winchester. 
 
 The town of Alton saves itself from hope- 
 less dulness only by the pretty curve its High 
 Street describes. I have read somewhere that 
 Mrs. Gaskell was building a house in Alton 
 when she died, yet the place itself possesses 
 no visible attractions. A barrel-bodied, pie- 
 bald horse, mounted on a rolling platform 
 by four sticks of legs, and hanging in a most 
 perilous and unnatural position outside a 
 quaint shop, excited the Matron so profoundly 
 that she vowed that Alton was a veritable 
 picture-book town, but her imagination is 
 broad. 
 
 Alton, situated in the centre of a hop-grow- 
 ing region, is a brewing town. The solemn 
 brick Georgian houses look comfortable and 
 ugly. Public houses, mere drinking-places, 
 supply all the picturesque element by their 
 
 6
 
 The Queen's Arms 
 
 names: the French Horn, the Hop Poles, 
 the Jug of Ale, and the pretentious Star, 
 " patronized by Royalty." 
 
 The green once passed, and the homely little 
 town behind us, we become aware of the 
 charm which induced Mrs. Gaskell to choose 
 Alton as a dwelling-place. The road branches 
 where we leave the last houses ; one way leads 
 us over low hills to our destination, the other 
 is a shaded road to Chawton, where lived Jane 
 Austen's brother, who inherited the manor- 
 house, and the cottage in which that gentle 
 authoress spent the last years of her life. 
 
 Over the hills and far away goes the road 
 to Selborne, past fields where festoons of the 
 hop-vines make bowers of green. The high- 
 way winds up and down for five miles through 
 copse and farm lands. We see noisy rooks 
 gleaning the fields, and men ploughing with 
 oxen; these last a rare sight in England. 
 From the high points of the road we look 
 down into the sunny valley on the little village 
 of Chawton, and see the noonday smoke ris- 
 ing from the cottages. At the top of the last 
 steep hill on our drive, the long, low ridge 
 before us is pointed out to us as the " Hanger," 
 and nestling at its base lies the village of Sel- 
 borne. 
 
 7
 
 Among English Inns 
 
 None of the party, excepting the writer, has 
 ever before seen an English village inn. They 
 are at first inclined to be disappointed be- 
 cause " The Queen's Arms " does not more 
 exactly resemble the comic opera counterfeit. 
 When the bedrooms are assigned us, the 
 Matron discovers we fill the house. 
 
 "A whole inn to ourselves! Could any- 
 thing be more perfect!" 
 
 We reach our bedrooms and our long nar- 
 row sitting-room by an antiquated staircase, 
 shut off with a door at the bottom from the 
 neat old-fashioned bar. At the " Queen's 
 Arms " the bar, true to its name, is a broad 
 shelf of wood, lifted or put down at the will 
 of the innkeeper's pretty daughter, when she 
 serves cider, or more potent drinks, to thirsty 
 customers. To be invited into the family par- 
 lour, behind the bar, is the privilege of only 
 the chosen few. 
 
 Our private stairway is decorated with 
 stuffed birds and porcelain tableware, all 
 brilliant in colour but more or less dilapidated 
 by age and use. Our sitting-room possesses 
 as an object of luxury a grand piano, dating 
 from the very earliest days of grand pianos. 
 Like many ancient singers, both its voice and 
 most of its teeth are gone, but, unlike a prima 
 
 8
 
 The Queens Arms 
 
 donna, its exterior has grown more beautiful 
 with each passing decade. The old French 
 mahogany case is a joy to the artistic eye. The 
 mantel ornaments are frankly from Birming- 
 ham, and bear the stamp of the peddler's 
 pack; all ugly and useless. The pictures evi- 
 dently came from the same source many years 
 ago. A hideous coloured landscape and an 
 impossible Joan of Arc disfigure the quaint, 
 venerable walls, but the lattice window opens 
 wide on a scene so lovely that the interior of 
 the room is forgotten. 
 
 Behind the diamond panes a gay flower- 
 garden stretches away to broad fields, and past 
 these are the dark beech-trees in the long, nar- 
 row valley of the Lythe. 
 
 Our travel-stimulated appetites do full jus- 
 tice when lunch appears. It consists of chops, 
 new potatoes, and gooseberry tart, an excellent 
 specimen of many of the same kind which 
 we are destined to consume before our trip 
 comes to an end. 
 
 " The sweet simplicity of English cooking 
 probably had its origin when salt was highly 
 taxed," observed Polly with solemnity, as she 
 emptied the salt-cellar on her plate. 
 
 ' We did not come here to criticize the 
 food," interposed the Invalid, sternly. " Still, 
 
 9
 
 Among English Inns 
 
 salt is a healthy condiment; you might ring 
 for some more." Polly has not left a single 
 grain in the diminutive glass dish. 
 
 The village of Selborne has but a single 
 street which is honoured with a name, Gra- 
 cious Street. It is now little better than 
 a deep, shady lane, which skirts the park of 
 that comfortable small estate where, more 
 than a century ago, lived Gilbert White, the 
 naturalist, the genial writer of those graceful 
 letters which delight the reader of " The Nat- 
 ural History of Selborne." In the time of 
 Gilbert White, Gracious Street was the road 
 through Chawton to Alton. It was then even 
 more of a lane than it is to-day, and Selborne 
 a nearly inaccessible hamlet. 
 
 The main village street, on which stands 
 our inn, boasts no name, yet it is lovely to 
 look upon. It is lined with thatched-roofed 
 cottages in raised gardens that blush with 
 roses and bright-faced flowers. Vines climb 
 over the white-curtained casements, in which 
 stand pots of gay blooming plants, and each 
 cottage door is closed by a bar. This is done 
 to keep the little toddlers we see peeping out 
 curiously from tumbling among the carefully 
 tended garden-beds. A bird-cage well out of 
 the reach of the family cat hangs on nearly 
 
 10
 
 The Queens Arms 
 
 every cottage wall, with finches chirruping 
 gaily in their wicker prisons. 
 
 The ancient church dominates the entire 
 village. The square, squat Norman tower is 
 shaded by a huge yew-tree, reported to be a 
 thousand years old; its dense foliage and 
 wide-spreading branches almost hide the body 
 of the church. Near the church is the vicar- 
 age. The old house in which Gilbert White 
 was born has been replaced by a modern 
 dwelling, but the lovely garden where he took 
 his first steps among the flowers still thrives 
 and flourishes under the watchful care of the 
 present vicar, Mr. Kaye. The yew-hedge, 
 planted over two hundred and fifty years ago, 
 is now a superb wall of green, and beyond its 
 impenetrable foliage lies the churchyard. In 
 a nook made by an angle in the transept wall 
 is the grave of Gilbert White. A worn stone, 
 in which are roughly carved the letters " G. 
 W.," marks his last resting-place. He was 
 born in 1720; his grandfather was vicar of 
 Selborne at that time. Here in the vicarage 
 he was at home until he entered Oriel College 
 at Oxford, and here he returned before taking 
 up his residence at The Wakes and assuming 
 the duties of curate at Faringdon. While the 
 colonies in America were fighting the mother 
 
 11
 
 Among English Inns 
 
 country, and France her royalty, Gilbert 
 White, in a village nearly cut off from the 
 world by bad roads, was writing of the insect 
 world to his friends. In 1776, he is more 
 interested in a cat who has mothered a leveret 
 than in the Declaration of Independence. In 
 1793, when royal heads are falling across the 
 Channel, he writes chiefly of sand-martins and 
 their young. 
 
 Since the death of Gilbert White there have 
 been some additions to his home by later 
 owners, but the new building has all been 
 done in the spirit of the original dwelling. 
 The comfortable modern drawing-room and 
 the pleasant dining-room are in harmony with 
 the old study used by the naturalist, now the 
 favourite den of the present owner. Out of the 
 drawing-room a passage through a well-filled 
 conservatory leads to the lawns and beautiful 
 gardens, but little changed since the days of 
 the naturalist. The trees he planted are care- 
 fully preserved, and the sun-dial on which he 
 noted the passage of the hours still stands on 
 the lawn. 
 
 Looking over the churchyard stile, on the 
 side of the Plestor (a playground for the vil- 
 lage children), we see The Wakes on the 
 other side of the sloping space. The long, 
 
 12
 
 The Queens Arms 
 
 rambling brick house, placed close upon the 
 street, is shrouded to the very gables by trees 
 and shrubs, which hide the windows from in- 
 quisitive eyes. 
 
 The early evening hours, in a country where 
 the twilight lasts until nearly ten o'clock, are 
 the most delightful times for walking. We 
 climbed the Hanger after tea, with the com- 
 fortable feeling that dinner could wait until 
 we came back. There is a steep path, called 
 the Zigzag, said to have been cut by Gilbert 
 White, but we chose to gain the hilltop by 
 a long, sloping ascent winding up with an 
 easy sweep under the beeches. At the top, 
 from a bench placed there for the comfort of 
 wayfarers, through a clearing in the wood, 
 we looked down upon the sunny garden of 
 The Wakes, and its windows hung with ivy. 
 Behind the house the church lifted its tower, 
 and still farther on the dusky trees of the Lythe 
 twisted away like a monster green serpent to 
 the misty hills of the horizon. On the right, 
 smoke rising above the cottage roofs, buried 
 in foliage, told of the preparations for the 
 evening meal, while on the left, down the yel- 
 low road which winds along the steep hill 
 toward Alton, came the ploughmen and their 
 horses. 
 
 13 
 
 /
 
 Among English Inns 
 
 A sheep-common stretches all over the top 
 of the Hanger, and a misleading path among 
 the bracken and scrub-oaks goes to a most 
 interesting little hamlet, Newton Valance. 
 
 " Who wants to see a haunted house? " 
 
 " Everybody." 
 
 I march boldly ahead, with my friends 
 straggling behind. Fortunately for my repu- 
 tation, the many lovely views they get of the 
 valley absorb their attention and save me from 
 utter disgrace. When I finally hail with glee 
 an avenue of gloomy pine-trees, I have, un- 
 known to my comrades, lost and found the 
 way not less than five times. 
 
 The haunted house — so called — is built 
 almost within the Newton Valance church- 
 yard. The gloomy entrance, the neglected 
 park, the empty glass-house, the forsaken 
 aviary, and the huge dilapidated stone barns 
 tell a dreary tale. The falling mansion is 
 only to be described as a solid Elizabethan 
 manor-house with a Greek villa tacked on to 
 the front. Any more incongruous mixture of 
 architecture it would be difficult to imagine. 
 The country folk have invented weird tales 
 on the strength of some bones found inside 
 one of the plaster statues which embellish the 
 Greek porch.
 
 The Queens Arms 
 
 " They do say all sorts of things, but we 
 ain't never seen no ghosts," the caretaker tells 
 us. She lives in the only habitable part of the 
 decayed mansion, which is the great kitchen, 
 with a large family of children. Their laugh- 
 ter and games perhaps frighten ghosts away. 
 
 The original house was evidently built in 
 Elizabethan days for lavish hospitality, but 
 that was before the owner with shabby Greek 
 taste appeared. Inside, in the ancient part, 
 the rafters are rotting, while in the modern 
 addition the gay French-mirrored doors are 
 cracked and the walls covered with mould. 
 
 A long avenue, grass-grown and disused, 
 goes straight down the other side of the 
 Hanger, past two fallen lodges, and then 
 through rusty gates, hanging each by a single 
 hinge, out on to a pretty, cheerful road, along 
 which Gilbert White lingered often to con- 
 template the wonders of his beloved mistress, 
 Dame Nature. He was curate of the little vil- 
 lage of Faringdon, through which this high- 
 way passes before it skirts the borders of 
 Chawton Park. 
 
 The Chawton of to-day is much as it was 
 in the time of the authoress who there wrote 
 " Pride and Prejudice," as well as all her later 
 novels. The square brick house in which Jane
 
 Among English Inns 
 
 Austen lived when her brother became lord 
 of the manor is opposite the tiny inn, on a 
 picturesque road of thatched cottages hiding 
 behind verdure-grown garden walls, over 
 which nod masses of tall, yellow flowers. 
 
 We were lucky in coming to Selborne in 
 July. Then occur the most festive days of the 
 summer, the flower-show, and the county 
 policeman's dinner. 
 
 The flower-show is held in a large tent 
 pitched on the lawn in the park of The Wakes. 
 The many gardens which the villagers have 
 carefully tended all through the year then give 
 up their choicest specimens for this exhibition. 
 The schoolchildren spend hours gathering 
 wild flowers to compete for the prize given 
 that little one who shall show the greatest 
 variety arranged with the best taste. 
 
 The love which the English rustic has for 
 flowers, and the skill shown in growing and 
 arranging them, comes out fully at a village 
 flower-show. The Invalid and the Matron 
 were most enthusiastic when they saw the suc- 
 cessful efforts of the children and the out- 
 come of the gardens. They had formed their 
 judgment of British taste by the dress of the 
 women. 
 
 The prizes were plentiful and substantial. 
 
 16
 
 The Queens Arms 
 
 They were distributed by the charming wife 
 of the squire. The villagers looked pleased 
 and happy, but the only noise and applause 
 was furnished by the squire's pet bulldog, 
 who accompanied the announcement of each 
 prize-winner with loud barks and wild leaps 
 of joy, to the intense disgust of the vicar's 
 poodle, who sat by with the dignified bearing 
 his station in life required. 
 
 There was music and dancing in the park, 
 while just beyond the gates a shabby caravan 
 from Petersfield, a near-by town, waited with 
 its swings, carrousel, and shooting-gallery to 
 swallow up the prize-money. 
 
 The squire's hospitality is responsible for 
 the policeman's dinner. It is his entertain- 
 ment. The constabulary is a valuable and im- 
 posing institution in rural England. During 
 the hop-picking season Selborne and the 
 country for miles around is overrun by rough 
 men and women from the dregs of the London 
 streets, who come to work in the hop-fields. 
 
 That muscular member of the county police 
 who keeps the peace in Selborne has proved 
 himself such a terror to the evil-doers among 
 these hordes that the squire, with a desire to 
 show his appreciation for the protection 
 afforded his village by this athletic police- 
 
 i7
 
 Among English Inns 
 
 man, once a year gives a dinner in his name 
 to all the members of the constabulary for 
 miles around. For many days before the great 
 event the innkeeper's wife and daughter are 
 busy all day roasting joints, baking cakes, and 
 preparing dainties. Our meals are irregular; 
 the Invalid murmurs; the Matron makes ex- 
 cuses ; but we only get fed after a fashion until 
 the great day arrives. 
 
 As early on that morning as is consistent 
 with British habits (between ten and eleven) 
 the guests drive into the yard of the inn. They 
 bring their wives and children, their sisters 
 and mothers. They come in busses, they come 
 in wagonettes, in dog-carts, and every descrip- 
 tion of vehicle drawn by horses. In the coffee- 
 room, in the parlour behind the bar, and in 
 the tap-room tables are set. We were invited 
 to go down and admire the flowers and the 
 wealth of good things in which the British 
 palate delights. 
 
 The County Constabulary is a very impor- 
 tant institution, but the annual dinner of the 
 County Constabulary is a much more impor- 
 tant institution. We were greatly disap- 
 pointed, being females all, and Americans 
 as well, to find that the invited guests did not 
 come in uniform. We finally decided that 
 
 18
 
 The Queens Arms 
 
 it would never do to damage the immaculate 
 smartness of the village policeman's official 
 attire by risking its glory at games on the 
 green. The men came therefore in those spick 
 and span garments in which every English- 
 man manages to array himself on Sunday. 
 The women were as dowdy as the men were 
 trim, the children were cherubs, like all Eng- 
 lish children, and the horses groomed until 
 they shone like satin. 
 
 The visitors drove into the yard with either 
 a flourish of whips or of horns, as the style 
 of vehicle demanded. The women and chil- 
 dren were helped out, and went their various 
 ways, to visit in the cottages, or to admire the 
 gardens. Before the men even glanced into 
 that most inviting tap-room, the fat, sleek 
 horses were taken from the shafts, led away to 
 shelter and comfort, and the carriage cushions 
 turned over to save them from the sun. When 
 these necessary duties had been performed ac- 
 cording to the tidy ways of this most tidy peo- 
 ple, mild sounds of mirth began to issue from 
 the tap-room. It would not be consistent for 
 the chosen representatives of the sternness of 
 the British code to be other than mild. 
 
 The landlady and her daughters were busy 
 showing the culinary triumphs in the coffee- 
 
 J 9
 
 Among English Inns 
 
 room to the women visitors. These gazed and 
 admired, but dared not taste. The feast was 
 not for them until their lords had eaten their 
 fill. The inn is too small to accommodate all; 
 the occasion being a policeman's dinner, the 
 policemen ate first. After the women had 
 looked and approved, the men marched 
 slowly in to the banquet; we watched them 
 from the window above. A period of perfect 
 silence told loudly of the merits of the viands, 
 but after a time the guests waxed merry. 
 When the Squire came in to the dinner, he 
 was greeted with song: " For He's a Jolly 
 Good Fellow," which, nobody venturing to 
 deny, was repeated countless times. 
 
 After the meal was over came games at 
 The Wakes. We had fortunately received 
 an invitation to be present. We sat on the 
 lawn under the glorious old trees and watched 
 the game of cricket, which we did not under- 
 stand in the least; a tug of war pleased us 
 better, — it came quite within our limits of 
 comprehension. 
 
 The host of the occasion wandered about 
 talking with old and young. We were ex- 
 ceedingly interested in the relations between 
 the classes here displayed. It was a novel 
 sight for republicans, — no equality, no con- 
 
 20
 
 The Queens Anns 
 
 descension, yet not the slightest sign of ser- 
 vility. 1 
 
 The policeman's feast is given before the 
 stern duties of the late August hop-picking 
 season demand their entire attention. When 
 that strenuous time is past, Selborne sinks back 
 into reposeful quiet. There are no market- 
 days to disturb the peace, nor any unruly vis- 
 itors. After the morning eruption of children 
 on their way to school, the village street is 
 given up to an old labourer with a full sack 
 on his bent back, varied by an occasional car- 
 riage with showy livery, driven rapidly, and 
 bearing ladies on their way to call upon neigh- 
 bours probably five miles distant. To vary 
 the scene comes the carrier's cart from Alton. 
 It draws up in the inn yard, and, while the 
 carrier lounges in the tap-room, his panting 
 dog rests in the shadow under the cart. 
 
 " I have been to The Wakes and borrowed 
 a male escort for our walks," said the Matron 
 one morning;. "Where is he?" demanded 
 
 CD 
 
 Polly. " Outside on the door-step," answered 
 the Matron. " How rude to leave him 
 there!" Polly exclaimed. "He refused to 
 
 1 The estate of The Wakes has changed hands since the above 
 was written. It is now owned by Mr. Andrew Pears, who will 
 doubtless preserve all the traditions. 
 
 21
 
 Among English Inns 
 
 come in. I could not force him." " Then 
 he is the rude one. How did you meet him? " 
 " I was introduced to him yesterday, just after 
 he had finished a peppery meal of wasps. He 
 is a Scotchman with four legs, a tail twice 
 as long as his body, and a passion for wasps. 
 When I first saw him he was chained to his 
 kennel, giving forth the most remarkable 
 growls and yelps I ever heard. ' Them's 
 Dirky's wasping growls,' said the coachman, 
 to reassure me. ' You see, ma'am, he 'ave 
 marmalade for 'is tea. The wasps come 
 around and make 'im angry, but after 'ees eat 
 five or six 'is tea tastes better.' " Dirky's tea 
 consisted of bread and jam, which naturally 
 attracted the voracious Hampshire wasps in 
 great numbers, but, after Dirky had executed 
 a war-dance, accompanied by the death-song, 
 they left him in peace to devour His delectable 
 dish. 
 
 We found Dirky a most amiable and will- 
 ing guide. He trotted ahead and we followed 
 to the church, where he exchanged amenities 
 through the fence with the vicar's poodle, 
 while we visited the Templars' Tombs. As 
 soon as we came out, he resumed the lead, 
 and away we went through an opening in the 
 churchyard hedge. A slippery turf path took 
 
 22
 
 The Queens Arms 
 
 us down, faster than we intended, to Barton 
 Cottage, at the entrance to the Lythe. While 
 we strolled across a quaint foot-bridge, Dirky 
 took to the brook, and came out dripping be- 
 fore us on the path which skirts the valley 
 under the beeches. The ancient road to the 
 Priory led this way; we had just seen the 
 church the Priors founded. The Priory was 
 suppressed as long ago as when Magdalen 
 College in Oxford was founded. William of 
 Waynflete, Bishop of Winchester, dispersed 
 the Selborne Priors for their unparalleled 
 wickedness, and bestowed their lands on his 
 new institution of learning. No sign now 
 remains of the once rich Priory, its chapter- 
 house, refectory, or dormitories, except the 
 stones which are incorporated into the walls 
 and cottages of the neighbourhood. Mag- 
 dalen College holds the lands, and has the 
 living of Selborne in its gift. 
 
 The Lythe path was a favourite ramble of 
 Gilbert White. He mentions it constantly in 
 his letters. It leads over stiles and through 
 underbrush to the Priory Farm, a relic in 
 name only of the former home of the gay 
 monks who vanished with many other mon- 
 asteries less deserving of the fate. 
 
 Along a rough bit of road, over low hills 
 
 2 3
 
 Among English Inns 
 
 and through corn-fields, on a beaten track so 
 narrow that we are forced to go in single file, 
 with Dirky wagging solemnly on ahead, we 
 come again upon the village. From the 
 height we stop to gaze enchanted at the per- 
 fect peace and quiet of the scene. The war- 
 like Hampshire flies, who have pursued us 
 throughout the entire walk with the tenacity 
 of their kind, are the only blot on the land- 
 scape. 
 
 The bicycle is a great blessing to an English 
 tourist. The popularity of these machines 
 has not waned as it has in the United States. 
 Motor-cars are plenty, but they are beyond 
 the reach of travellers like our party; we are 
 glad that we learned to ride wheels. The 
 roads about Selborne are in fine condition. 
 Through Wollmer Forest and past Lord Sel- 
 borne's estate at Blackmoor is a long stretch 
 with very few hills to mount. We rode in the 
 long twilight through deep-cut lanes and 
 through moorland purple with heather. 
 
 The sun does not give us here at its setting 
 the brilliant fireworks with which it often 
 favours us at home, but, when we sit in the 
 smiling garden of the Queen's Arms after 
 dinner, we are content to see the trees in the 
 Lythe slowly change to every conceivable 
 
 24
 
 The Queens Arms 
 
 shade of green with the fading light. At this 
 hour, a long line of white geese, who spend 
 their days in the paddock back of the garden, 
 can be seen marching gravely home, in single 
 file, in answer to a whistle from the farm 
 where they belong. A dozen or more tiny 
 black pigs, who are growing up in the same 
 field, do their best to break up the military 
 goose line with their gambols, to the intense 
 delight of the innkeeper's tame magpie, who 
 sits on the fence with his black head pop- 
 ping up among the sweet-pea blossoms and 
 squawks. 
 
 We spent a good part of our last day in 
 Selborne deciding how to proceed on our 
 journey. Winchester lies on our route to 
 Devonshire, and it is but twelve miles by road 
 from Selborne to Winchester. We counted 
 shillings, and finally concluded to take the 
 first stage of our journey by carriage. Our 
 bicycles had been returned to the man in 
 Alton, from whom we hired them, but, even 
 had we owned the wheels, the rumour of a 
 mighty hill with three miles of continuous 
 ascent would have prevented our using them 
 on the road. 
 
 Many of our countrywomen would have 
 disdained the simplicity of our inn, which 
 
 2 5
 
 Among English Inns 
 
 lacked all the luxuries to which most Ameri- 
 cans are accustomed, but we left it with keen 
 regret, glancing back until a fall of the road 
 hid village and inn completely from our sight. 
 
 The way to Winchester leads over through 
 pretty villages clustering along the banks of 
 the river Itchen, which here, as a tiny stream, 
 gives little promise of the huge mouth it opens 
 in Southampton. 
 
 We stopped for tea at the uninteresting- 
 looking town of Arlesford. The pilgrims in 
 the Middle Ages, on their way to Canterbury, 
 halted at old Arlesford. It is now fast asleep, 
 except on market-days, but there is good hunt- 
 ing hereabouts, as the inn signs proclaim. 
 " The Hare and Hounds," " The Horse and 
 Groom," " The Fox " mean sporting patrons. 
 These houses of entertainment date from 
 stage-coach days. Their picturesque charms 
 are quite ruined now by the ever-present brew- 
 er's advertisement which invariably disfigures 
 the quaint architecture. 
 
 Itchen Abbas, a most delicious stretch of 
 comfortable homes behind high hedges and 
 smooth lawns and shaded by great trees, is our 
 last halt before entering Winchester. We ap- 
 propriately halt at " The Coach and Horses " 
 to water the horses. Carriages, with smart 
 
 26
 
 The Queen s Arms 
 
 liveries, rolling to and from Winchester 
 caused Polly to declare: "Here live the 
 gentry!" She talks of "gentry" with the 
 delight every one takes in a word seldom 
 needed. While she is still turning it over on 
 her tongue, we clatter through a fine carved 
 gateway at the head of the High Street, and 
 go down to " The George," where to welcome 
 us the saint and his dragon are painted in 
 glowing colours on the corner of the house. 
 
 The Matron casts a longing glance across 
 the street at a black swan carved in high re- 
 lief with a proud motto underneath and a gold 
 crown upon his head. She thinks that an inn 
 with such a fine sign must have very superior 
 accommodations, but to The George we have 
 been taken, so at The George we re- 
 main. This hostelry has existed as an inn for 
 several centuries; now, very much restored 
 and reconstructed, it has dropped the home- 
 lier name of inn for the grander title of hotel. 
 The old courtyard into which the coaches 
 drove has become a glass-covered palm-gar- 
 den, and the coffee-room has its duplicate in 
 every other cathedral town, yet there hangs 
 about the house an old-fashioned air of com- 
 fort which is never found in the newer hotels. 
 
 The fluent writers of the Penny Guides 
 
 27
 
 Among English Inns 
 
 / 
 give full descriptions of the glories of Win- 
 chester Cathedral, and a guide-book, which 
 costs sixpence, fairly overflows with informa- 
 tion. We did not follow strictly these learned 
 writers' advice. Polly refused to admire the 
 graceful perpendicular architecture of the 
 nave, and the Matron could not be torn away 
 from the dream of knights and ladies, induced 
 by the grandeur of the rude Norman tran- 
 septs, while the Invalid lingered entranced 
 before the delicate carvings of the rich mor- 
 tuary chapels in the choir. 
 
 " If architecture js frozen music, each one 
 of these is a sonata," she exclaims. One of 
 the most lovely of these monuments a bar- 
 barian called " Pummel " has disfigured with 
 his hideous name. 
 
 There is nothing more wonderful to my 
 mind, among all the wonders of Winchester 
 Cathedral, than the beautifully coloured effi- 
 gies of bishops and prelates, which fortunately 
 escaped the vandals of the iconoclastic days 
 of the early Reformation. Cardinal Beaufort, 
 a son of that very turbulent gentleman, John 
 of Gaunt, lies here carved in marble, clad in 
 magnificent red robes, looking prosperous and 
 satisfied. He was rich, powerful, and gen- 
 erous, for it is said he gave four hundred thou- 
 
 28
 
 The Queens Anns 
 
 sand pounds to improve the condition of the 
 poor prisoners of his time. 
 
 The ancient kings of England are more in- 
 teresting in Winchester than they are in his- 
 tory. Their remains, here gathered together 
 in chests as dainty as jewel-caskets, are placed 
 high above on the choir screen. Their names 
 and the dates of their reigns were the plague 
 of my school-days. When the wise verger 
 who was guiding us about mentioned casually 
 that one painted casket on the right contained, 
 as remains of one of the many Ethels, four 
 skulls and six thigh bones, and another on the 
 left was filled with assorted biceps belonging 
 to an Edward, no one was the least surprised. 
 Our child's history taught us these kings were 
 capable of an unlimited number of heads and 
 countless minor members. 
 
 The patron saint of the cathedral, unlucky 
 St. Swithin, lies low in the hospital for dam- 
 aged carvings behind the high altar. 
 
 " Serves him right," observes the irreverent 
 Polly, whose nerves are affected by the 
 weather. 
 
 At the side of the great portal there hangs 
 on the wall some exquisite grille work. These 
 fragments were parts of the former gates used 
 to keep the evil-smelling pilgrims out of the 
 
 29
 
 Among English Inns 
 
 choir. Through open ironwork they could 
 witness the ceremonies, and yet not bring con- 
 tagion to the monks. These gates are soon to 
 be replaced for the sake of their artistic value; 
 evil odours have now quite departed from this 
 fresh island. 
 
 At the entrance to the cathedral, along with 
 the prohibition which curbs a man's desire 
 to marry his grandmother, hangs an urgent 
 request that " all worshippers shall leave their 
 dogs at home, lest their antics disturb the con- 
 gregation." 
 
 A few steps in front of the grand portal is 
 the tomb of Private Fletcher, a grenadier 
 whose only claim to perpetuated memory is 
 that he died from drinking: small beer when 
 overheated. What small beer may be none 
 of this party has ever heard. It is evidently 
 much more deadly than any other kind. His 
 comrades and grenadiers of succeeding gene- 
 rations have deplored his fate in a lengthy in- 
 scription on his fine tombstone. 
 
 The turbulence of old times in Winchester, 
 when the king sent messengers to defy the 
 Church, the Pope sent cardinals to intimidate 
 the king; when the bishops came here to quar- 
 rel with the nobles, and there was war among 
 all parties, has given place to a placid old city 
 
 30
 
 The Queens Arms 
 
 in which all the excitement is supplied by the 
 schoolboys of the Winchester College. How 
 far the young gentlemen of the preparatory 
 school, founded by William of Wykeham, re- 
 spect their motto, " Manners maketh man," 
 we had no chance to judge. The long vacation 
 had deprived Winchester of even that source 
 of gaiety. 
 
 Winchester College also has an ideal con- 
 ception of the servant question. Above the 
 entrance hangs " The Trusty Servant," not 
 pretty to look at, but how valuable one may 
 judge from the description: 
 
 "The Padlock shut, no secret he'll disclose; 
 Patient the Ass, his master's wrath to bear; 
 Swiftness in errant, the Stag's feet declare ; 
 Loaded his Left Hand, apt to labour saith ; 
 The dress, his neatness. Open Hand his faith ; 
 Girt with his sword, his Shield upon his arm, 
 Himself and Master he'll protect from harm." 
 
 31
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 AT " THE THREE 
 
 CROWNS " 
 Chagford, Devon 
 
 O you want to catch the 
 train half an hour be- 
 fore the time? " in- 
 quired the facetious Invalid, as Polly and I 
 started off in the morning to walk to the sta- 
 tion instead of waiting for the hotel 'bus. 
 
 " We are on our way to ask a few questions. 
 That always takes time," we answer with 
 dignity. 
 
 Polly's theory, built on bitter experience, 
 is that the American manner of asking ques- 
 tions is not invariably understood in England; 
 therefore, after several mishaps, she says she 
 has invented a better system. It consists 
 of fixing her eyes on the face of her lis- 
 tener, asking what she wants to know carefully 
 and concisely, putting her question in the or- 
 
 3*
 
 At " The Three Crowns " 
 
 dinary manner, then backward, then from the 
 middle word toward both ends, watching with 
 care for any faint gleam of intelligence she 
 may see displayed in the listener's eye. At 
 Yeoford, where we are to leave the train for 
 Chagford (our next halting-place), we wish 
 to be very sure that a 'bus is ready and wait- 
 ing to take us over the eleven miles of road 
 connecting the railway with the town. A har- 
 rowing experience I endured one unfortunate 
 evening, and which threatened to extend it- 
 self into an entire night at that small station 
 of Yeoford, has made us doubly wary. 
 
 The English railroads being run on the 
 principle that time is made for slaves, the 
 booking agent we found closely imprisoned in 
 his little cell. In spite of our imperative rap- 
 pings, he never lifts his little window until 
 nearly train-time. Then fifteen people are 
 kept waiting to buy their tickets, while the 
 obliging man (who, by the way, cannot an- 
 swer until he consults the time-tables) pulls 
 down his book, and, after careful search, tells 
 us most civilly that we can surely depend on 
 finding the Chagford coach waiting if we 
 take the train now due here. He hands us 
 out four " single thirds " through to Chag- 
 ford, and then goes on calmly distributing 
 
 33
 
 Among English Inns 
 
 tickets to the patient crowd that has by this 
 time increased to the number of twenty- 
 five. 
 
 The train, of course, does not come in on 
 time, nor does it hurry itself to leave until ten 
 minutes after time. 
 
 We are serenely happy in the consciousness 
 that, as this is the train the coach is ordered 
 to meet, the coach will wait for this particular 
 train, even if it is detained until midnight. 
 
 " So much for proper English law and 
 order," says the Invalid. 
 
 The judicious use of a little silver coin se- 
 cures the privacy of a third-class carriage 
 quite to ourselves; we order two luncheon 
 baskets to be handed in at Salisbury, and then 
 proceed to be comfortable in a very civilized 
 manner. The English luncheon basket is a 
 consoler for many things less delightful about 
 their much abused railways. The traveller 
 orders lunch from the guard, the guard tele- 
 graphs ahead, and at the station designated 
 in comes a boy with a flat basket, for which 
 you give him three shillings and a couple of 
 pennies as a tip. Inside the basket is a bottle 
 of wine, or cider, or beer, as the case may be, 
 half a cold chicken, some slices of ham, bread, 
 butter, cheese, fresh crisp lettuce, all daintily 
 
 34
 
 At " The Three Crowns" 
 
 put together, with plates, a glass, and Japanese 
 napkins. 
 
 The graceful spires of the Salisbury Cathe- 
 dral point up into clear blue sky as we fly 
 across Salisbury plain, so long the dread of 
 the early travellers, who went by coach be- 
 tween Salisbury and Exeter by reason of the 
 interesting but somewhat interfering high- 
 wayman. Even a highway -wo man is said to 
 have succumbed to the romantic temptation of 
 Salisbury plain, but she got hanged for her 
 innocent fancy. 
 
 As we approach Exeter, higher land begins 
 to show itself on either side of the line; and 
 at St. David's, the second of the Exeter sta- 
 tions, comes the cry "All out! Change for 
 Yeoford!" and a sweet satisfied smile breaks 
 over my face. 
 
 " A journey without change of carriage is 
 no proper English journey, especially on a 
 through train," I tell my less experienced 
 friends. 
 
 Yeoford is but a short distance beyond 
 Exeter, and after the first anxious glance 
 which discovers the 'bus ready waiting for us 
 beside the platform, we climb to the seat be- 
 hind the driver, as the only passengers, and 
 
 35
 
 Among English Inns 
 
 settle ourselves comfortably for the eleven 
 miles of road before us. 
 
 When at the top of the first high ground 
 we look back, the gray mists of Exmoor are 
 are far behind us. We know it is Exmoor 
 because we trust the driver implicitly for our 
 geography, and it is he who points out to us 
 the land of Lorna Doone showing dimly on 
 the horizon. Countless miles of undulating 
 meadow-land, flowing with honey and Devon 
 cream at sixpence a pot, spread between us 
 and that region of romance. 
 
 The ride to Chagford on the coach is not 
 dashing; the horses have many hills to pull up, 
 and the driver's tender care, combined with 
 the heavy brake, prevents them from going 
 down again too quickly. The setting sun has 
 prepared such a gorgeous spectacle in our 
 honour that we should have been satisfied that 
 evening with even a slower pace. We came 
 just within sight of Kes Tor, the west directly 
 facing us, when behind the roundest hill in 
 sight, the sun popped down looking like a 
 huge orange globe; then every sort of colour 
 and shade of red, blue, green, and purple, at 
 once spread over the hills of the moorland in 
 the background, while the fertile valleys 
 
 36
 
 At " The Three Crowns ' 
 
 before us grew blue and misty as we gazed 
 down into them. 
 
 We were almost at the end of the eleven 
 miles, before the town showed itself lying in 
 a wide basin among the hills, a little bunch of 
 white houses, and a tall church tower giving 
 back answering colours to the brilliant sky. 
 Our last hill was very steep, and, as we clat- 
 tered down into the narrow town street, we 
 got a peep of the near-by furze-grown moor, 
 making a rough park for an old manor- 
 house. 
 
 The most fashionable hotel in Chagford is 
 the Moor Park, but it had no room for us, 
 so we went on up the mounting street and over 
 the market-place, to " The Three Crowns," 
 " a beautiful old mullioned perpendicular 
 inn," so Charles Kingsley wrote of it. 
 
 Since I had last been here, a new landlord 
 and a good scrubbing, although both some- 
 what modified the picturesque appearance of 
 the interior, had worked wonders for the 
 greater comfort of guests. The musty smell 
 of centuries had fled before hot water and 
 soap, new paper and fresh furniture. 
 
 Our party filled the entire house, as we did 
 at " The Queen's Arms," though the Invalid 
 got a bedroom to herself quite large enough 
 
 37
 
 Among English Inns 
 
 to hold us all had we lacked other accommo- 
 dation. 
 
 The house was built by Sir John Whyddon, 
 a worthy of the time of King Henry VIII. 
 It was his town mansion. He was a gentle- 
 man of enterprising instincts; in fact, a self- 
 made man. Born in Chagford, of a respect- 
 able family, but one hitherto totally without 
 fame, Sir John's youthful ambitions took him 
 to London, a most perilous journey when 
 Henry VII. was still king. Young Whyddon 
 studied law, rose to be judge of the King's 
 Bench, became Sir John, and had the un- 
 speakable honour of being the first judge who 
 rode to Westminster on a horse; previous to 
 that eventful occasion, mules had been con- 
 sidered quite good enough for dignitaries of 
 the law. 
 
 The old house, with its iron-barred, deep- 
 mullioned windows set in stone frames, its 
 thick walls, and stone floors, has sheltered in 
 its young days fine ladies and grim men-at- 
 arms. On one of the stone benches still within 
 the entrance porch, there sank down, shot to 
 death for his loyalty to the Stuarts, Sir Syd- 
 ney Godolphin, a gentle young Cornishman, 
 more poet than soldier. 
 
 The thatched roof, green and brown with 
 
 3»
 
 At " The Three Crowns" 
 
 creeping moss, hangs thick above the rough 
 gray stones of the walls; while here and there 
 about the windows cling pink clusters of 
 climbing roses. The Three Crowns has been 
 used as an inn for over a century. The old 
 innkeeper who preceded the present host, was 
 noted far and near throughout Devon in his 
 early days for the excellence of his entertain- 
 ment. Sorrow over the unhappy marriage of 
 a favourite son drove him and his excellent 
 wife to habits fatal to their business, and when 
 that unfortunate party with which I was de- 
 tained at Yeoford came to The Three Crowns, 
 the care of the visitors was entirely in the 
 hands of a little serving-maid, whose endeav- 
 ours to please were recorded in the guest-book. 
 Her admirers showed their honest apprecia- 
 tion by touching poems filled with such sub- 
 stantial similes as: 
 
 " Lizzie's like a mutton chop, 
 Sometimes cold, and sometimes hot," 
 
 or again: 
 
 " Good Lizzie had a little lamb, 
 And so had we, 
 She served us well, 
 
 And so we were as happy as could be," 
 
 39
 
 Among English Inns 
 
 a reflection, I fear, upon the lack of variety 
 Lizzie's larder displayed. 
 
 Pretty Lizzie now has gone to delight Lon- 
 don with her service, the poor old hostess has 
 died of excesses, and the old innkeeper, so 
 many years host of The Three Crowns, has 
 been succeeded by the new young landlord, 
 whose bright little wife has tidied up the an- 
 cient inn. It now boasts a bathroom, electric 
 lights in the sitting-room, and owns neither 
 stuffed birds nor battered porcelain cups as 
 decoration. 
 
 The Matron remarked that the portrait of 
 his Majesty, the king, we have in our sitting- 
 room " looks like a bird," but that observation, 
 we consider, is slangy and disrespectful. 
 
 Sir John built his mansion near the church, 
 facing the churchyard and shaded by the tall 
 elms which grow along the wall. The win- 
 dows look across the graveyard and a sunny 
 valley to the low outlying hills of Fingle 
 Gorge. The great hall of the old mansion is 
 now changed to a schoolroom, where the little 
 children of Chagford chant their lessons in 
 chorus, a system of education still fostered 
 with care in conservative England; we also 
 hear them singing unaccompanied hymns with 
 that blissful disregard of time so common to 
 
 40
 
 At " The Three Crowns " 
 
 their age. With these efforts the attempt at 
 their education appears to end. 
 
 That Chagford is doing its best for the 
 future of England and the colonies is evident 
 from the long lines of sturdy boys who lounge 
 along the churchyard wall, and the motherly 
 little girls who care for large families of babies 
 under the shade of the tall trees. 
 
 Whatever superstition moorland folk may 
 have, and the writers tell us they revel in the 
 supernatural, the fear of ghosts certainly does 
 not trouble this village on the edge of Dart- 
 moor. At night, after the children have de- 
 serted the burial-place for their beds, the 
 churchyard becomes the trysting-place of lov- 
 ers, and the lounging spot for the youth of the 
 village, who sit on the wall, and make night 
 hideous with patriotic, sentimental war-songs. 
 The old men use it as a gathering-place, where 
 they gossip with their gaffers, and long after 
 midnight footsteps of solitary individuals can 
 be heard strolling leisurely through a short cut 
 made between the lines of graves. " Early to 
 bed and early to rise " is a maxim which has 
 evidently not yet reached Chagford. 
 
 The town streets all radiate from the 
 market-place. There is a quaint octagonal 
 building which the brave Chagford yeomanry 
 
 4i
 
 Among English Inns 
 
 use as an armory, but where the market-cross 
 was erected in earlier times. The low houses 
 are packed close upon the narrow streets, and, 
 being built of stone from the moors, are as 
 solid as small fortresses. Their clay covering 
 is whitewashed, yellow-washed, or pink- 
 washed, according to the fancy of the owner, 
 and there are moss-grown thatched roofs side 
 by side with those whose old tiles are coloured 
 and tinted softly by the dampness. That 
 superlatively ugly structure, the modern brick 
 villa, has crept into the line, alas! and dis- 
 figures quaint Chagford as it does so many 
 of the old English towns. 
 
 Chagford needs a Carnegie. Its public 
 library has as custodian a youth who divides 
 his attention between the books and garden- 
 ing, giving most of his time to the latter more 
 congenial occupation. He neither knows the 
 names of the books on the shelves, nor has he 
 a catalogue to help the reader. After we had 
 paid a shilling to become reading-room mem- 
 bers for a week, he turned us loose among the 
 scanty bookcases, and we made the startling 
 discovery that Phillpotts is without honour in 
 the town he has made famous in literature, 
 and that even the prolific Baring Gould is 
 
 42
 
 At " The Three Crowns " 
 
 represented here but by one dilapidated old 
 volume. 
 
 The road past the library leads off through 
 shady lanes to the hill whereon Kes Tor sticks 
 up like a monument, and it was to find this 
 rocky beacon that we took our first walk, 
 armed with a road map, price one shilling. 
 
 The road dips up and down, goes over nar- 
 row streams, past pretty hamlets, and busy 
 mills. The Tor smiled on us so invitingly 
 from different points of vantage that we tried 
 various short cuts to reach it, with appropri- 
 ately disastrous results. The old rock instantly 
 hid itself as soon as we left the highroad, and 
 never showed again until we came meekly 
 back, to be tempted and fooled another time. 
 After many failures, we were finally set right 
 by a jolly, rosy, smiling, healthy gamekeeper 
 (minus teeth), who told us a way marked 
 " private," which, in our endeavour to be 
 British and law-abiding, we had studiously 
 avoided, and which was not private at all, but, 
 in fact, the only possible way to reach our 
 longed-for Tor. 
 
 " The way is but a bit beyond. Over the 
 high moor." 
 
 So we go a bit, and still several more bits, 
 then suddenly we remember that the English 
 
 43
 
 Among English Inns 
 
 idea of " bits " is vague. When at last we 
 came out on the high moor the wind was so 
 strong it nearly took us off our feet, and the 
 Tor was still very far away, according to 
 American ideas of remoteness. The bracken 
 and the furze grew thick there about prehis- 
 toric remains, lying scattered all around us. 
 
 A long avenue of stones standing on end, 
 like tombstones sunk deep into the ground, 
 led us straight to the ruins of funny little 
 round huts, roofless and demolished, yet suffi- 
 ciently defined to show that they once were 
 dwellings for men. Into one of these we crept 
 to rest and be safe from the wind, and then 
 discovered that in these apparently tiny huts 
 there is quite room enough for a reasonably 
 sized family. 
 
 " As deceptive as a foundation," said the 
 Matron, who once built a house. 
 
 The view from these heights is superb. On 
 all sides can be seen the low swelling hills of 
 the silent moor, one rising behind the other, as 
 though they went on in a never-ending per- 
 spective. At our feet lay the houses and the 
 church of Chagford, so clear and distinct and 
 near that we felt very much aggrieved at the 
 long miles we had tramped. Beyond the vil- 
 lage the low hills stretched away, and away, 
 
 44
 
 At " The Three Crowns " 
 
 and away, until they lost themselves in the 
 sky of the horizon. 
 
 The hills on the moorland are all smooth 
 and spherical. There are no trees to break 
 the line. Only here and there does a tor stick 
 up from the velvet surface like a stack of 
 chimneys, and the carpet of soft green colour 
 is sometimes broken by the roads which look 
 on the hillsides like great crawling, yellow 
 serpents. The whole landscape resembles a 
 sea whose huge waves have been arrested by 
 magic just as they were swelling to break. 
 Somewhere in the distance are hidden those 
 wild valleys where range the " Hound of the 
 Baskervilles," and Mr. Conan Doyle's imag- 
 ination, but nothing from our points of van- 
 tage suggested savage wastes. 
 
 When we left our hut for the shelter of the 
 Tor to protect ourselves under its shelf from 
 the fierce wind, we found one of our choicest 
 illusions gone. The Tor, which looks so im- 
 pressive from a distance, is but a rocky excres- 
 cence on close examination. 
 
 The heather was beginning to show its 
 lovely pinkish-purple flowers on the side of 
 rough Scorhill, along which we strolled 
 toward home through clover-fields until we 
 reached the road. Leigh Bridge, so praised 
 
 45
 
 Among English Inns 
 
 in the guide-books, was on our path, and we 
 stopped to lean over the rough stone parapet 
 and gaze at banks hung with purple rhododen- 
 drons, where the North Teign leaps and 
 pushes between mossy stones to join its brother, 
 the South Teign. The rivers there celebrate 
 their reunion by loud gurglings and bubblings 
 and tumblings down a tiny waterfall. This 
 meeting-place is in the thick woodland full 
 of flowering moss, pink and white. The tall 
 foxgloves carpet the ground, and by the road- 
 side is a hedge where wild roses and honey- 
 suckle climb over the shining holly to join 
 the many wayside flowers, with the morning- 
 glory vines running as messengers between 
 them all. There are not many choicer forest 
 scenes in the world than here at Leigh Bridge. 
 Every tree is trimmed with ivy, and every 
 fallen log covered with flowering moss, and 
 more wild flowers than we ever saw together 
 before. 
 
 Nearer Chagford stands Holy Street Mill, 
 greatly in favour with painters. It is said no 
 Academy Exhibition is ever without a copy of 
 this bit of woodscape. To nature's decoration 
 on the banks of the quick-flowing stream there 
 is added a ruined mill and a delightful old 
 Tudor farmhouse embowered in roses, red, 
 
 4 6
 
 At " The Three Crowns 1 '' 
 
 white, and yellow, built in a garden as full of 
 cultivated flowers as the near-by woodland 
 is rich in wilder blossoms. 
 
 Chagford has a street-cleaning department 
 of one oldest inhabitant, who scrapes the street 
 vigorously all day and late into the night. 
 
 Chagford has also an enterprising brass 
 band which plays vigorously several evenings 
 each week, and Chagford has electric lights, 
 and a fine organist to play on its fine organ 
 in its fine old Church of St. Michael. The 
 organ is comparatively new, and there is still 
 a tradition of the simpler days when the pre- 
 centor marched up and down the aisle whis- 
 tling the hymn-tune for the congregation to 
 follow with their singing. The church is 
 centuries old, and has curious carved bosses 
 along the vaulting of the ceiling, commem- 
 orating long-forgotten lords of the manor. A 
 huge iron key hangs near the monstrous lock 
 on the heavy ancient door: heraldic emblems, 
 a little the worse for dust, are still above the 
 pews of the neighbouring gentry, and a quaint 
 old tombstone within the chancel marks the 
 grave of Sir John Whyddon's granddaughter. 
 Her gentle charms and no less attractive vir- 
 tues are set forth in the following epitaph: 
 
 47
 
 Among English Inns 
 
 READER WOULDST KNOW 
 
 " Reader wouldst know who here is laid 
 Behold a Matron yet a Maid 
 A Modest looke A pious Heart 
 A Mary for the better Part 
 But drie thine eies Why wilt thou weepe 
 Such damsells doe not die but Sleepe" 
 
 The Whyddon estate lies some five miles 
 from Chagford, at Whyddon Park; and in 
 St. Michael's Church lie buried many de- 
 scendants of the noted old judge. 
 
 It means a long drive to see the moor prop- 
 erly. All the low hills within the boundaries 
 of Chagford are outlying portions of Dart- 
 moor, and on one of these, Nattadown Com- 
 mon, amid the furze and the bracken, we 
 generally spent the evening, sitting at the base 
 of an ancient cross erected nobody knows 
 when, watching a gorgeous sky display after 
 sundown. 
 
 It is only a mighty pedestrian who can see 
 the moors by tramping over them. The most 
 interesting part of this great romantic region 
 does not begin until the town has been left 
 several miles behind. We accordingly paid 
 ten shillings, and in a comfortable wagonette, 
 under the conduct of our landlord, who has
 
 At " The Three Crowns " 
 
 been a moor man 1 some years, we started out 
 one afternoon to see what we could of Dart- 
 moor between luncheon and dinner. A splen- 
 didly built road winds about out along the 
 sides of the billowy hills. The few poor acres 
 of farm-land scattered here and there around 
 a lonely house beyond the town were soon 
 passed; then we passed into the great silent 
 region. Flocks of sheep cropping the sweet 
 grass under the prickly furze, some herds of 
 bullocks below in the swampy hollows, the 
 wild little moor-ponies shaking their shaggy 
 manes, and scampering off as we came near, 
 were all the signs of life we saw on the lonely 
 green stretches. 
 
 " There is Grimspound," said our coach- 
 man. 
 
 Grimspound is a prehistoric village. Our 
 horse ready for a rest, we got out and pulled 
 ourselves up a rough path. It is quite worth 
 the trouble. 
 
 At least twenty-five of the queer little stone 
 ruins are still traceable, and one has been 
 restored by antiquarians, the top covered over 
 with turf, the low entrance concealed by a 
 semicircular wall, and restored to what those 
 
 1 Meaning one who looked after the interest of the duchy in Dart- 
 moor. 
 
 49
 
 Among English Inns 
 
 learned in such matters think was the burrow 
 of the human animal. The village is sur- 
 rounded by a rough stone wall, and the view 
 from the great height gave the savage man 
 not only a chance to see enemies miles away 
 in that treeless country, but to keep watch over 
 the wanderings of his flocks. After Grims- 
 pound, the road twists itself through a huge 
 rabbit-warren, where millions of the little fel- 
 lows flash their tails in and out of their habi- 
 tations. A desolate house occupied by the 
 warrener is here. In summer it is pleasant, 
 but what must the winter be! We were told 
 that Eden Phillpotts, the writer, had spent 
 some months here. It may be that he was 
 writing " The River " then. There is one 
 other habitation, some miles beyond the war- 
 ren, an exceedingly attractive house, closed 
 and deserted. 
 
 " Too lonely for anybody but ghosts," ven- 
 tured the Invalid. 
 
 " How do you suppose they ever got food 
 here?" asked practical Polly. 
 
 " A few trees grow," said the Matron, " why 
 not potatoes?" which made the driver smile. 
 The trees in question were the scrubbiest of 
 pines. 
 
 We drove past the haunts of the ancient tin 
 
 50
 
 At " The Three Crowns" 
 
 streamers, who made their living on the moor 
 when England was a young country by search- 
 ing the small rivers for metal. Here and there 
 by the roadside we spied an ancient cross put 
 up by the monks centuries ago, to guide them 
 from parish to parish. 
 
 There are still some mines open in deep 
 glens. " Not very profitable," our driver said. 
 One, quite deserted, had the great wheel and 
 ruined windlass, like ghosts of the past, stick- 
 ing out of the ground on a hill all seamed and 
 seared by the old workers. Near it still stands 
 a villainous-looking tavern not in very good 
 repute. From the site of the old mines we 
 got a good view of the gloomy prison at Prince 
 Town, looming up against the sky on top of a 
 hill miles away. Brilliant green stretches of 
 glittering bog-land lay below us, and our 
 horse went down a long, long hill with cau- 
 tious steps, to stop at a pretty little inn in a 
 dale where there are actually full-grown trees. 
 This is Post Bridge, and dignified by the name 
 of a village, although we see nothing but the 
 inn. 
 
 " The tea may not be good," said cautious 
 Polly, " but it will be refreshing after our 
 long drive." 
 
 From Post Bridge we returned home by 
 
 5*
 
 Among English Inns 
 
 new roads, but we had already seen the chief 
 characteristics of the moorland. Although 
 different points of view reveal different as- 
 pects, the scenery is all more or less the same, 
 and it is hard to imagine on this bright, smil- 
 ing day that the cruel blind mist, which so 
 often leads travellers astray, can ever settle 
 down upon this open landscape, or that the 
 blackness of night can, as so often happens, 
 envelop these green hills at noontime. Dart- 
 moor has moods, and, although the sadness 
 of its face may be too vividly described by 
 the guide-book authors, the impression of its 
 lonely desolation is felt in the midst of bright 
 sunshine. 
 
 The moor-sheep and the rough cattle graze 
 here on the hills, and sturdy ponies range about 
 at will, growing so wild that the poor little fel- 
 lows cry like children when they are first put 
 into harness. In our drive of several hours 
 we saw only one man. He was a herder out 
 looking after the roaming cattle over which 
 the duchy is supposed to have some super- 
 vision. Each duchy tenant is allowed to keep 
 on the moor as many sheep and cattle as he can 
 shelter in his own barns during the winter; 
 but human nature is weak, and not only does 
 the rustic fail in honesty occasionally, but a
 
 At "The Three Crowns" 
 
 few of them have been known to go secretly 
 out, gather their neighbours branded sheep, 
 and drive them quietly with their own to the 
 nearest market, where they could sell them 
 unnoticed, although by such dishonesty they 
 become but a few miserable shillings richer. 
 ^ Cranmere Pool has the reputation of being 
 the very wildest spot to be seen in the whole 
 extent of Dartmoor. The boldest members 
 of our party longed to get there. So far, we 
 had seen nothing in our exploration which 
 to the transatlantic eye, accustomed to the 
 scenery of our native land, looked as wild as 
 the descriptions we had read with awe. Our 
 landlord offered cheerfully to guide us to 
 Cranmere, casually observing the while, " The 
 way is very tiresome, and there ain't nothin' 
 to see but a bog when you get there." 
 
 But he does not know, as we do, that a 
 bogey lives at Cranmere Pool, and a very jolly 
 bogey, too. In life he was the wicked Mayor 
 of Okehampton, and, having had the misfor- 
 tune to die when such punishments were in 
 fashion, he was set about bailing out Cran- 
 mere Pool with a sieve. Having been a very, 
 very wicked person in life, he was up to a 
 trick or two after his death, so he searched 
 about the moor until he found a dead sheep, 
 
 S3
 
 Among English Inns 
 
 which he skinned, and with the hide he made 
 his sieve water-proof and well tightened. He 
 then proceeded to flood Okehampton. This 
 game he found so entertaining that he refused 
 his pardon, and has continued ever since, when 
 he is not busy sleeping, to repeat the joke. 
 
 As Dartmoor covers one hundred thousand 
 acres or more, we hardly had time to explore 
 the whole. We saw enough to be convinced 
 that there was a striking similarity about all 
 the hills, all the bogs, and all the lonely rabbit- 
 warrens within its limits. The Hampshire 
 uplands sink into mole-hills before these great 
 billowy heights, although, in reality, the high- 
 est point of Dartmoor is not more than twelve 
 hundred odd feet above the sea-level. 
 
 It was the view of the heather just coming 
 into bloom which started Polly and me off 
 on the walk to Fingle Bridge, one of the most 
 romantic spots about Chagford. The Matron 
 and the Invalid went by carriage. They were 
 immensely pleased with the charming drive, 
 but they lost the ramble along the path beside 
 the river and the intimacy we, who trudged, 
 gained with this most theatrical little gorge. 
 Brilliant pink carpeted hills on one side, fold 
 into other hills opposite covered with green 
 young oak-trees; the tiny river dashes along 
 
 54
 
 At " The Three Crowns" 
 
 in between, curving and twisting all the way. 
 No hill in the entire gorge would be hard to 
 climb, but the whole scenery is in such perfect 
 proportion, river, trees, rocks, and hills on 
 so small a scale, that the tiny ravine has a 
 wild majesty not often found in nature. In 
 places the heather-covered slopes came so 
 close to the water that we were forced to 
 clamber over the rough stones to find our path 
 again; the trout shot in and out in the clear 
 babbling water, but no fishing with a bent 
 pin is allowed here. Fishing tickets must be 
 got in Chagford. We lingered along the 
 grassy banks, fascinated by the bristling little 
 stream, until we reached the stepping-stones 
 near the mill. Greatly to Polly's delight, I 
 lost courage half-way over, and was afraid to 
 spring over the rushing water until the con- 
 tinued quack of the mill ducks shamed me 
 by their very evident ridicule. 
 
 England is no place for hurrying, and a 
 sojourn in Chagford should be lengthened to 
 three weeks, to fully enjoy all the pleasure 
 the woods and the hills have here to offer. 
 Although our plans allowed us but little time 
 for lingering, we stole another day for the sake 
 of visiting the Okehampton Saturday market- 
 day. 
 
 55
 
 Among English Inns 
 
 A market-day is the weekly dissipation, the 
 one exhilarating spot in the English farmer's 
 summer life. The men come from far and 
 near to transact their business, to talk crops 
 and live stock, the women to gossip, and the 
 dogs to exchange their opinions about driving 
 sheep. Okehampton not only has a fine 
 market, but the town lies in the shadow of a 
 great Tor among the highest moorland hills. 
 The ride thither on the 'bus, all the sights 
 of Okehampton, and our dinner at the best 
 inn cost but the sum of four shillings. Our 
 economical treasurer therefore permitted this 
 unforeseen expense. The distance is eleven 
 miles, and along this road the view of the 
 great plain of Devon, dotted with farms and 
 marked out by broad fields, is so expansive 
 that it seems almost boundless. The Invalid 
 said she felt as if she were looking all over 
 the world. 
 
 Along this highway are scattered little vil- 
 lages with tiny, gaudy gardens carefully pro- 
 tected by stone walls strong enough to hold 
 back an army. The proximity of the stone- 
 Strewn moor and the difficulties of hewing the 
 rock probably account for the huge stones 
 used in building very low fences and tiny cot- 
 tages. The walls alone are thicker than the 
 
 56
 
 At " The Three Crowns w 
 
 open space in the houses. There is a copper 
 mine being worked on this road to Okehamp- 
 ton, but it looked neither rich nor prosperous 
 to our eyes. It may be both. 
 
 We picked up market-goers at each hamlet 
 and farm, and before we reached Okehamp- 
 ton the coach-top was buzzing with the soft 
 sound of a Devon dialect almost incompre- 
 hensible to our American ears. 
 
 An English market-place shows the nearest 
 approach to bustling activity to be found in 
 the rural district. The pigs are scrubbed up, 
 and the cattle groomed down for the occasion. 
 They arrive in droves, in couples, or singly, 
 at the eminently comfortable hour of ten in 
 the morning. " Pigs at eleven " means that 
 the auction sales begin then. The market 
 auctioneer is a very important personage, 
 often growing rich from his business. He 
 calls off the bids in shillings in a way that 
 drove poor Polly crazy. She always labori- 
 ously reduced them to pounds. " Sixty? 
 Seventy-five shillings? Eighty? Ninety- five 
 shillings? " rolled off with fluency, makes her 
 wonder how much a fat porker knocked down 
 at ninety shillings is really worth. An extra 
 fat sheep, or an especially fine pig, is some- 
 times favoured with a ride behind its owner 
 
 57
 
 Among English Inns 
 
 in the dog-cart. These dog-carts roll in 
 quickly from all sides, the vehicles being built 
 all on one and precisely the same pattern, 
 and the owner's rank or riches chiefly deter- 
 mined by the state of the carriage paint and 
 varnish. The horses are all such well- 
 groomed, well cared for beasts, that their 
 condition gives small indication of their own- 
 er's estate. The farmer himself scrubs up 
 like his animals, puts on breeches and gaiters, 
 a cutaway coat, and, with his light waist- 
 coat, white stock, and carefully brushed hat, 
 he makes an appearance which would be no 
 disgrace to a smart New York riding-school 
 master. In this attire he is thoroughly at 
 home. He bestrides his horse, or drives his 
 cart, and even guides a wayward calf or a 
 flock of fine sheep without any loss of dignity, 
 " but he does look like a bluff stage squire," 
 said Polly. 
 
 The shepherd's smock, so picturesque in 
 olden times, has now given place to an ugly 
 linen coat. This garment seems to impel a 
 shepherd to hold up both arms and cry 
 mildly : " Ho ! Ho ! " at intervals ; the wearers 
 of linen coats allow themselves to indulge in 
 no more forcible vehemence. The calmness 
 and the patience of the British country folk 
 
 $8
 
 At " The Three Crowns" 
 
 never shows itself more agreeably than when 
 they are driving live stock to market. Some 
 tiny pigs, who infinitely preferred the seclu- 
 sion of a shop to the market-pens, were pur- 
 sued by men and boys without a sound. Gen- 
 tly they waved handkerchiefs in the unruly 
 little piglets' faces, as if " Pigs at eleven " 
 had never been the rule. A single farmer's 
 boy in New England can make more noise 
 driving home two cows at night than we heard 
 all that day in Okehampton. 
 
 The White Hart Inn has a fine big balcony 
 over the front porch, and on this we camped 
 comfortably as in a private box to look down 
 on the scene beneath. The bullocks ran about, 
 more or less alarmed by their unwonted sur- 
 roundings. Complaining calves were well 
 protected by anxious cow-mothers, who 
 charged boldly at all possible enemies. Silly 
 sheep were kept out of the narrow doors by 
 the watchful dogs, and the grunting, fat, black 
 swine ambled comfortably along. 
 
 It is only after the serious business of the 
 cattle auction is over that the real excitement 
 on the High Street begins. Then the farmers 
 and the squires gather in little groups, talking 
 together, and emphasizing every statement by 
 striking against their leather gaiters with a 
 
 59
 
 Among English Inns 
 
 riding-crop, in good old theatrical manner. 
 The farmers' wives go shopping; John 
 Ploughman lounges about, looking for em- 
 ployment, with his cords tied by strings below 
 the knees, and his loose red handkerchief 
 knotted about the neck. A few soldiers from 
 the camp on the moor add a bright touch, 
 with their red coats, to the sober crowd; the 
 children run about everywhere quietly and 
 happily, and the shepherd dogs have grand 
 romps with their kind, reserving contemptu- 
 ous growls for the town dogs. 
 
 Later in the day, after the serious business 
 of dinner is over, horses to be sold arrive one 
 at a time in the High Street, and show their 
 paces. A good-looking lot they are, from the 
 little moor-pony who has only just learned to 
 obey a master to the great, lumbering farm- 
 horse. 
 
 It is a lengthy proceeding, this horse-selling 
 in an English town; the purchaser and all his 
 friends look knowingly over every point of the 
 animal. He is made to go up and down the 
 street again and again. The small boy on his 
 back rides him like a master; he shows off 
 the horse's gait, the tender condition of his 
 mouth. The beast has been groomed until 
 he shines like satin, and his mane and tail are 
 
 60
 
 At " The Three Crowns" 
 
 either carefully waved, or tied up in fantastic 
 style with straw. While this slow, careful 
 sale was going on, and there was no fear of 
 meeting stray herds of such wild animals as 
 we had seen led meekly to market, we judged 
 the time safe to see the sights. 
 
 Okehampton has a ruined castle hidden 
 away in a park fit for the Sleeping Beauty. 
 Here rhododendrons, roses, and all the former 
 cultivation of the great garden have gone back 
 again into wilderness, and have mingled with 
 the superb, great ivy-grown trees which shade 
 the tumbled-down walls. Here was a mighty 
 castle. It clambered all over the hillside. 
 A ghost still haunts the spot. Lady Howard, 
 once the supremely wicked mistress, in a coach 
 of bones, or bones herself, I have forgotten 
 which, but anyway, something very dreadful 
 to see, travels each night from Tavistock to 
 pick a blade of grass; this task she must per- 
 form until all the grass at Okehampton is 
 plucked. What she did to deserve this fate, 
 except to be just wicked, no one in Okehamp- 
 ton seems to know, but she has been very 
 badly talked about for the last couple of cen- 
 turies, and she certainly has a hard task before 
 her. 
 
 Under Yes Tor, the most noted of Dart- 
 
 61
 
 Among English Inns 
 
 moor's rocky piles, is a camp where all the 
 great artillery practice goes on. The noise of 
 the big guns booms over the entire moorland 
 district, making certain parts of it rather dan- 
 gerous for excursionists, but there are warning 
 notices in plenty. 
 
 The ride home with a coach-load of soft- 
 tongued Chagford folk was delightful. They 
 made great jokes with the driver about the 
 sober coach steeds, of whom he took the great- 
 est care, never urging them at any time, and 
 putting them down the hills slowly with the 
 aid of a heavy brake. One lad on top jeered 
 constantly at the slowest nag, named Dick, 
 until he was laughingly advised by the driver 
 to " take Dick and ride he home, for him's 
 horses are no better than they " by which wise 
 remark it would appear that the personal 
 pronoun on a Chagford tongue gets hopelessly 
 mixed. There are no confusing rules about 
 the Devon English grammar, nor, in fact, are 
 there in our own New Hampshire, where I 
 once heard a farmer's boy roll off glibly " if 
 I'd 'a' knowed that you'd 'a' came, I wouldn't 
 'a' went." 
 
 It was by way of Moreton Hampstead we 
 decided to leave Chagford. It is only five 
 miles to the railway station by this road, and 
 
 62
 
 At " The Three Crowns " 
 
 a coach makes the connection many times 
 each day. As compared with the drive either 
 to Yeoford or to Okehampton, the road is 
 dull, although a Tor for sale was pointed out 
 to us. The way to Exeter by the railroad 
 from Moreton is delightful; the train runs 
 around in and out among the cliffs on the very 
 edge of the South Devon sea. On this jour- 
 ney, while making one of the usual changes 
 at Newton Abbot, our most cherished object 
 went astray, namely, a straw creation, in the 
 shape of a bag, baptized by the Matron 
 Jumbo. Jumbo, like an omnibus, is never full. 
 Jumbo opens a capacious maw, and swallows 
 all our trailers, from tooth-brushes to unan- 
 swered love-letters. He smiles broadly on all 
 the left-overs, after the trunks have departed, 
 and takes in every forgotten trifle. We all had 
 part and parcel in Jumbo. He vanished on 
 this trip. 
 
 We had arrived in Exeter before his loss 
 was discovered. The colour and beauty of 
 the green-topped red cliffs, the boats, the 
 changing blue of the sea, and the flat, paint- 
 able banks of the river Exe, had so entirely 
 absorbed our attention that no one noticed his 
 loss. Jumbo was the Matron's own private 
 property and pet; when she discovered that he 
 
 63
 
 Among English Inns 
 
 had disappeared, she promptly fell upon me 
 with reproaches, and the assertion that it was 
 to my care she had confided the precious 
 charge while she went looking for a porter. 
 
 I had a certain indefinite sense of being 
 guiltless, but I know myself to be careless and 
 forgetful. Then, too, I stand in such whole- 
 some awe of the Matron's wrath that I dared 
 not contradict her statement. I fled to that 
 haven of all British travellers, The Lost Prop- 
 erty Office. 
 
 " A bag, a straw bag, left at Newton 
 Abbot? " wrote down the chief clerk in that 
 most important institution; "it will be for- 
 warded to you at Bideford." 
 
 " But perhaps it's been stolen," hazarded 
 the Matron, who had followed me. 
 
 " Oh, no, madam ! It will be surely found," 
 civilly concluded the official, but we were not 
 quite so confident in human honesty. With 
 their present surprising luggage system, the 
 British railroads could not exist without The 
 Lost Property Office. Our train stood ready, 
 and we ran in answer to Polly's wild motions, 
 jumped into a carriage we hoped was the 
 right one, trusting to Providence in the ab- 
 sence of proper indications. 
 
 With a feeble toot-toot and many vigorous 
 
 64
 
 At " The Three Crowns " 
 
 puffs of steam, we passed over the bridge to 
 St. David's, the square towers of Exeter Ca- 
 thedral showing among a crowd of houses 
 on the hill behind us, and went on through the 
 high land till the railroad line dropped down 
 slowly on to the low, sedgy land meadows, 
 where bright-tinted headlands stood up along 
 playful little inlet rivers running boldly into 
 the land to make believe they were the great 
 sea itself. 
 
 Bideford is built along one of these, named 
 the Taw, and, when our train stopped, we 
 speedily transferred ourselves to the upper- 
 most seat of a high drag which was in readi- 
 ness to take us to the New Inn at Clovelly. 
 
 6s
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 CLOVELLY 
 
 HERE being no 
 other passengers, the 
 coachman smiled re- 
 spectful approval at 
 us, while he wound his 
 horn gaily, and off we 
 started over Bideford 
 bridge on our way to Clovelly. Bideford town 
 lies stretched along the estuary more asleep 
 than awake. The busy days of Sir Francis 
 Drake have long departed. A few small 
 coasting-vessels ride by their cables on the 
 great iron rings in the side of the stone quay, 
 in place of the many galleons just home from 
 the Spanish Main in these good old days. The 
 quaint inns, where once browned sailors drank 
 and boasted of their deeds, are still hoary and 
 picturesque, unchanged outwardly since the 
 departure of the former rollicking guests. 
 
 66
 
 Clovelly 
 
 They now depend entirely on a few topers for 
 their existence. 
 
 Bideford is built on a steep incline, so up 
 we went, too, with vigorous horn-blowing by 
 the guard, until the last fringe of cheap, ugly 
 villas was left behind, and we were out on 
 the broad highroad with ten miles of drive 
 before us. Overhead arched a lovely sky, and 
 to the sea tumbled thick-wooded cliffs. The 
 waters of the bay were as full of shades and 
 colours as an orchid leaf. The lazy swells 
 rolled off to the horizon, where Lundy's Is- 
 land, the former home of smugglers and out- 
 laws, lay as innocent as a pink sea-shell, 
 changing its colour and shape to a violet 
 cloud, where the road curves, and offered us 
 new views every moment. 
 
 The whole way to Clovelly is hallowed by 
 the remembrance of Charles Kingsley and 
 the hero of his great novel, " Westward Ho! " 
 Indeed the home of Amyas Leigh lay in this 
 direction from Bideford, and as we drove, 
 so did he stalk along on foot to visit his friend 
 Will Cary at Clovelly. 
 
 The roofs of many country residences show 
 among the trees. Here and there a bit of the 
 point of a gable, or a red roof just peeping 
 above the green leaves. Sheep, so big and fat 
 
 67
 
 Among English Inns 
 
 that we think our eyes deceive us, are feeding 
 in the rich green fields beyond high, luxuriant 
 hedges. The road dips again and again down 
 slight hills, and the tinted sea and deep-red 
 cliffs are then shut off, only to appear again 
 in new colours. 
 
 Finally, at a spot among tall, thick trees, 
 we stop without warning, and the driver an- 
 nounces that our journey is at an end. There 
 is no house or village; a barn at the top of 
 the hill, a few seafaring men lounging about 
 a mile-stone, and a steep woodland path lead- 
 ing apparently nowhere, is all we can see. 
 The Invalid protests, but the rest of us, more 
 obedient to the driver's command, climb down 
 from our perch. We are then so much ab- 
 sorbed by the difficulties of the slipping and 
 sliding descent that, before we have time to 
 make any comment, by a sudden turn the 
 green balconies, the funny little bay-windows, 
 and jumble of toy houses buried among flow- 
 ers and foliage, announce to us that we are in 
 one of the most noted villages of England. 
 
 It hangs there at our feet, crowded in be- 
 tween high banks of dark green, zigzagging 
 down the narrow bed of a former stream to 
 the huge, liquid, opal sea. It has the prosaic 
 name of Hartland Bay, but " it certainly is 
 
 68
 
 Clovelly 
 
 like a jewel to-night," declares the Matron. 
 " The clouds above us are models for poster 
 artists, with their gay hues and dark, decided 
 outlines." 
 
 If, in the picture before us, any variety was 
 wanting, it was supplied by the red sails of 
 the fishing-boats slowly rocking to and fro 
 on the glassy water; or by the sturdy little 
 donkeys who were picking their way from 
 side to side down the broad cobble-paved 
 steps of the street, bearing our bags and 
 bundles before us to the door of the New 
 Inn. 
 
 When we told our names to the hostess, the 
 wisdom of sending a telegram several days 
 before our advent was made manifest. In- 
 stead of being packed away in the large and 
 ugly Annex, we had the original ancient min- 
 iature New Inn quite to ourselves. 
 
 " I feel as if I had got into my own doll- 
 house," said Polly, as she mounted the low 
 step into the bay-window, and, seating herself 
 there, proceeded to fill its space entirely. 
 
 It is a doll's inn, but so perfectly propor- 
 tioned that we had decided that, were it pos- 
 sible to nibble some of the wonderful Wonder- 
 land mushroom on the proper side, we should 
 be in a palatial dwelling. We have none of 
 
 6 9
 
 Among English Inns 
 
 Alice's specific on hand, so we remain big and 
 clumsy, and look with anxiety at the wealth 
 of breakable objects with which our little 
 sitting-room is encumbered. There are tables 
 laden down with shepherdesses and cupids, 
 more or less maimed; on the walls the china 
 plates hang thick, and the mantel-shelf is lit- 
 tered with vases, great, small, and of middling 
 size, while in every nook and corner, wher- 
 ever there is a vacant spot, are flowered can- 
 dlesticks. 
 
 There are four bedrooms in the little house, 
 whose closed doors are defended from in- 
 truders by huge wooden latches, quite out of 
 proportion to the possible danger of thieves. 
 Low, long lattice casements, and a staircase 
 that a tall man could go down with one step, 
 we have also in our tiny inn. The Invalid's 
 bedroom looks seaward, and into her window 
 two bold roses peep; they climb up over the 
 roof of the next house, and nod and bow 
 against the pane, for in Clovelly the windows 
 of the second story of the house, the next high- 
 est up on the street, get a clean view over the 
 lower chimneys. 
 
 While looking at these clustering roses, we 
 found the new moon gazing at us. The sky, 
 the sea, the cliffs, and all the beauties of Clo- 
 
 70
 
 W 
 
 w 
 
 Oi 
 H 
 s/5 
 
 J 
 J 
 W 
 > 
 
 o 
 o 
 
 a, 
 
 D 
 
 a 
 x; 
 
 5 
 o 
 o 
 j 
 
 w 
 
 Id 
 a! 
 H 
 
 J 
 
 y 
 > 
 o 
 j 
 u 
 
 Q 
 
 5 
 
 o 
 z 
 
 5 
 
 O 
 
 o
 
 Clovelly 
 
 velly were doing their best to enchant our 
 senses. 
 
 The perpendicular towns so common on 
 many parts of the Continent, have no more 
 picturesque qualities than this little hamlet. 
 There are here the same unawaited flights of 
 steps, unexpected back courts, blind alleys, 
 and mysterious passages under arches and 
 through houses; but there are here none of 
 the malodorous horrors and dirt of the Con- 
 tinental villages. Clovelly may have had in 
 Charles Kingsley's day an ancient and fish- 
 like odour, for he mentions the smells in one 
 of his letters to his wife, but to-day Clovelly 
 is swept and garnished in every nook and cor- 
 ner, and the back gardens blossom and over- 
 flow with every kind of flower, painted gaud- 
 ier by the soft sea air. The falling, twisting 
 street is a riot of bloom from top to bot- 
 tom. Tall fuchsias and great purple clematis 
 fight with the roses for mastery to the very 
 chimney-tops. The window-ledge boxes fling 
 over trailing vines, and are gay with geranium 
 and petunia, while pots of flowering plants 
 adorn each one of the queer little porches, and 
 the brilliant nasturtiums crowd each other to 
 stare over the walls of the tiny gardens. 
 
 Every house is small in Clovelly but the 
 
 7i
 
 Among English Inns 
 
 Annex to the New Inn, and that would not be 
 called large in any other town. Although it 
 has been lately built, the vines are doing their 
 best to hide whatever there is ugly about it. 
 All the other cottages well suit the little white 
 wedge made by the village in the dark hill- 
 side. Down by the water's edge is a small 
 pier, winding itself like a curved arm about 
 the gaily painted fishing-boats which come 
 to be sheltered there at night. There is a 
 diminutive lighthouse at the point of this'pier, 
 and the sea-wall, raised along one side of it, 
 is draped with the rich brown seaweed, an 
 ornament furnished by nature that blends with 
 the dark red nets of the fishermen. 
 
 The pier follows a natural formation of 
 rock, which is probably the reason for the 
 existence of a village in this strange precip- 
 itous glen. It is the very best place for loung- 
 ing away the long, pleasant twilight; for 
 gazing out around the tall neighbouring head- 
 lands on to the waters of Bristol Channel, and 
 watching the lights come out slowly in the 
 village hanging above. 
 
 Along the pebbly beach are a few houses 
 looking like escaped Italian villas, their green 
 balconies hanging over the water's edge. 
 
 72
 
 Clovelly 
 
 There is down here a stout ruin of an early- 
 Roman tower, and the Red Lion Inn. 
 
 A part of this sober old hostelry was the 
 birthplace of the sailor, Salvation Yeo, given 
 immortal fame in the novel of " Westward 
 Ho!" and always the home of his mother, 
 whom Kingsley makes describe her wander- 
 ing seaman of a son as: 
 
 " A tall man, and black, and sweareth awful 
 in his talk, the Lord forgive him! " 
 
 Here along the side of the Red Lion the 
 sturdy Clovelly sailormen lounge after their 
 work is done, and it is probably on one of 
 these benches that Charles Kingsley spent so 
 many hours of his early youth, listening to 
 yarns and learning sea-lore. Never was a 
 better spot on earth devised in which to rear 
 a poet and novelist! All the pleasure he en- 
 joyed here during the long and lovely Clo- 
 velly twilights, Charles Kingsley has given 
 back to the world in his writings. 
 
 There is another lookout above the beach, 
 reached by crooked stairs from the harbour. 
 Here more of the sailors gossip the hours 
 away, and here the Invalid and the Matron, 
 the first evening of our arrival, secured the 
 confidences of the most friendly among them. 
 The acquaintance began with an ancient mari- 
 
 73
 
 Among English Inns 
 
 ner, who persisted in speaking of himself as 
 a foreigner, although he had lived fifty years 
 in Clovelly and was married to a Clovelly 
 woman. He was Irish by birth, and it amused 
 our American fancy very much to have him so 
 persistent in claiming to be foreign. The 
 Matron returned from this first evening's chat 
 with a stirring tale about the first, last, and 
 only horses ever seen on Clovelly Street. They 
 appeared in the ancient Irish mariner's young 
 days. An ignorant and reckless postboy at- 
 tempted to drive a bridal couple to the door 
 of the New Inn, with such disastrous results 
 that the whole male population of the village 
 was called upon to save the horses from de- 
 struction and to keep the chaise from rolling 
 down into the sea. This they did by clinging 
 to the wheels, and turning the horses sidewise 
 on the broad steps of the street, at the peril 
 of their lives. Fortunately the incident hap- 
 pened late in the afternoon, when the men 
 had come back from the boats. Our Irish- 
 man was among the rescuing crew. 
 
 The landlord of Clovelly is Mr. Hamlin, 
 who lives in Clovelly Court, close to the top 
 of the village. The estate has descended to 
 him through the marriage of one of his an- 
 cestors with the Cary family, which included 
 
 74
 
 Clovelly 
 
 among its members the Will Cary of Kings- 
 ley's novel. Of Sir John Cary, founder of 
 the family and a judge in the time of Henry 
 VI., a gossipy chronicle says: " He was 
 placed in a high and spacious orb, where he 
 scattered about the rays of justice with great 
 splendour." 
 
 This extraordinary power, however, did 
 not prevent the good judge from being exiled 
 during those troublous times. His confiscated 
 estates were later returned to a son. At Clo- 
 velly Court lived Will Cary. Here within 
 the park gates still stands the church where 
 Charles Kingsley's father was vicar. In Clo- 
 velly park rises a wonderful high cliff, mount- 
 ing three hundred feet above the pebbly beach 
 and bearing the attractive name of Gallantry 
 Bower. From among the park's trees we 
 looked out upon the roofs of the village, that 
 seemingly push one another down-hill like 
 naughty children; then out beyond the jut- 
 ting Hartland point we saw a dim line which 
 they told us was the coast of Wales, and across 
 the tops of the village houses there came into 
 view the deep green wood that rises high on 
 the opposite hillside. Along this way runs 
 the Hobby drive, a fine, winding road built 
 by the Hamlins, and for which every visitor 
 
 75
 
 Among English Inns 
 
 to Clovelly owes them hearty thanks. In the 
 whole world there is no road affording more 
 truly lovely views of land or sea. 
 
 The Matron says that she strongly suspects 
 the artistic sails of Devon boats (they are of 
 the same red colour as the Devon soil of the 
 cliffs) originated in the times when many lit- 
 tle casks of good French brandy rolled ashore 
 under the shelter of Gallantry Bower, and 
 found there proper gallants to receive the 
 cargo. The sentimental Invalid is very un- 
 willing to believe that this charming spot was 
 ever used for other than romantic purposes, 
 but unfortunately, both history and tradition 
 whisper that all the riches of this coast were 
 not caught with the herring. 
 
 The glory of the New Inn Annex is the 
 dining-room; here the guest not only feasts 
 upon fresh herring, sweet and tender, but his 
 eyes are edified with much blue china and 
 more hammered brass. I disdain to repeat 
 Polly's insulting remarks about their artistic 
 merits or her doubts of their antiquity. Our 
 delighted eyes behold overhead the entwined 
 flags of England and America frescoed on the 
 ceiling with striking truth to nature, while 
 under their gorgeous folds sit the Lion and 
 the Eagle, smiling broadly down on the 
 
 76
 
 Clovelly 
 
 guests. For those diners who choose to crane 
 their necks between the courses, there is a 
 poem painted on the ceiling with as many 
 stanzas as the old-time ballad; I venture to 
 quote only the beginning and the end of this 
 inspired lay: 
 
 i. 
 
 " Let parents be parental, 
 
 Think of children night and day, 
 And the children be respectful, 
 To their parents far away. 
 
 IX. 
 
 " Our foes we need not fear them, 
 If hand in hand we go, 
 We want no wars with any man 
 As onward we do so. 
 
 x. 
 
 " But do our foes assail us, 
 
 We will do our best to gain, 
 With our children standing by us 
 Britannia rules the main." 
 
 Mine host of the New Inn, who beguiles his 
 winter hours by dallying with the Muses, is 
 responsible for this poetry. 
 
 In addition to its richly hung walls and 
 
 77
 
 Among English Inns 
 
 decorated ceiling, the dining-room has still 
 another attraction in the person of the chief 
 waitress, a young woman very efficient in her 
 calling, blessed with a sweet voice, attentive, 
 willing, and amiable. 
 
 Her fame has spread far and near as the 
 Beauty of Clovelly. A mass of very blond 
 hair, in strong contrast with her black eye- 
 brows and eyelashes, appears to be the chief 
 reason for which this title has been bestowed. 
 Her features are by no means beautiful, nor 
 is her complexion faultless. Polly says that 
 at least her peculiar charms are useful as pro- 
 moting conversation, for, after she has been 
 seen, every visitor spends the leisure hours 
 discussing how much of her hair is real, and 
 whether its colour is artificial. One of the 
 numerous old village gossips, whom the Ma- 
 tron has interviewed, says that the girl always 
 had the same mass of wonderful hair even 
 when she was a small child. Peroxide can- 
 not be a convenient beautifier here in Clo- 
 velly, where the entire village supply of drugs 
 would not fill a market-basket. The Beauty 
 is a niece of the landlady, and does not seem 
 at all disturbed, or even spoilt, by her peculiar 
 celebrity, which is so wide that the summer 
 
 78
 
 Clovelly 
 
 trippers gather in crowds about the inn to 
 stare at her. 
 
 Against these same trippers the ire of the 
 village gossips is fierce and fiery. From the 
 coast towns they come by the boat-load to see 
 the wedge-like village, and try to see it so 
 thoroughly that not only do these strangers 
 tramp into the back gardens and peer into 
 the windows while the good cottagers are 
 eating, but one old lady told the Invalid that 
 she had once caught two busybodies just as 
 they were about to look into her cooking-pots 
 on the kitchen stove. We were not in Clovelly 
 at the time of any of these invasions, but the 
 numerous tea-room signs on many small 
 houses bear testimony to how much refresh- 
 ment must be sold here on such occasions. 
 
 Single blessedness is not the fashion in Clo- 
 velly. On the lookout bench at evening the 
 village bachelor becomes the butt of all his 
 comrades' chaff. At the time of our visit 
 there was but one of these despised single 
 creatures in Clovelly. This we inferred from 
 the jokes thrown headlong at one man, who 
 held his own boldly for a time, until at last, 
 overcome by twitting sarcasms about his 
 wealth and beauty, he fled ignominiously to 
 his solitary fireside. We were inclined to 
 
 79
 
 Among English Inns 
 
 agree with the ancient mariner, who confi- 
 dentially whispered to the Matron: 
 
 " That man'll be married inside six 
 month." 
 
 Children are the only human beings who 
 dare to run down Clovelly streets. They clat- 
 ter along with so much noise against the cob- 
 ble that the Matron insists that their English 
 shoes are wooden. They begin to troop up 
 and down before six o'clock, and rattle up 
 and down until the school-bell calls the flock 
 to lessons. The Matron is very fussy about 
 being disturbed early in the morning. That 
 others have shared her views, we find from 
 the visitors' book, where a poetic genius has 
 complained: 
 
 11 
 
 Although in Devon 'tis almost heaven, 
 Down Clovelly streets is the sound of feet 
 Not of angels, and not bare." 
 
 We had wandered up and down the steep 
 streets in and out through every conceivable 
 quaint passage, talked to all the friendly vil- 
 lagers, and admired the adorable flowers, 
 when at last we gathered on the second even- 
 ing in our sitting-room, among the broken- 
 nosed shepherdesses and the cupids with 
 
 80
 
 w 
 o 
 < 
 
 o 
 
 fcn 
 
 J 
 Id 
 > 
 O 
 J 
 U 
 
 < 
 
 O 
 
 d. 
 O 
 
 H 
 
 as 
 < 
 
 w 

 
 Clovelly 
 
 cracked hearts, to decide on our future plans. 
 We had explored the neighbouring country 
 to discover the old Roman road, gazed upon 
 the ancient British earthworks, and revelled 
 in the walk along the Hobby drive. Nothing 
 was left undone which a proper tourist should 
 do in this unique spot, except, perhaps, a sail 
 to Lundy's Island. That is a perilous voyage 
 for seasick women, and we willingly per- 
 suaded ourselves that Lundy's Island looked 
 better from a distance. Had there been a 
 drag going between Clovelly and Ilfracombe, 
 the charm of the enchanting scenery would 
 have decided us at once to take that route, 
 but, as it sometimes happens, we were not for- 
 tunate enough to find a party going, and the 
 expense of hiring such a conveyance was too 
 great for our purses. 
 
 The way to Derbyshire is a longer journey 
 than we cared to take without a break, there- 
 fore, after much discussion, Evesham was 
 decided as a resting-place. That town lies 
 in the land where the peaceful river Avon 
 waters useful market-gardens, and orchards 
 of plum-trees thrive under the lee of that 
 pastoral range called the Cotswold Hills. A 
 welcome telegram had announced the recov- 
 ery of Jumbo, and the bag's safe arrival in 
 
 81
 
 Among English Inns 
 
 the cloak-room at Bideford station. We 
 promptly hurried off another wire (Polly 
 feels so English when she says "wire") to 
 Evesham to announce our coming to the 
 landlady of a sunny old farmhouse that looks 
 down over a rose-garden upon the Avon val- 
 ley and the town below. 
 
 We had decided not to try a real inn this 
 time, but make an inn for ourselves. The 
 Crown, the chief hotel in Evesham, is hud- 
 dled down in the centre of the town, while at 
 Clerk's Hill House pet garden thrushes 
 would be bursting their little throats with 
 song to give us a concert at dinner-time. As 
 we bowled along on our return to Bideford, 
 the accomplished coachman played for us 
 merry and appropriate tunes. He drove his 
 four horses easily with one hand, while with 
 the horn he held in the other he wound out 
 a continual strain of melody. The sea and 
 cliffs along the road had lost the soft pastel 
 shades we found there on the first late after- 
 noon drive. They were now bold blue, red, 
 and vivid green in the sharp morning light. 
 
 During the half-hour wait for the train, 
 while the Matron clasped Jumbo to her side, 
 and we had each taken a peep to see if all 
 our valuables were still safe in his embrace, 
 
 82
 
 Clovelly 
 
 we looked into the room at the Royal Hotel 
 where Charles Kingsley wrote the greater 
 portion of "Westward Ho!" The hotel is 
 beside the station, and was the house described 
 by Kingsley as that of Rose Saltern's father. 
 In the drawing-room, where the author wrote 
 part, if not all, of his noted novel, remains a 
 fine Elizabethan stucco ceiling. It is dec- 
 orated with garlands, birds, fruits, and flowers, 
 coloured by artists who were brought from 
 Italy by the merchant prince who lived in this 
 house during the time of Sir Francis Drake. 
 
 «3
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 clerk's hill farm 
 
 Evesham 
 
 ^ffe^ mg ' 
 
 E shall not lack variety on 
 our journey this morn- 
 Polly, 
 
 11 
 
 announced 
 
 Wl £ when she came back from the 
 Wk ticket -office. 
 
 " We change 
 three times between Bideford 
 and Evesham, and unless we 
 race after our luggage at each change, we 
 shall surely share the fate of a young English 
 friend, who once confidentially told me she 
 never expected to see her trunk for three days 
 after starting, if she had changes to make on 
 her journey. If her luggage appeared some 
 time during the week, she was satisfied. But 
 we want ours to be in Evesham when we step 
 out there on the platform." 
 
 " But if the trunks are labelled they will 
 be all right," said the innocent Matron. 
 
 84
 
 Clerk's Hill Farm 
 
 " And the Matron pretends she has trav- 
 elled!" sighed Polly, holding up her hands. 
 
 Everything was labelled and put in the 
 van, excepting, always, wide-mouthed Jumbo. 
 The Invalid even wanted him banished. She 
 says she refuses to acquire the European habit 
 of stuffing the railroad carriage so full of per- 
 sonal belongings that she cannot be comfort- 
 able herself. 
 
 The platform at Exeter is a scene of wild 
 confusion when we jump out to look after the 
 luncheon-basket boy. One or two of these 
 youths are in sight, their arms laden down 
 with square baskets, none of which are evi- 
 dently for us, as the boys pay not the slightest 
 heed to our calls, but proceed to unload their 
 wares on other wildly gesticulating passen- 
 gers. Every woman, and several men, who 
 passed our carriage, asked us if this train went 
 to such unknown places that we became 
 alarmed for our own safety. The only official 
 in sight was pursued by a bunch of clamouring 
 travellers, and Polly started to add one more 
 to the throng, when we were partially con- 
 vinced we were in the right carriage by an old 
 lady. She assured us that she had asked seven 
 porters and twenty-seven passengers if this 
 train was for Templecombe, and, as they all 
 
 85
 
 Among English Inns 
 
 said " Yes," she thought we were safe to re- 
 main where we were. She further added to 
 our confidence by joining us. 
 
 Polly then pursued a luncheon boy through 
 a forest of weeping farewells, and captured 
 two baskets intended for somebody else. 
 
 Considering the size of their country and 
 the exceeding cheapness of telegraphic com- 
 munication, the English are the most incon- 
 solable of people when the cruel railway tears 
 them apart. Half the platform of every pro- 
 vincial station is given over to groups of in- 
 habitants who have come to speed a parting 
 guest or relative who probably needs help 
 with her luggage, though the friends usually 
 come, not to help, but to weep. It is etiquette 
 for the departing traveller to hang out of the 
 carriage door, embracing each sorrowing 
 friend at intervals, and then to wave a hand- 
 kerchief as long as the station remains in sight. 
 After these exhausting efforts, she usually 
 sinks overcome on the cushions and falls to 
 eating, no matter what the hour be. 
 
 So we, too, fell on our luncheon, because 
 the Matron says that, " while eating delicious 
 cold chicken, she may dream of the baked 
 beans of her native buffet car." Polly and 
 I joined forces at Templecombe in an exciting 
 
 86
 
 Clerk's Hill Farm 
 
 race for porters. We nearly lost our lives by 
 being run down by the platform baggage- 
 trucks while trying to wade in and out of a 
 pack of hounds (most unwilling travellers), 
 who were being transported to some distant 
 kennels along our line. 
 
 " I thought you never would get back 
 alive," said the Invalid, who was hanging, in 
 true English fashion, half out of a carriage 
 window she and the Matron had secured, for 
 they had watched our struggles with four 
 small trunks and two big porters. 
 
 At last, after we had seen everything shut 
 up in the van, and determined how near that 
 particular van was to our carriage, we fell 
 panting into the carriage, and the engine, with 
 a feeble toot, drew us away into a fair country 
 of meadow-lands, and past Bath the Famous, 
 where the houses seem running down-hill to 
 the Pump Gardens like the belles and beaux 
 of King George's time. 
 
 From Bath our way branched up north, 
 through Gloucester to Cheltenham, where 
 again we changed. Luckily no homesick 
 canines were here in the way, and a comfort- 
 able old grandfather of a porter quieted our 
 nervous haste by telling us that the train for 
 Evesham would not be along for half an hour. 
 
 87
 
 Among English Inns 
 
 After leaving Cheltenham, we saw the peaks 
 of Great Malvern and the low, long ridges 
 of the Cotswolds. Then appeared pretty 
 little stations among flower-beds, great 
 stretches of market-gardens, and soon we 
 were in Evesham; so also was our luggage. 
 
 Our chosen stopping-place rather disap- 
 pointed us at first. The High Street, which 
 leads from the station, has evolved from a 
 market-place and highway combined into a 
 town thoroughfare. It is broad, it is common- 
 place, and lined with the conventional Eng- 
 lish brick houses, but the High Street luckily 
 does not go on for ever, and when it twists 
 itself down to the river between many ancient 
 houses, and takes the new name of Bridge 
 Street, the first sad impression of this begin- 
 ning of Evesham is dissipated. Our way to 
 the Crown Inn lies down this narrow way 
 between the shops. Here we can hardly get 
 the Invalid along, so intent is she on staring 
 at the queer old lopsided Booth Hall, which 
 occupies the centre of the open space at the 
 beginning of the contracted street, and an 
 antiquated old passageway that makes a splen- 
 did frame for the porch of All Saints' Church. 
 
 " It is an old town, after all, isn't it? " grace- 
 fully acknowledges the Invalid. 
 
 88
 
 Clerk's Hill Farm 
 
 The courtyard of the Crown opens out 
 of the street just where the hill is steepest. It 
 is an inn blessed with possibilities which are 
 completely lost, for want of a tidy mistress 
 and a wide-awake master. The Crown is old 
 and it is well built, and through the archway 
 to the stable-yard we caught a fascinating 
 glimpse of the Bell Tower rising above old 
 monastery meadows. 
 
 " I wonder if this place is inhabited," said 
 Polly. 
 
 We wandered into the open inn door and 
 found our way to the coffee-room, where 
 Polly jerked the bell violently for several 
 moments without any response. At last, in 
 reply to an extra violent long ring, a more 
 or less untidy waiter appeared. She asked 
 him if there was no message for us in such 
 sharp tones that he started off on a trot, and 
 soon brought back the anticipated note. Polly, 
 upon reading it, found that we could not get 
 our lodgings until the morrow, therefore 
 should be obliged to put up at the inn. Off 
 trotted the waiter again, to return with a 
 pleasant little woman, who took us up the 
 rickety stairs to palatial sleeping-rooms. My 
 chamber proved to be fully twenty-five feet 
 square, with a style of furniture and bed-hang- 
 
 89
 
 Among English Inns 
 
 ings that made me expect to see the ghost of 
 an eighteenth-century belle before morning. 
 The deep windows looked out on a blooming 
 garden and down a grassy sweep to the river. 
 All the musty smell of the old corridor and 
 stairway was left where we found it; in the 
 great room sweet air blew in from the garden. 
 We got a very decent dinner after waiting for 
 it, but then, waiting is good for the appetite. 
 The table-cloth was not exactly spotless, but 
 every one in the house proved so good-natured 
 and careless that we had not the courage to 
 complain. Our stay was to be but one night. 
 The Evesham brass band was blowing forth 
 invitingly sweet strains in the Pleasure Gar- 
 dens across the Avon, tempting us to take a 
 twilight stroll down the steep street to the 
 broad bridge at the foot. This bridge was 
 built about fifty years ago by Henry Work- 
 man, Esq., to replace a narrow but much 
 more picturesque structure. The same gen- 
 tleman laid out the Pleasure Grounds, where 
 the band was playing. They form a charm- 
 ing promenade along the river bank, and 
 from the benches for loungers placed on the 
 smooth lawns there is a fine view of Evesham's 
 crowning glory, the Bell Tower. The Avon 
 flows gently rippling past under the bridge, 
 
 90
 
 Clerk's Hill Farm 
 
 and is broader here than at any other point 
 near Evesham. Below the bridge the stream 
 makes a sharp bend about the old Abbey 
 meadows, while above it the sedge grass 
 grows around an old mill, and little woody 
 islands divide the water. On either side of 
 the stream the hills rise, narrowing the valley. 
 
 The people in the Pleasure Grounds were 
 still dancing on the turf to the music of the 
 band as we turned homeward to our Georgian 
 beds. This furniture made Polly happy, even 
 if she could not get her bell answered. She 
 declares she loves everything Georgian, even 
 to the Georges themselves, and her extraor- 
 dinary reason is that, if George the Third had 
 not been what she calls " An obstinate fool! " 
 (Polly is strong in her language), she would 
 only have been able to enjoy England from 
 a colonial standpoint. 
 
 It was early next morning when we started 
 off toward our new lodgings on Clerk's Hill. 
 Our landlady wrote that she would be ready 
 to receive us at any time after eight, so we left 
 the inn at half-past nine. It took fully half 
 an hour to get our bill paid. Every one at 
 the Crown seemed so busy doing nothing. 
 When Polly, the treasurer, had disposed of 
 this important business, she indignantly in- 
 
 9i
 
 Among English Inns 
 
 formed us that the Crown was just as expen- 
 sive as any other country hotel in England 
 where they " gave us service." 
 
 " Too bad such a delightful old place isn't 
 better managed," was the Invalid's farewell. 
 
 We wandered about looking at the sights 
 in the town before crossing the river to the 
 country. Clerk's Hill is in the country. 
 
 " Let us first go through that passage in the 
 corner of the market-place behind the dissi- 
 pated old Booth Hall," said the Matron. 
 
 "Dissipated?" said Polly. "The Booth 
 Hall is only rheumatic, and you would be 
 rheumatic, too, if you had been standing up 
 for four hundred years." 
 
 The Matron took no notice whatever of 
 Polly's exception, but went on with her opin- 
 ions. 
 
 " These solid ancient English buildings all 
 look to me," she said, " as though they had 
 home-brewed beer for breakfast, and fed on 
 roast beef every day in the week. The houses, 
 the rustics, and the bulldogs of England look 
 equally substantial and jolly." 
 
 We dived through the archway and came 
 out into the churchyard, where, among 
 the grass-grown graves, rise two graceful 
 churches. Beyond, clear against the sky, 
 
 92
 
 Clerk's Hill Farm 
 
 stands the elegant Bell Tower, the only rem- 
 nant of the former great abbey. Its perfect 
 proportions are made more graceful by lines 
 of perpendicular ornamentation. The church- 
 yard is so quiet, so shaded by the tall trees 
 which grow about two houses of worship, 
 that there could be no more ideal resting- 
 place for weary souls. The sunshine throws 
 the shadow of the Bell Tower across the 
 graves, and the sweet bells hanging there play 
 quaint, old-fashioned tunes to mark the hours. 
 Two churches — one dedicated to St. Law- 
 rence, the other to All Saints — were built 
 by the monks of the old abbey; one was a 
 chapel for pilgrims, the other for the use of 
 the townfolks. For many years after the sup- 
 pression of the monasteries, these churches 
 stood bare, neglected, and left to decay, but 
 they have now been carefully restored to much 
 of their ancient beauty. The main aisles of 
 the great abbey church, where the monks sang 
 matins and kings prayed, are now gardens for 
 the townspeople of Evesham, enclosed in the 
 remnants of the church walls. Of the great 
 tower, which rose into the sky twice the height 
 of the Bell Tower, nothing now remains, not 
 even foundations. The carved archway, 
 which formerly led into the chapter-house, 
 
 93
 
 Among English Inns 
 
 is now an entrance to the town gardens. Eve- 
 sham Abbey was immensely rich and power- 
 ful, but every stick and stone was carried off 
 to build the houses, walls, and stables for miles 
 around. The suppressed abbey was let out 
 as a quarry for many years after the abbots 
 were driven out of their possessions. 
 
 Not only did the abbots of Evesham own 
 the tongue of land which the bending Avon 
 takes in its embrace, where acres of the most 
 fertile, abundant lands lie below the town, 
 but all over the county extensive farms, and 
 the tithe-barns, which are still standing in 
 many places to tell the tale of enormous 
 wealth. The vanished abbey saw many stir- 
 ring scenes. As a sanctuary for many turbu- 
 lent nobles, it was generously rewarded for 
 the refuge it afforded. It existed from be- 
 fore the Norman Conquest until Richard 
 Cromwell whispered in his master's willing 
 ear that rich abbeys should be suppressed for 
 practical reasons. 
 
 Our way from the churchyard led us out 
 near the abbot's gate-house to the quaint little 
 building, once the almonry, where the monks 
 distributed their alms to the poor. There are 
 many charming bits left within this tiny old 
 structure, among others a thirteenth-century 
 
 94
 
 Clerk's Hill Farm 
 
 fireplace, carved as monks could carve sucri 
 things. 
 
 Boat Lane, down which we went on our 
 way to our new lodging between market-gar- 
 dens and plum orchards, shows traces of the 
 old wall which the monks stretched across 
 from the bend of the river on one side to the 
 turn on the other, and thus cutting off a good- 
 sized peninsula from the townfolk for their 
 own use. 
 
 "What, ho! for the ferry!" sang the 
 Matron. 
 
 " This costs a ha'penny," finished Polly, 
 which is the fare over and back. A rope, 
 worked by a very small boy, pulls the flatboat 
 across the river to the pretty ferry-house. 
 Here we went up the wooden steps to the 
 shore, and then up a path through an orchard, 
 and through a rose-garden to our farmhouse 
 lodging on the steep hillside. 
 
 " Our luggage has come around by land, 
 I suppose," said the Matron, as if we mean- 
 time had been travelling over the sea. 
 
 We voted for a week at Evesham. The 
 Matron desired to see great parks, the Invalid 
 demanded visits to ancient churches, Polly 
 professed a weakness for quaint villages, and 
 I love the thrushes and the grassy lanes. 
 
 95
 
 Among English Inns 
 
 Then, too, clothes must be washed sometimes, 
 and these too rapid hotel laundry cleanings 
 had left our garments in sorry condition. It 
 was the prospect of a week's stay which had 
 enticed us into lodgings where we could have 
 peace and quiet, a nice little maid to serve us, 
 and give Polly a chance to do marketing, a 
 task she adores. 
 
 " I used to draw houses just like this on 
 my slate," declared the Matron, when she first 
 saw the simple square proportion of Clerk's 
 Hill farmhouse, that would never tax the 
 genius of the artistic small boy. It was unos- 
 tentatious. Its colour was light yellow, but 
 it had behind it the plumed elms of the green 
 hillside, and in front a sloping wilderness of 
 roses, red, white, yellow, and pink. Below 
 the garden lay the grassy orchard, and still 
 lower were the tall trees, which line the bank 
 of the glistening river over which we were 
 ferried. Floating up to our sitting-room 
 windows came sounds of merriment from the 
 boating parties, from the small boys fishing 
 along the stream, and now and again the shrill 
 whistle of the little toy steamboat, The IAly, 
 on which it is possible to go several miles to 
 Fladbury and return for the extravagant sum 
 of sixpence. The passing of The Lily, we
 
 Clerk's Hill Farm 
 
 found, threw the large family at the ferry- 
 house into a fever of excitement several times 
 a day. The rope which guides the ferry from 
 shore to shore must be lowered, and The Lily 
 leaves an oily trail; both of these features 
 excited the indignation of the numerous small 
 ferrymen and ferrywomen who work the boat. 
 Our farmhouse could not have been less 
 than two centuries old, and it might have been 
 even three. The charming lattice windows at 
 the back and sides, of the most approved 
 Tudor pattern, proved this fact. On the front, 
 alas! they had been changed to the ugly mod- 
 ern sort the French call " guillotine windows." 
 The view from our sitting-room and from 
 my bedroom gave upon the broad plain to 
 the Cotswold Hill beyond; nearer, the red 
 houses of the town gathered p.bout the Bell 
 Tower, and the great clumps of feathery elms 
 dotting the meadows, the low, dark bunches 
 of green we knew to be plum-trees, made the 
 landscape so ideally English that it was a con- 
 stant delight. The smell of the heavy-laden 
 rose-bushes, the concerts we got early and late 
 from the generous song-birds who lived in 
 the orchard, would have been quite enough to 
 make a week in Evesham an enviable treat, 
 without the charm of the many delightful 
 
 97
 
 Among English Inns 
 
 excursions possible in this district full of in- 
 terest to the lover of nature and the anti- 
 quarian. Evesham lies within a network of 
 good cycling roads, but Evesham also boasts 
 a motor-car, and one, too, which is the prop- 
 erty of a young gentleman who has made 
 electricity his study. He knows every lovely 
 view, every ruined abbey, every old English 
 church, every fine park and charming old vil- 
 lage within fifty miles, and he takes one to 
 see them at a charge of six cents a mile. This 
 expense divided between the four or five per- 
 sons (a number the motor-car comfortably 
 holds) was but a small outlay for the pleasure 
 we got with such an enthusiastic conductor. 
 There was no worrying about tired horses, no 
 discussion as to the number of miles we might 
 
 The walks about Evesham are over paths 
 leading among gardens and orchards, and 
 these tramps gave us more delight than either 
 motor-car or bicycle. 
 
 " I don't see why I can't walk as far as this 
 at home," complained the Matron. 
 
 " Cooler air and better paths," decided 
 Polly, and the Matron meekly said no more. 
 
 To Cropthorne, the first village which won 
 our hearts, the walk was but a matter of three 
 
 98
 
 Clerk's Hill Farm 
 
 miles. We took the morning for a stroll there, 
 going nearly all the way through groves of 
 plum-trees laden with fragrant fruit or fields 
 of the running dwarf bean, showing gay scar- 
 let or white blossoms. From the top of the 
 ridge behind the farmhouse, a hillside where 
 in the old days the monks had great vineyards, 
 we went down the winding paths toward 
 Breden Hill, a member of the Cotswolds, 
 which is cut off from the family, and stretches 
 verdant and shining before us on the left. 
 The Cotswolds were behind us over the hill- 
 top, and Breden Hill looked like a great, lazy, 
 green animal with a nice, soft, round back 
 as we walked toward it. The high hills of 
 Malvern, too, stood in the distance behind the 
 woody hollow where Cropthorne lies con- 
 cealed. We turned on the road, leaving 
 Breden on the left, and suddenly came upon 
 the beautiful little village through a thick 
 avenue of trees which led us to the Norman 
 church, from which we looked down Crop- 
 thorne's hilly street. Thatched cottages built 
 of white clay and black oak beams ; low stone 
 walls topped by hedges; gabled porches; 
 lattice windows open to sun and air, with 
 stiff crimson geraniums in pots on the ledges; 
 plumy elm-trees, and a glimpse down the 
 
 99
 
 Among English Inns 
 
 street far over a woody country, — that is 
 Cropthorne village. Inside its church are 
 Norman pillars and arches, carved pews of 
 the thirteenth century, and two fine monu- 
 ments erected in memory of the Dineley fam- 
 ily, who owned a manor-house not very dis- 
 tant. On the first of these the good knight 
 and his lady lie recumbent with folded hands, 
 while nineteen children, carved in high relief, 
 kneel praying around the pedestal. The 
 grandchildren, of which there are also sev- 
 eral, are indicated by smaller figures carved 
 above the heads of their kneeling parents. 
 On the second monument, dating from a 
 generation later, the knight and his lady kneel 
 on a prie-dieu, and the family about the base 
 of the monument is somewhat less numerous. 
 In all of these carved effigies the costume of 
 the period is most elaborately reproduced. 
 The marble is even painted, the better to rep- 
 resent the dress, and the heraldic designs are 
 coloured and profusely ornamented with 
 gold. The long inscription full of historical 
 and mighty names over the older tomb ex- 
 cited our curiosity, but it was so blurred that 
 we could only distinguish a few of the titles 
 of the noble relatives. The rich armour of the 
 recumbent knight and the dress of his lady 
 
 ioo
 
 I 
 
 
 ■I 
 
 CROPTHORNE COTTAGES. — INTERIOR OF CROPTHORNE 
 
 CHURCH
 
 Clerk's Hill Farm 
 
 was that of Queen Elizabeth's time/ while 
 the second gentleman and his wife are clad 
 in the sober garments of the Puritan regime. 
 As we walked down Cropthorne Street on 
 our homeward way, among the lovely and 
 picturesque little cottages, we passed a line of 
 easels, each with a painter behind it, perched 
 up on the side off the road. The old half- 
 timber houses and Breden Hill were being 
 immortalized in a more or less artistic fashion. 
 
 Another morning we paid our sixpence, 
 and puffed along the river in the little steam- 
 boat to Fladbury. The Avon winds on its 
 way there between shady banks, takes sudden 
 twists and turns past farm lands and old mills 
 hidden among rushes. At Fladbury Weir it 
 stops. We then left the little boat and walked 
 back to Evesham by the road. Fladbury is 
 quite a metropolis compared to Cropthorne. 
 We had lunch there at a little inn called the 
 Anchor, where an electric bulb hanging over 
 the table called forth the information, given 
 with great pride by the tidy maid, that " Flad- 
 bury was far ahead of Evesham in the way of 
 lighting." 
 
 Fladbury is also on the railroad, which is 
 not always the case with most of the pretty 
 villages hereabouts. It is altogether a charm- 
 
 IOI
 
 Among English Inns 
 
 ing place with an individuality quite its own. 
 A short cut across the fields took us out on 
 the road in front of the estate of Fladbury's 
 most distinguished neighbour, the Due d'Or- 
 leans. We stepped over a stile in front of the 
 half-French, half-English chateau he owns, 
 just in time to interrupt some village scandal, 
 which we would have given worlds to have 
 heard through to the end. An old country- 
 man in brown corduroy, leaning on his spade, 
 was solemnly saying to an audience of one 
 groom on horseback and a younger labourer: 
 
 " The old juke he come riding along the 
 road, with Madam Somebodyruther — " Just 
 then we appeared. The voice ceased, nor did 
 it resume again until we were so far away that 
 we heard borne upon the breeze, " Madam 
 Somebodyruther," which was as near as we 
 ever got to the rustic story concerning the 
 French duke. 
 
 Wood Norton is the name of the famous 
 exile's place. The lodge gates are decorated 
 with the monogram of the royal Louis, — the 
 entwined L of Fontainebleau and Versailles. 
 The little lodge-house is decorated with fleurs- 
 de-lys cut in the plaster. A fine royal crown 
 is carved on the outside chimney, while in 
 
 1 02
 
 Clerk's Hill Farm 
 
 strong contrast appear good solid English 
 thatched cottages clustering near the gate. 
 
 The road back to Evesham, along which 
 runs a broad, comfortable foot-path, skirts 
 Green Hill, where Simon de Montfort fell 
 in the decisive battle he waged against royal 
 power in 1265, in the month of August, — the 
 very month in which we were walking past 
 the battle-ground. The great earl had spent 
 the night at the abbey, having with him King 
 Henry the Third, whom he held as a hostage. 
 Simon meant to fight Prince Edward after 
 he had joined the forces led by his son near 
 Kenilworth, but the prince fell upon the 
 young Simon de Montfort, and, after routing 
 him, marched quickly to Evesham, forcing 
 the earl, his father, into battle here on Green 
 Hill. Simon de Montfort fell fighting des- 
 perately for the liberties of England. 
 
 In the manor-house grounds a column has 
 been erected in memory of this stirring event. 
 The great earl's body was cruelly mutilated 
 by the royal followers, but the main fruits 
 of his struggle, the desire of his soul, lives 
 to-day in the British House of Commons. 
 
 Another day, across field and garden land, 
 we took the shortest way to Elmley Castle, 
 a gem of a village nestling at the foot of 
 
 103
 
 Among English Inns 
 
 Breden Hill. It still preserves the same char- 
 acter it had when Queen Elizabeth made the 
 visit recorded by the wonderfully painted 
 sign hanging in front of the village inn. 
 Upon this she is represented, in her broad 
 hoop and spreading farthingale, leading a 
 procession of lords and ladies down the vil- 
 lage street. The village is probably a little 
 cleaner to-day, owing to more advanced the- 
 ories, but the lords of Elmley Castle, who 
 have held the estate since the time of Henry 
 the Seventh, have frowned on the modern 
 brick villa, and have kept this arcadian nest 
 unspoiled through all these centuries. The 
 church is one of the most ancient in the 
 county, and the interior would be a delight to 
 antiquarians, without the fine alabaster effi- 
 gies, which excite profound admiration. In 
 the churchyard is one of the most curious 
 and quaintest of carved sun-dials. 
 
 A great castle stood somewhere here on the 
 brow of the hill, but it was destroyed before 
 the present mansion came into existence in the 
 reign of Henry the Seventh. The village cot- 
 tages were probably built about the same time, 
 though some of them may be older, and the 
 village cross itself dates back so far that no- 
 body knows just when it was erected. 
 
 104
 
 Clerk's Hill Farm 
 
 Two Academy pictures lately exhibited have 
 had Elmley Castle as a background. " The 
 Wandering Musicians," which was exhibited 
 in 1899, has the village cross, and another 
 picture, called " The Dead and the Living 
 and a Life to Redeem," in which the figures 
 are moving about the old sun-dial, was hung 
 in the Academy this year. All around the 
 base of Breden Hill are villages which de- 
 serve a visit; quaint, simple old places, with 
 ancient churches, picturesque cottages, and a 
 wealth of flowers. There is Pershore, with 
 its great Early English church and stone 
 bridge; Wick with its old-world houses; and 
 Beckford with its wonderful box avenue. 
 
 The expedition to Elmley Castle ended our 
 long walks. We did the rest of our exploring 
 in the motor-car. Wickhampton, where Pe- 
 nelope Washington lies buried under a stone 
 bearing a coat of arms of the stars and stripes, 
 is quite within walking distance, but it is also 
 on the way to Broadway. Turning aside from 
 the highway we stopped at a little church and 
 manor-house where had dwelt the young 
 cousin of George Washington. Her mother 
 had married in second nuptials into the 
 Sandys family, and she came to live in the 
 comfortable, homelike manor-house, which 
 
 105
 
 Among English Inns 
 
 with its dove-cote and moat, stands so near the 
 dear little church where she sleeps her last 
 sleep. The house is half-timbered black and 
 white, in the style so popular in Queen Eliza- 
 beth's time. The great oak beams are warped 
 here and there by age, but it is withal so 
 bright, so sunny, with its cheerful garden and 
 pleasant lawn, that you can only fancy happi- 
 ness in such an abode. 
 
 Penelope Washington's grave in the church 
 is inside the chancel rail, and is placed at the 
 foot of two really splendid monuments erected 
 to the memory of members of the Sandys 
 family. The fine effigies have escaped all 
 mutilation, the gilt paint on the canopies has 
 defied the ravages of time, and the colours 
 of the heraldic shields are as fresh as when 
 they were first put on. The old church itself, 
 with the narrow choir arch, the queer little 
 pulpit, and old pews, looks just as it did when 
 gentle Penelope came here with her mother 
 to pray. 
 
 Broadway is five miles from Evesham, built 
 on the side of the Cotswolds, and has more 
 of the dignity of a very small town than the 
 simple quality of a village. It is the resort 
 of artists, writers, and musicians. Abbey 
 lived here for some time, and the backgrounds 
 
 1 06
 
 HOME OF PENELOPE WASHINGTON. — LAST REST- 
 ING-PLACE OF PENELOPE WASHINGTON
 
 Clerk's Hill Farm 
 
 of some of his illustrations were plainly taken 
 from sketches made in this village. Every 
 one ought to trip around Broadway in flow- 
 ered brocade and quilted petticoats. The 
 houses are all Tudor, and there are but few 
 gardens on the street. The Lygon Arms (the 
 Broadway inn) is a small mansion. Mine 
 host, the picture of a rosy country squire, 
 showed us all over the charming old hos- 
 telry. Polly's incredulity as to the age of 
 the inn as an inn almost caused disaster, 
 and the Invalid's ire when Cromwell's bed- 
 room was pointed out was a close second. 
 
 "What was Cromwell doing here? He 
 should have been chasing kings," she broke 
 out, though why Cromwell should not have 
 rested himself for pleasure in this very com- 
 fortable big chamber, none of us except the 
 Invalid knew, but she is intimate with his- 
 torical characters, and the rest of us are just a 
 trifle ignorant, so we never dispute her, for 
 fear of being vanquished. 
 
 Mary Anderson lives in Broadway, and 
 owns a charming house at the top of the vil- 
 lage street, while at the other end, near the 
 Green, lives Frank Millet, the painter. 
 
 " Broadway is beautiful, and Broadway is 
 stately, and Broadway is aristocratic, but I 
 
 107
 
 Among English Inns 
 
 should prefer to paint Elmley Castle, and I 
 shall live in Cropthorne," said Polly. 
 
 Broadway, with an accent on the Broad, 
 has other attraction beside the Tudor houses, 
 and, after we have had tea out of a broken- 
 nosed teapot, which the Invalid sneeringly 
 calls " a Cromwell relic," bread, butter, and 
 jam, and paid a shilling and three pence each 
 for the meal, we explored the village a bit, 
 and then started off where roads shaded by 
 fine trees led through undulating country to 
 the beautifully kept park where Lord Elcho's 
 house, Stanway Hall, stands behind a superb 
 gateway, designed by Inigo Jones. Long 
 avenues of trees and broad stretches of turf 
 and woody hillsides are at Stanway Hall, and 
 a little beyond is Toddington, once the estate 
 of Lord Suddely, who proudly claimed de- 
 scent from that Tracy who distinguished him- 
 self by making away with Thomas a Becket. 
 One of the modern Lords of Suddely indulged 
 in a fatal taste for speculation, with the result 
 that the great park is now in the hands of a 
 rich Newcastle collier. 
 
 Another pretty estate, Stanton, lies nearer 
 Broadway. Polly dwelt in the land of her 
 favourite gentry. The car ran past one estate 
 after another, large and small parks and farm 
 
 108
 
 Clerks Hill Farm 
 
 lands, model villages, and the graceful arches 
 which mark the ruins of another vanished 
 abbey, — that of St. Mary Hailes. In this 
 abbey, now slowly falling, was preserved 
 the bones of Henry of Almayn, a nephew of 
 King Henry the Third. He was slain in Italy 
 by the sons of Simon de Montfort in revenge 
 for the part his father took against the earl. 
 According to the cheerful custom of the time, 
 his heart was enshrined in the tomb of Ed- 
 ward the Confessor, his flesh was buried in 
 Rome, and his bones at St. Mary Hailes, 
 where the monks boasted of having the real 
 blood of Christ. If any town ever grew up 
 about this abbey, it has now completely dis- 
 appeared. One solitary farmhouse remains 
 near the ivy-draped arches of the former 
 cloister. 
 
 We saw evidences of the rule of the abbots 
 scattered all along our road in the huge tithe- 
 barns or in ruined chapels, which antedate the 
 Norman period, and were evidently estab- 
 lished by the monks for the sake of the coun- 
 try people who lived too far from the abbey 
 to attend the churches there. 
 
 One week proved far too short, however, 
 to permit even a glimpse at all the treasures 
 of Evesham's neighbourhood; the fates were 
 
 109
 
 Among English Inns 
 
 against us. As every one knows, it sometimes 
 rains in England, and some of the rainiest 
 days of our trip befell us in Evesham. The 
 skies began to let down torrents in the night, 
 and, when we came down to breakfast, there 
 was a dreary drizzle falling on the big bushes 
 of La France roses in front of our window. 
 It rained down on the other roses as well, but 
 somehow the gay pink bushes looked saddest 
 on the wet mornings. Polly we found stand- 
 ing in front of the small grate looking as hope- 
 lessly disconsolate as the roses. A few sticks 
 of wood standing upright and one or two lone- 
 some lumps of coal were trying in vain to 
 start into a glow. 
 
 " Why don't you send for the blower? " 
 said the Matron, her housekeeper's instinct 
 at once alert. 
 
 "Why? why? Because a blower is an un- 
 known commodity in this house. The little 
 maid has never heard of one." 
 
 " Did you try sign language? " asked the 
 Invalid. " Perhaps blowers have perhaps 
 other names here." 
 
 " Not only did I try sign language, but the 
 little maid looked at me with the rapture of 
 a discoverer when I held the newspaper up 
 to cause a draught. She knows what blower 
 
 no
 
 Clerk's Hill Farm 
 
 means. She says she has heard they had them 
 down Birmingham way. The only help she 
 could give me was to lie prone on the floor 
 and make a human bellows of herself." 
 
 " It must be cheerful here on winter morn- 
 ings to get up and start life with that sort of 
 a fire," the Matron was beginning to say when 
 our landlady came in with the coffee. 
 
 " English fires only ask to be let alone," 
 she said, finishing the Matron's remarks. 
 " They will burn by themselves without out- 
 side encouragement when they get ready." 
 
 This proved to be a fact. By the time we 
 had eaten breakfast, with cold shivers running 
 down our backs, the fire was beginning to 
 show itself willing to warm us in a gentle 
 English fashion. A rainy day is famous for 
 correspondence. Those who had no letters 
 to write did the family mending, and stared 
 out the window between stitches. The roses 
 went on blooming and the birds kept on sing- 
 ing, the far-away Cotswold changed colour 
 every moment, going from dark green to light 
 yellow, from brilliant sea-green to dark blue. 
 A rainbow showed itself at intervals to de- 
 ceive us, and the meadows and plum orchards 
 had moments of hopeful brightness, but the 
 downpour kept on in floods just the same. 
 
 in
 
 Among English Inns 
 
 Wet weather seldom troubles the English 
 pleasure-seeker, we observed, and on Our 
 Rainy Day the little river steamer went purl- 
 ing along as usual. The ship's music (pro- 
 duced by the lone effort of one cornet) 
 sounded vigorously in the damp atmosphere, 
 and we even caught sight of an overgay pas- 
 senger executing a jig quite alone on the small 
 deck. 
 
 The clouds broke late in the afternoon to 
 make way for a flaming sunset, and the new 
 moon popped out of the sky, a polished silver 
 crescent. The red town roofs became even 
 redder, and a soft mist arose, marking the 
 course of the Avon. 
 
 Polly and I got our feet into " galoshes " 
 and started off to town. We found every shop 
 closed, and we were leaving on the morrow 
 without half the photographs we needed! It 
 was Early Closing Day. Early Closing Day 
 is the plague of the traveller in England. 
 You never know when you are coming 
 upon it. 
 
 Each town has its own day in the week on 
 which it chooses to take an afternoon holiday. 
 Promptly at two o'clock every shopkeeper 
 locks his door fast, and, from the chemist 
 down to the cobbler, the most vigorous knock- 
 
 112
 
 Clerk's Hill Farm 
 
 ing will not induce him to open an inch for a 
 customer. The shopkeeper and all his as- 
 sistants then go off to enjoy the afternoon, each 
 in his favourite way. 
 
 We wandered down Bridge Street, prop- 
 erly indignant, as becomes the American away 
 from home, seeing the desired photographs 
 behind the glass of the windows to exasperate 
 us, while we shook the shop doors in vain. 
 
 " Why can't we console our sore hearts by 
 going to the theatre to-night? " I said. 
 
 I had caught sight just then among the 
 pictures of a brilliant yellow playbill, on 
 which stood in large letters: 
 
 " Evesham Theatre, 
 " Mrs. Sinclair, Proprietress, 
 " Sir Henry Irving, Patron." 
 
 followed by a most exciting list of plays. 
 
 I had many a time looked with longing eyes 
 at the barn-like structure of combined cor- 
 rugated iron and canvas, which stood by a 
 strong picket fence opposite the Pleasure 
 Grounds. This was the home of the drama in 
 Evesham. We had no sooner revealed to one 
 another the innermost desire of our souls 
 awakened by the brilliant playbill than we 
 started off in hot haste to secure tickets. Down 
 
 113
 
 Among Rnglish Inns 
 
 VICTORIA THEATRE 
 
 Proprietress 
 Patron 
 
 • Mrs. M. C. SINCLAIR. 
 Sir HENRY IRVING. 
 
 MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 22nd. 
 
 Reproduction of the New and Original Play, of intense local Interest, written by the author of 
 the " Cainpden Wonder." and entitled— 
 
 Or. THE MYSTERY OF THE ABBEY RUINS. 
 
 (A Romance of other Days). 
 
 HEW LOCAL SCENERY. Painted by Frank Wallia 
 " DRESSES OF THE FERIOP. 
 
 Hogfc C"tHT»J . . . 
 
 Ormolu) rtui hoU-U jOjp*^   
 
 Ittigef II fn.:u 
 
 fob Comfort (Th» Wl» tUs tma | ^ R c eind»» 
 
 r Will. Sinclair 
 r. D.J. BindMf 
 Mr. All Millar 
 
 MARVELLOUS EFFECTS. Ac. *o 
 
 SfluHutej „ M- A D Ward 
 
 IV. r'-~,,!r, .. . . Mr E. B*dde!o? 
 
 r*impL- Burnm ,. .. L.U1* Bckj WrJJj 
 
 Felicia . i • *• Idiu Alio* Sinclair 
 
 Miu flonnn . ,. UiM P. Wallta 
 
 Mori* • •• • MIm Man* Pool* 
 
 ACT L— DOWN THE AVON An old-time Outing The Hermit's Cave at Salford Priors 
 
 The Love that kills. 
 AOT a— THE WEDDING EVE- An unwelcome GueBt and an unexpected eummori. 
 
 THE ABBEY RUINS (by Moonlight). The Brothers. A same of Life and Death 
 
 THE DUEL AMONG THE TOMiltJ _ _ _ 
 
 ACT 3— THE WEDDING MORNING Th6 MtBslnp 1 Brtdegraam A Disappointed Party. 
 
 The Search— Sin eular result. THE MYSTERY OF THE TOMB 
 ACT 4 —AFTER TWELVE MONTHS. -Change of circumstances A ruined Father and an 
 
 Obedient Daughter The Breaking Heart FELICIA'S DREAM, illustrated by a 
 
 Berles of MARVELLOUS LIFE-LIKE PICTURES (Invented, Taken, and 
 
 Worked by Mr. H. C Sinclair). 
 H B — An effect never before worked on any stage The Joy Bells and Happy Denouement. 
 
 A New Grand Historical Play, by the Author of " The Cainpden Woni.cr," " Evesham in 
 1730," Ac, &c , entitled— THE 
 
 BATTLE OF EVESHAM 
 
 Or, THE LAST DAYS OF SIMON DE MONTFORT 
 
 Will be produpftd Bhortly. 
 
 lIlallijMlWlinTT— — r ~" ■■IMIIIir— - HI— I Will ■■!■ Ill— ■! II   ■■■!!■— I"— W 
 
 N B — In Active Preparation, and will Shortly be Produced— 
 
 She Stoops to Conquer. Siberia 
 
 T he Maid of the Mount ain, _&c, Ac. 
 
 PRICES OF ADMISSION. —Reserved Seats Is. 6d., Bozes Is., Stalls Q&* 
 Fit 6d., Gallery 3d. ; :Half price to First and Second Seats at Nine 
 o'clock. Doors open at 7, commence at 7.30. 
 
 ,mmmi aji i.i i i   i ii i i i , i . ^ ,'n -m — 9 — ii i ill i   y ^ M— W 
 
 Ur W. COTTER 
 
 OtmSnetor (Violin) _ — _ — Mr FRAtfK 0. WALLI& 
 
 Cornettint Br EERBERT O&tRHT PlaalBt ... Mr. JAJtES OOOBBV 
 
 Beooni VioUn Mr BEN8LEY OHEHT Violoncello 
 
 w » a. nota im~ sS iZSmu «•/••», indo 
 
 114
 
 Clerks Hill Farm 
 
 we went over the bridge, past the Pleasure 
 Grounds, to where the " Victoria Theatre ' 
 hung out a sign like an inn. But the high 
 picket fence protecting the playhouse had 
 apparently no gate. Our anticipated evening 
 pleasure seemed slipping away from us. 
 
 " Perhaps the house is sold out and the 
 ticket-sellers have gone home," sighed Polly. 
 No theatre is without its hanger-on, who, if 
 not the rose, would be near the rose, and a 
 loiterer without the sacred picket, seeing our 
 longing looks, came to our aid. 
 
 " If you are looking for tickets," he said, 
 " here comes one of the young men. He will 
 take you to Mrs. Sinclair." 
 
 To Mrs. Sinclair! into the very presence 
 of the manager! 
 
 We approached timidly and were soon fol- 
 lowing the youth through the yard of the 
 Northwick Arms next door, dodging behind 
 sheds until we finally emerged in a broad 
 field, where were gathered a colony of trav- 
 elling-vans. The young man led us to the 
 brightest and smartest of these little houses 
 on wheels. 
 
 " Here's some ladies as wants good tickets, 
 Mrs. Sinclair," he called out. We had told 
 him our business. A smiling, pleasant woman 
 
 I][ 5
 
 Among English Inns 
 
 appeared at the door and invited us to climb 
 the ladder-like doorstep into her home. We 
 mounted with beating hearts. All our desires 
 were being fulfilled at once. We were going 
 to see the play, and, better still, the inside of 
 one of those vans whose possession we envied 
 the commonest peddler. 
 
 Mrs. Sinclair lived in no gipsy fashion. 
 The outside of her van was as beautiful as 
 a state carriage; the little windows were 
 adorned with boxes of trailing nasturtiums 
 and curtained with lace. Within, the cosy 
 sitting-room had gas " laid on," an open fire- 
 place, a sofa and easy chairs, and goldfish 
 swimming gaily around in a big glass globe 
 among the plants inside the window. I never 
 took much interest in goldfish before, but 
 goldfish who lived in a travelling-van became 
 instantly different from those who only mi- 
 grate once in life from a bird-shop to a nursery 
 window or dressmaker's parlour. 
 
 The question of tickets was settled speedily. 
 We got the best places at eighteen pence each, 
 and then were invited to inspect Mrs. Sin- 
 clair's " little 'ome " and " h'airy bedroom " 
 next to the parlour. Clean and tidy it looked 
 to us, although we were begged to excuse the 
 disorder because, the lady of the house said, 
 
 116
 
 Clerk's Hill Farm 
 
 she had been " turnin' out," in other words, 
 putting her belongings in rights. 
 
 " The kitchen is in another van," she told 
 us; "we don't like to smell up our little 
 'ome." 
 
 Polly and I longed to be invited to dinner, 
 or even to tea, but time was flying; there 
 were signs of activity in the acting colony. 
 
 We saw figures going in and out of the 
 stage-door in the distant theatre, and Mrs. 
 Sinclair told us that, although half-past seven 
 was the usual hour for beginning the play, 
 they sometimes opened earlier, if the crowd 
 around the door was great and vociferous. 
 We had learned that the Victoria Theatre 
 travels from Evesham in the summer to 
 Shakespeare's own town, Stratford upon 
 Avon, for the winter. The Victoria Theatre 
 is a theatre rich in financial advantages. The 
 scenic artist is leader of the orchestra, painter 
 and musician. The dramatist most popular 
 with the audience is a member of the com- 
 pany, all royalties being thus directed into 
 the home treasury. The company of actors 
 is largely a family affair. I fancy that cos- 
 tumes and properties are also home-made. 
 
 Pasteboard is saved by the ingenious 
 method of writing the name of the patron 
 
 117
 
 Among English Inns 
 
 of the expensive seats upon a bit of paper, 
 which is put in the box-office to be called for. 
 Another praiseworthy custom of the Evesham 
 theatre is the selling of half-time tickets. If 
 you dine late, you come late and pay less; or, 
 if you go to the play and are not pleased, you 
 can leave before the play ends, and so save 
 money. 
 
 " Would we could do the same thing in 
 New York," said Polly, whose economical 
 soul is often tortured by the inability to get 
 her money back when she is too bored to sit 
 through a play. 
 
 Our friends hailed our plan with joy, and, 
 although we hurried through our dinners, the 
 attendance before the gates must have been 
 numerous and noisy that night, for, when we 
 arrived, shortly after half-past seven, the play 
 was in full blast and the house crowded to 
 repletion. There were no half-time tickets 
 sold, I am sure; the play was too stirring. 
 The drama dealt with an occurrence near 
 Evesham some hundred years ago, and was 
 called the " Camden Wonder." 
 
 A man named Harrison, the agent of an 
 estate, was out collecting rents, when he was 
 seized by ruffians, hurried on board a ship, 
 and finally sold as a slave. His servant, one
 
 Clerk's Hill Farm 
 
 John Perry, none too strong in his wits, went 
 clean daft under the stress of fright and anx- 
 iety, and declared that he had murdered his 
 master with the help of his brother and of 
 his mother, who were tenants of the man Har- 
 rison. So plausible was the crazy man's con- 
 fession that not only he, but his mother and 
 brother were hanged, in spite of their frantic 
 protestations of innocence. Long years after 
 this tragic event, the missing man returned, 
 to the horror of all concerned. It was this 
 stirring local tragedy we went to see, and it 
 had lost nothing in the hands of the actor- 
 dramatist. The scene-painter, too, had pro- 
 duced marvels of nature on the canvas. The 
 orchestra had a lugubrious motif f©r the mis- 
 erable, sad servant, which was played every 
 time he dragged his weary shape across the 
 stage. 
 
 Each act had numerous scenes. A sprightly 
 London detective of the nineteenth-century 
 type was introduced, to the delight of the 
 three-penny seats, — called by courtesy the 
 gallery. He was a little out of place in the 
 eighteenth century, but he fulfilled his mis- 
 sion and spoke up boldly. 
 
 We missed the first view of Mr. Harrison. 
 When we were ushered into our cushioned 
 
 119
 
 Among English Inns 
 
 bench, he had left the scene in bitter anger 
 because John Perry's mother could not pay 
 her rent, but also because in the delinquent 
 tenant's cottage he found his son making love 
 to a girl "too poor to be his wife." Our sym- 
 pathies were thus at once enlisted against " old 
 Harrison," as he was called throughout the 
 play. We did not see anybody when we came 
 in but John Perry, a dark-visaged individual 
 who had neglected to comb his hair, and who 
 found great difficulty in moving his jaw when 
 he spoke, greatly to the disgust of the three- 
 pennyites. He had a ball-and-chain walk, 
 and we were against him from the first, but 
 he told us all the news. 
 
 A quick change of scene gave the London 
 detective a splendid entrance in disguise. Pie 
 captured two highwaymen just by way of 
 showing what he could do, and put the 
 thrip'nnies in such a state of excitement that 
 they had to be quelled by the ringing of a 
 huge dinner-bell. 
 
 There were no evening dresses or stupid 
 conventionalities at the Victoria Theatre. 
 The air was thick with smoke, and a senti- 
 ment of home-like liberty prevailed. An 
 orchestra of one piano, one cornetist, and two 
 violins dispensed music appropriate to the 
 
 1 20
 
 Clerk's Hill Farm 
 
 drama, and a brilliant drop-curtain, repre- 
 senting a scene in a world of imagination, 
 occupied with its mysteries the intervals be- 
 tween the acts. 
 
 Local dramas are highly popular at the 
 Evesham theatre. We longed to stop over for 
 " Evesham in 1730," to be given the next 
 night. We were assured by a speech made 
 by one of the leading characters before the 
 curtain that this drama was resplendent with 
 great effects of costume, electric lights, and 
 scenery. 
 
 A friend who had once been present at an- 
 other exciting play, " The Battle of Eve- 
 sham," told us that the queen in this drama, 
 gorgeous in splendid robes, stepped out of 
 the fireplace, which served as well for a 
 portal, and, holding up her jewelled finger, 
 said, " Hush! " while the equally magnificent 
 king sprang forward, surprised and delighted, 
 shouting, "My Yelenor!" 
 
 We believe this to be calumny. We lost 
 many points, doubtless witty and brilliant, 
 owing to a somewhat immovable jaw with 
 which several of the actors were afflicted, and 
 a lisp or two among the actresses interfered 
 sadly with their coherency, but the accom- 
 plished elocutionists of the company treated 
 
 121
 
 Among English Inns 
 
 the dreadful letter " h " with respect. It was 
 weak at times, but we felt its presence always. 
 
 The morning after our theatre-party treat, 
 we took our way toward Derbyshire by way 
 of Tewkesbury, the town of the great battle, 
 of the great abbey, and of the great novel by 
 Miss Mulock, "John Halifax, Gentleman." 
 
 Bright and early we bade a sad farewell 
 to our comfortable lodgings, to the roses, to 
 the thrushes, the trees, and the river, and we 
 promised our gentle hostess to come back to 
 her some day. The Invalid filled the air with 
 lamentations and regrets for the sights left 
 unseen; the Matron sighed for more picnic 
 teas by the river; Polly rejoiced in the small 
 amount we had drawn from the treasury. 
 
 Tewkesbury is only fourteen miles from 
 Evesham, and we wished we might have 
 found it possible to go there by the motor-car, 
 but we could not arrange it to every one's 
 satisfaction, so we were forced to go by the 
 Midland Railway. It is a pleasant journey 
 by rail, and pretty little stations lie all along 
 the route. At Ashchurch we had the choice 
 of waiting an hour for the train on the branch 
 road to Tewkesbury, or of walking two miles. 
 This was an easy matter to decide on a day 
 when the sun shines down clear and bright 
 
 122
 
 Clerk's Hill Farm 
 
 on a broad, straight road, such as the station- 
 master pointed out to us. The foot-path worn 
 along the side proved that we were not the 
 only impatient souls who objected to waiting 
 at Ashchurch Junction. 
 
 " We are getting to walk almost like Eng- 
 lish girls. We have gone two miles in less 
 than an hour," said Polly, as we saw the be- 
 ginnings of Tewkesbury on either side of us. 
 
 It was not so much of a feat, for the road 
 is perfectly even and almost without a curve. 
 We had arrived before the train. 
 
 Tewkesbury streets, full of ancient half- 
 timbered houses, have forgotten all about 
 time. They are still dreaming of the Wars 
 of the Roses and the rule of the abbots. As 
 we made our way up the Church Street to 
 the abbey, the irregular, overhanging gables, 
 the projecting galleries of centuries past, 
 filled our souls with artistic delight. At the 
 end of it, almost blocking the way, stands the 
 Bell Inn, a most perfect specimen of sixteenth- 
 century architecture. It was the house which 
 Miss Mulock took as the home of Abel 
 Fletcher in her novel. 
 
 ' We will eat our luncheon here, and talk 
 about John after we have seen Tewkesbury," 
 decided the Matron. 
 
 123
 
 Among English Inns 
 
 The Abbey Church is just across the street 
 from the Bell Inn. The street takes a sharp 
 turn by the side of the inn, and we did not 
 see the great church behind the trees of the 
 churchyard until we were quite in front of 
 the Bell. It is almost a cathedral, — rough 
 and bold, as are all Norman structures. 
 
 The exterior of Tewkesbury Abbey Church 
 is bold rather than beautiful. It is strong, 
 solemn, symbolic of the times when it was 
 built. The interior is very impressive. 
 
 " The grandeur of this nave, its great, sim- 
 ple columns, stirs my religious nature very 
 deeply," declared the Matron, and we all 
 silently agreed with her. 
 
 There is nothing so genuine, so imposing, 
 as the pure Norman. Norman architecture is 
 a frozen choral. The tombs about the choir 
 are of much more ornamental character. One 
 of them, which is built about a horrible effigy 
 of a monk long dead, has the richest work- 
 manship. It is said the upper part was the 
 model for the canopy for the throne in the 
 House of Parliament. We were told the 
 brave little prince, last of the House of Lan- 
 caster, who perished so cruelly in the battle of 
 Tewkesbury, was buried here in the abbey, 
 together with many of the nobles who were 
 
 124
 
 X 
 
 35 
 ■Ji 
 
 W 
 
 w 
 
 H 
 
 ■z 
 z 
 
 J 
 
 a 
 
 S3 
 
 w 
 
 X
 
 Clerk's Hill Farm 
 
 killed on that fatal day. The Despencer, who 
 made himself hated as a king's favourite in 
 the time of the first Edward, was laid under 
 a magnificent tomb, but it was entirely des- 
 troyed at the time of the dissolution. The 
 Duke of Somerset, beheaded in Tewkesbury 
 market-place after the battle, the Duke of 
 Clarence, who chose to perish through Malm- 
 sey wine, Lord Wenlock, and many of the 
 Despencer family, lie here under fine tombs. 
 Among these ambitious, warlike dead is a 
 tablet to the memory of Dinah Maria Mulock, 
 — Mrs. Craik, — who wrote the immortal 
 history of a gentleman, a book as fresh, as 
 delightful to the young generation as it was 
 to their grandmothers, and which will bring 
 more pilgrims to Tewkesbury than all the 
 great fighters now lying at peace in the Abbey 
 Church. 
 
 Tewkesbury has changed but little since 
 Miss Mulock's time. The Bowling Green, 
 where readers of the novel will remember 
 that John Halifax and Phineas Fletcher had 
 one of their first intimate talks, is behind the 
 Bell Inn, and the entrance is still through the 
 kitchen and fruit garden, — " a large square, 
 chiefly grass, bounded by its broad gravel 
 walk; and above that, apparently shut in as 
 
 125
 
 Among English Inns 
 
 with an impassable barrier from the outer 
 world, by a three-sided fence, the high wall, 
 the yew hedge, and the river," — so Miss 
 Mulock described the place. The yew hedge 
 is immensely tall, and over it can be seen the 
 square tower of the Abbey Church. There are 
 comfortable arbours, where tea is served from 
 the inn, and the hedge has been cut away on 
 the river side, making a lookout in this direc- 
 tion upon the narrow Avon. The mill, once 
 belonging to the abbots, which Miss Mulock 
 makes the terrible scene of poor Abel Fletch- 
 er's angry madness, is still standing. Beyond 
 and far away over the green we could see 
 small white sails on the Severn, which seem 
 to skim along the meadows, that is the broad 
 plain on which York and Lancaster ended 
 the War of the Roses in the one great deci- 
 sive battle of Tewkesbury. Peaceful grazing 
 cattle and a few boys with long fishing-rods 
 are the only dots on this huge land where once 
 men fought so savagely, brother against 
 brother. 
 
 11 It is big enough to furnish a battle-ground 
 for four armies at the same time," said the 
 Invalid. 
 
 None of us have had enough warlike ex- 
 perience to disagree with her. We know that 
 
 126
 
 Clerk's Hill Farm 
 
 here poor, unhappy, ambitious Queen Mar- 
 garet made her last stand for her husband 
 and son, and that here the brave young Prince 
 of Wales, crushed by the insulting blow from 
 Edward of York's gauntlet, fell and was 
 stabbed to death; and that the weak husband, 
 Henry of Lancaster, paid the price of this 
 fight by death in the Tower. Along the river- 
 bank near the mill an ancient group of houses 
 are still standing which we like to think were 
 there on the day of the great victory of the 
 House of York. 
 
 The narrow lanes and crooked streets we 
 have read of in "John Halifax" still lead 
 down to the banks of the Avon. Inside the 
 Bell the low, square rooms with high, plain 
 oak wainscoting, where we eat our lunch, the 
 countless queer cupboards in the corners, the 
 dark, winding staircase and the uneven floors, 
 all speak of an age as great as the abbey ruins. 
 Our association with the house, however, con- 
 cerns that more modern and very real person- 
 age, John Halifax, Gentleman, and we enjoy 
 our lunch much better for feeling sure we are 
 in that room where, " to Jack's great wrath, 
 and my (Phineas) great joy, John Halifax 
 was bidden, and sat down to the same board 
 as his master." 
 
 127
 
 Among English Inns 
 
 We walked down the narrow, winding 
 street on our way back to the station, with 
 enough time before us to stop and admire the 
 interesting old buildings which have been so 
 well preserved. Tewkesbury was in a fair 
 way, some thirty or forty years ago, to lose 
 most of its architectural treasures through 
 neglect and carelessness. Fortunately, some 
 art-loving citizens took the matter in hand, 
 many of the decaying buildings were restored, 
 the modern ugly plaster fronts were torn off 
 of others, the fine ancient carved beams and 
 supports thus exposed to view, the old case- 
 ments mended, and the curious gables pre- 
 served. During the course of these restora- 
 tions some wonderful old bits of archi- 
 tecture were discovered, and now the visitor 
 to Tewkesbury town can gaze on work done 
 in the fourteenth century, or even earlier. 
 House fronts are here which looked down on 
 the armed men of the king-making Duke of 
 Warwick, and on the gay doings of Eliza- 
 bethan nobles. 
 
 " It is cruel to rush us away from this de- 
 lightful old place," said the Matron, with her 
 nose deep in the sixpenny " Hand-Book of 
 Old Tewkesbury;" "there are enough deli- 
 cious old houses to keep me busy for a week." 
 
 128
 
 Clerk's Hill Farm 
 
 " Then you must come back again," said 
 stern Polly, flourishing the through tickets 
 she had bought at Ashchurch. " Our lug- 
 gage is labelled Rowsley, and probably on its 
 changing way to Derbyshire at this very mo- 
 ment." 
 
 " Tewkesbury is not entirely without mod- 
 ern comforts," observed the Invalid. " There 
 is the bill-board of the opera house." 
 
 " And what a play! " exclaims the shocked 
 Matron. " Here, with large, respectable fam- 
 ilies of small children tumbling out of every 
 doorway, they present ' The Gay Grisette! ' " 
 
 The Treasurer softly laughed at the 
 Matron's virtuous indignation, and then 
 shooed us along like hens to catch our train. 
 
 " I don't see why we did not walk all the 
 way to Ashchurch," was what we sang in 
 chorus. The station seemed about two miles 
 from the centre of the town, and a long part 
 of the walk was through such ugly new streets 
 that we were sorry to have discovered them 
 in delightful old Tewkesbury. But, before 
 the train took us off, the view from the station 
 platform of the winding Severn River, and 
 the battle-plain with the high hills of Mal- 
 vern, looking down at a blue distance on the 
 square tower of the Abbey Church rising 
 
 129
 
 Among English Inns 
 
 among the trees, shut out the remembrance 
 of the shabby new villas. 
 
 "Good-bye, Tewkesbury!" sighs the Ma- 
 tron. " We are off for an afternoon on the 
 exciting railway of Great Britain, but, if we 
 had known how enchanting you were, even 
 our Treasurer should not have hurried us 
 away from you." 
 
 130
 
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 PEACOCK INN 
 Rowsley 
 
 H E way from 
 Tewkesbu ry 
 to Derby is 
 through Burton 
 and Birmingham, and that is a tale of a 
 smoky, dull lookout. The air had become 
 misty, and the sullen atmosphere of these 
 great manufacturing cities had spread over 
 all the intervening country. Of course we 
 changed at Birmingham, but luckily we had 
 no wait there, and soon got beyond the cloud 
 which hung over busy Derby before the sun- 
 set hour. 
 
 A chipper old gentleman invaded our car- 
 riage at Derby, and at once began conversa- 
 tion by asking us if we were off for a tour. 
 When, by our answer, he discovered us to 
 
 131
 
 Among English Inns 
 
 be from the United States, he at once pro- 
 ceeded to enlighten us about the small towns 
 we were passing. 
 
 The mist was rising in the meadow-land 
 which lay far below the track, and beatified 
 sheep and legless cattle appeared grazing 
 there on clouds, dipping their heads solemnly 
 into the ethereal food; the sky was full of 
 the glory of an after-sunset glow, and the mist 
 took from it the soft tints of rose petals. Here 
 and there on the side of the hills were mys- 
 terious swirls, as though the elves were start- 
 ing out for an evening lark under a cloud just . 
 their size. 
 
 The old gentleman left us at a station with 
 the surprising name of Whatstandwell, after 
 he had filled us with local information. At 
 Duffield, he told us, lived George Eliot for 
 a time, when she was writing " Adam Bede," 
 a novel which has its action among this scen- 
 ery and in the town of Derby. There is also 
 at Duffield the remains of a great Norman 
 castle, which must have been very splendid in 
 its day. 
 
 At Belper a great plague devastated the 
 whole town early in the seventeenth century, 
 and in its churchyard fifty-three of the vic- 
 tims lie buried. We didn't see much of the 
 
 132
 
 w 
 J 
 
 o 
 
 o 
 
 H 
 
 W 
 
 X 
 
 z 
 o
 
 Peacock Inn 
 
 town at the time this sad tale was being told 
 us. We were then under the earth in one of 
 the numerous tunnels hereabouts, but we 
 trusted the old gentleman. Where What- 
 standwell got its name we failed to discover. 
 Our chatty acquaintance left us so abruptly 
 that not until he had departed did we see the 
 extraordinary name of his home village. 
 
 The scenery became after this, with each 
 mile, more interesting. Derbyshire at first 
 looks somewhat dreary to eyes accustomed to 
 the smiling gardens and orchards of Worces- 
 tershire. The gray rocks crop out of the dark 
 green hillside, the houses are built of dull- 
 coloured stone from the near-by quarries, and 
 long lines of carefully constructed stone fences 
 stretch away for miles. The river Derwent 
 winds and twists, first on one side of the track 
 and then on the other. The narrow valley is 
 here a picturesque gorge, with the villages 
 of Matlock Bridge and Matlock Bath hang- 
 ing on the precipitous sides and looking like 
 bits from Tyrol. 
 
 Rowsley is a little dark group of stone 
 houses lying together in the hollow, and it 
 is not until we had left the train that we saw 
 how broad the valley had grown since we 
 looked out on Matlock Bridge, or how much 
 
 133
 
 Among English Inns 
 
 more smiling the soft green hills became when 
 topped with purple at the twilight hour. 
 
 It is but a step down the road from the 
 station to the Peacock Inn, a hostelry noted 
 all over England. The house was built as a 
 hunting-lodge for the Dukes of Rutland. 
 The date above the door is 1552. Ivy climbs 
 all over the porch, sparing only the carved 
 peacock which crowns the top. It drapes with 
 its shining green the stone casements, and even 
 encroaches upon the roof. The entrance-hall 
 is low and square, with those decorations of 
 rods and guns so dear to the sportsman. The 
 serious old lady who came forward to inquire 
 our wishes had all the airs and graces of a 
 duchess. Her black silk gown, her lace collar, 
 and her lack of the usual hostess's welcoming 
 smile rather disturbed even Polly's assurance. 
 She heard our names, acknowledged our tele- 
 gram, and waved us off to the care of a maid, 
 who, quite as seriously as her mistress, con- 
 ducted us to our sitting-room. 
 
 Polly as usual recovered first from the chill, 
 and began to order about the maid in her 
 haughtiest manner, a proceeding which had 
 the desired effect. All our small belongings 
 were carried humbly before her when she 
 went to select the bedrooms. 
 
 T 34
 
 Peacock Inn 
 
 " The flowers at least are giving us warm 
 greeting," remarked the Matron, as she looked 
 out through glass doors upon the beautiful 
 garden, skilfully hidden from the road by 
 a stone wall and tall shrubs and trees. We 
 had not even suspected there was a garden 
 as we passed on our way from the station. 
 The twilight was shedding a misty spell over 
 the great clumps of many-coloured flowers 
 with which the smooth lawn was broken, and 
 the maid, less stolid since Polly had disci- 
 plined her, was laying the cloth for our din- 
 ner, so we wandered out upon the gravelled 
 path, down to the river which bathes the foot 
 of the garden. 
 
 " Which is this, the Wye or the Derwent? " 
 demanded the Matron. 
 
 " You won't know this evening," answered 
 Polly, " for the maid, of course, can't tell, and 
 I wont ask the Duchess." 
 
 " The Wye goes in detached pieces all over 
 the map of England, so we will say it is the 
 Wye until we know better," decided the In- 
 valid. 
 
 That satisfied the Matron for the moment, 
 and the little murmuring stream, no wider 
 than a brook, went whispering over its stones 
 indifferent to a name, the water so clear that, 
 
 l 3S
 
 Among English Inns 
 
 even in the fading light, we could see tiny 
 fishes darting about. It curved away here 
 at the edge of the garden walk, then ran under 
 two bridges and thickly clustering trees, an 
 ideal spot for a poetic fisherman. Somewhere 
 beyond our sight the Derwent went bustling 
 along, and the two waters met on the other 
 side of the town, before a charming little 
 house, to tell each other all the gossip they 
 have gathered in their long running. 
 
 The moon came up and joined herself to 
 the picture before we went in to our dinner, 
 and the next morning all the fog and mist had 
 vanished, leaving only a few diamonds on 
 the rose-petals in the garden. 
 
 We were off for Haddon Hall before the 
 trippers arrived from Bakewell, or the first 
 tourist train from the north had discharged 
 its sightseers. The walk is from the Peacock, 
 through the straggling village street, and then 
 over the fields until suddenly Haddon Hall 
 shows itself among the trees, breaking the side 
 of the thickly wooded hill. 
 
 So much has been written and said of this 
 ancient dwelling-place of peaceful noblemen, 
 untouched since the finishing touches were 
 put to the last building in 1696, that any de- 
 scription is only an oft-repeated tale. The 
 
 136
 
 Peacock Inn 
 
 race of Vernons of Haddon Hall was a race 
 of wise, politic men, men who knew how to 
 capture heiresses, and always to keep on the 
 right side in royal disturbances. They built 
 their home for peace, not war, and war left 
 them unmolested. 
 
 Haddon Hall is a striking example of how 
 the inequalities of a hillside may be turned 
 to the greatest advantage in architecture. 
 Walls that sink low in the foreground, towers 
 and battlements that start up in the back- 
 ground, a broad terrace looking over a green 
 precipice at the side, and a wide gateway by 
 which the upper courtyard was entered from 
 the road at the hilltop. This is how Haddon 
 was built. Great forest trees grow above, be- 
 hind, and on all sides of the Hall, while down 
 from the walls to the roadside roll billowy 
 meadow-lands. 
 
 We were the first sightseers to arrive. 
 There was not a tourist in sight when we paid 
 our fee of fourpence, and were admitted into 
 the first courtyard. The keeper's daughters, 
 very bright, intelligent-looking girls, were 
 preparing for the day as we entered, arrang- 
 ing the photographs and guide-books for sale 
 on the table under the gateway. 
 
 " I think you ladies may wander on by your-
 
 Among English Inns 
 
 selves, if you choose," said the elder girl, smil- 
 ing. " You would not scribble on the walls, 
 I am sure." 
 
 " Not unless our name were Pummel," mut- 
 tered Polly, with recollections of Winchester. 
 
 The girl promised to join us before we got 
 to any locked doors, and cautioned us about 
 the dangerous stairways, so we strolled about 
 the bare rooms around the lower courtyard; 
 into the chapel, the old kitchens, and the great 
 dining-hall with its raised dais, where old- 
 time feasts were held, and where at Christmas 
 the monstrous Yule log burned in the great 
 chimney, and peacocks were served dressed in 
 their feathers, with their proud tails spread 
 over the roasted flesh; where the boar's head 
 was carried high, and followed by a long 
 train of pages. 
 
 The Vernons built the Hall at Haddon as 
 they needed it, putting up here a set of cham- 
 bers, there a lady's bower, and again a tower 
 when they wanted space for pages. They 
 began to build the present structure in 1070, 
 and the south aisle of the chapel, together 
 with portions of the wall along the south 
 front, remain to show what was done before 
 1300. Then the great hall and kitchens were 
 built, and the upper court began to grow. 
 
 138
 
 Peacock Inn 
 
 Before 1470 the east part of the chapel and 
 the east side of the upper court were finished. 
 Between that date and 1550 the inside of the 
 building under the long gallery was finished, 
 including the enchanting little dining-room, 
 carved and wainscoted to the very top, where 
 are to be seen the portraits of King Henry 
 VIL, his queen, and his jester, Will Somers, 
 carved in the wainscot. The west range of 
 buildings was put up and the west end of the 
 north range built at this same period. 
 
 By 1524, the entire outside of the Hall was 
 finished. Sir John Manners, the husband of 
 Dorothy Vernon, finished the ballroom, not- 
 withstanding the romantic legend that makes 
 him steal away that fair lady during a dance 
 in this same apartment. He even built the 
 steps down which she is said to have eloped. 
 Being a most eligible match, a husband of 
 whom her father thoroughly approved, it is 
 not in the least likely that she had to run away 
 at all. 
 
 This ballroom — the long gallery as it is 
 called — is one of the most beautiful rooms 
 in England. The crest of the Manners first 
 appears here, where on the frieze the peacock 
 alternates with the boar's head, the rose and 
 the thistle. 
 
 i39
 
 Among English Inns 
 
 The great square recesses of the many- 
 paned windows look out at an enchanting view 
 across the loveliest terrace known to artists. 
 Out of the great gallery is the bedchamber 
 consecrated to Queen Elizabeth. We be- 
 lieved firmly in the relics of her visit, even to 
 an ingenious wash-list said to have been used 
 by her. Whoever owned this laundry-list 
 wore " shirtes and half-shirtes " and regis- 
 tered the number sent to be washed on a disk 
 very like a perpetual calendar, a most clever 
 contrivance in a day when writing was not 
 popular. 
 
 With the exception of a few pieces of furni- 
 ture in this wing, Haddon is completely dis- 
 mantled. Fine old tapestries hang on the 
 walls, and in some places have furnished many 
 a meal for the all-devouring moth. The 
 great-great-grandson of Dorothy Vernon de- 
 serted Haddon to make his home at Belvoir 
 when he became Duke of Rutland by the fail- 
 ure of heirs in direct line. It is said that the 
 inconvenience of the various stairways at 
 Haddon led to the final desertion of the Hall 
 as a place of residence. Many of the apart- 
 ments are quite exposed, and most inconve- 
 nient, but, with the maze of rooms which lead 
 out one from another, and the lack of corri- 
 
 140
 
 Peacock Inn 
 
 dors, these outside staircases are the only 
 means of entrance to many of the apartments. 
 
 " Haddon would make a delightful home, 
 I am sure," was the comment of the Matron, 
 but so much restoring would be necessary to 
 make the Hall habitable that its present 
 perfect character might then be entirely 
 destroyed. We felt, after a few hours in the 
 old place, that it was better to reconstruct it in 
 our imagination than to have any part of the 
 ancient buildings touched by modern hands. 
 
 We walked slowly back under the oaks of 
 the park, along the banks of the Wye to Rows- 
 ley, and by following the little stream to 
 its meeting-place with the Derwent discov- 
 ered which one of the rivers murmured along 
 below the garden of the Peacock. 
 
 " I knew it was the gentle Wye. The rush- 
 ing Derwent of Matlock Bridge could not 
 change its temper so suddenly," said Polly. 
 
 It is quite possible to walk from Haddon 
 to Chatsworth across the hill, but we had 
 lingered at Haddon until long after lunch- 
 hour, so we decided to leave the Duke of 
 Devonshire's great place until the following 
 day. 
 
 " And we may escape the crowd if we go 
 early." 
 
 141
 
 Among English Inns 
 
 Our brilliant garden at the Peacock, little 
 Grey Rowsley village, and the broad moor 
 on the hilltop beyond the railway station, 
 served to fill our afternoon hours with occu- 
 pation and pleasure. 
 
 From the steep road which winds up the 
 hillside to Beeley Moor there were lovely 
 views. Haddon Hall, its slender, gray, square 
 towers and graceful lines, were visible among 
 the dark oak-trees of the hill on our right, the 
 great white Chatsworth Palace far away lay 
 in the lowland on our left, with the magnifi- 
 cent undulating park spreading about on all 
 sides over hill and dale. 
 
 The clouds hung low on Beeley Moor late 
 in the afternoon when we finally climbed to 
 the hilltop, but great patches of yellow furze 
 spread over the rough ground like waves 
 of warm sunshine. When we left Rowsley 
 for Hardwick the following day, we rode 
 across this high moorland, by the road poor 
 Mary, Queen of Scotland, followed often 
 with Bess of Shrewsbury! That lady was 
 too jealous of her lord, when she looked 
 after her building at the new hall at Hard- 
 wick, to leave the fair prisoner with him alone 
 at Chatsworth. 
 
 Early though it was when we got to Chats- 
 
 142
 
 Peacock Inn 
 
 worth, before the hour named in the guide- 
 book as the opening time, we were not the 
 first arrivals. A great " charry-bang," as the 
 natives called this particular sort of convey- 
 ance, had disgorged a party of twenty trip- 
 pers. Heaven knows where they had fallen 
 from, but they were good British subjects of 
 the tradesman class, each armed with a shil- 
 ling to buy an admission ticket, and with a 
 store of stolid admiration which would find 
 no outlet in unnecessary words. 
 
 A gorgeous Mr. Bumble, in gold lace and 
 bright cloth, looked at us all condescendingly 
 through the grating of the entrance portal 
 until the clock struck the time of admittance, 
 when he kindly opened the gates and amiably 
 took our shillings. He then marched us away 
 over the court, and delivered us silently into 
 the hands of a solemn-looking housekeeper, 
 who trotted the whole party quickly through 
 the mansion. Not a glimpse did we get of 
 the treasures we knew to be in Chatsworth, 
 and which we really longed to see. 
 
 Claude Lorraine's wonderful sketch-book 
 was locked up at the library. We only peeked 
 through a glass door, and most of the orig- 
 inal sketches by great masters, over which we 
 
 H3 
 
 &>
 
 Among English Inns 
 
 longed to linger, were covered with linen 
 curtains. 
 
 "'Ah, that! "The Burgermaster " it's 
 called, by Rembrank, I believe. It ain't 
 nothink much! Only a work of h'art! Not 
 one of the family, you know,' " quoted Polly 
 from Punch, while we halt at malachite tables 
 " from the Czar of Russia to the duke," New 
 Zealand canoe presented " the late duke," and 
 portraits of race-horses of the duke's stables, 
 which the housekeeper-shepherdess, with the 
 good English flock at her heels, halts long and 
 lovingly to gaze upon. 
 
 " Given to the duke by the Emperor of 
 Russia." Ah-h-h-h! 
 
 " Won a great race for the duke." Oh-o-o! 
 
 " Sent to the duke by the savages! " Eh-e-e! 
 
 The shepherdess had a lesson, and she said 
 it well, without changing a word. 
 
 Polly indulged in low-spoken criticism on 
 the great, sprawling frescoes. 
 
 The Invalid objected to the excessive dis- 
 play of carved woodwork. 
 
 The Matron had to be dragged away from 
 a Landseer picture. 
 
 Altogether my party was troublesome, and 
 not properly impressed by the magnificence 
 of this great palace. 
 
 144
 
 Peacock Inn 
 
 After racing us through the house, the 
 shepherdess delivered her sheep into the hands 
 of a shepherd, who steered us around the great 
 gardens ("jardeen," he pronounced the 
 word). He pointed out every tree planted 
 by royalty, while the Matron made disparag- 
 ing remarks about the architectural beauties 
 of Chatsworth House, and the Invalid ad- 
 mired the gilded window-frames. My com- 
 panions were not at all in the proper spirit, 
 and I was glad to get them out of the gate of 
 this innermost sanctuary, into which hordes 
 of sightseers were waiting their turn for ad- 
 mission. Dog-carts and carriages, drags, a 
 couple of motor-cars, and bicycles by the 
 score were waiting, and more were coming 
 over the road down the hill. 
 
 " Think of the shillings Bumble will col- 
 lect!" sighed mercenary Polly. 
 
 As we had assuredly walked several miles 
 while we stared at " The Duke's " possessions 
 for nearly two hours, we were ready for 
 luncheon. 
 
 The park at Chatsworth is a great natural 
 tract of woodland and meadow sweeps. The 
 Derwent goes rushing through, falling down 
 artificial weirs, and watering the banks of a 
 great rabbit city, where little cottontails frisk 
 
 H5
 
 Among English Inns 
 
 about under the very feet of the fallow 
 deer. 
 
 We made our way to the Devonshire Arms 
 just outside of the gate of the park, but the 
 number of vehicles about the door made the 
 Invalid stop short and declare she would 
 never make one of that crowd. 
 
 " We sha'n't get anything decent." 
 
 " And be charged three shillings for it," 
 said the Treasurer. 
 
 " I saw a dear little cottage back in the 
 park, with a ( Tea ' sign hung out," the Ma- 
 tron told us. 
 
 So back we went to the dear little cottage 
 buried in flowers. There was no perceptible 
 path leading to the door, but we ran down 
 one green bank and up another into the gar- 
 den. A cheery woman offered us tea, eggs, 
 some cold ham, bread, butter, and jam, a feast 
 which we devoured among the sunflowers and 
 dahlias, and paid one whole shilling each for 
 our pastoral luncheon. 
 
 After this we passed on our way to Eden- 
 sor, a modern village built for those employed 
 on the estate. Within its church lies buried 
 that Earl of Shrewsbury who was the keeper 
 of Mary, Queen of Scots, and the husband of 
 Bess of Hardwick. His tomb is a most re- 
 
 146
 
 Peacock Inn 
 
 markable construction, erected by his lady to 
 his memory and to that of his brother. Not 
 content with henpecking the earl as long as 
 he lived, and of turning him out of his own 
 mansion that she might bestow it upon her 
 sons, in death she denuded him even of his 
 flesh. He lies in effigy, a bare skeleton, while 
 his brother is wrapped in a marble winding 
 sheet. The state robes and armour, carved 
 in stone, hang by the side of the tomb. The 
 shrewish countess cannot disturb the earl's 
 last sleep in Edensor unless she comes a long 
 way. Her body lies buried in Derby. Eden- 
 sor church is a specimen of the ugliest archi- 
 tecture of 1867. It replaces one that was built 
 in 1545, which was taken down to make way 
 for the present very commonplace structure. 
 The surroundings of Chatsworth House 
 will ever be interesting as associated with 
 the ill-fated Mary of Scotland. The great 
 oaks looked down on the weary walks of the 
 captive queen, and the bubbling river echoed 
 her sighs. The old mansion in which she 
 was confined was destroyed by fire. Mary 
 was kept there many years, her only excite- 
 ment being intrigue and flirtations with her 
 jailor, the Earl of Shrewsbury. Nature and 
 education had done everything to make Mary 
 
 H7
 
 Among English I mis 
 
 irresistible to the male sex, and she kept the 
 Shrewsbury household in a state of commo- 
 tion which was not conducive to her own com- 
 fort, and rendered life miserable indeed for 
 the earl. 
 
 Our shortest way back to Rowsley was along 
 the river-bank, where we saw the trout in 
 the stream, and the frisking rabbits, which 
 are so tame that they do not even skurry away 
 to their warrens as we pass by. We managed 
 to spend our entire day in the park, and en- 
 joyed every moment, although we all agreed 
 that the great palace interested us less than 
 was altogether proper for right-minded tour- 
 ists. 
 
 " The house looks to me like an overgrown 
 piece of furniture," criticized the Invalid, 
 with her bold and republican air. 
 
 148
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 HARDWICK INN 
 
 HE Duke and 
 
 Duchess of Devon- 
 shire are in Scot- 
 land," was what the 
 Invalid read reverently and inter- 
 estedly from the court news. 
 
 " Then we can visit Hardwick Hall. How 
 shall we get there? " asked the Matron. 
 
 " By driving," was the reply of the busy 
 Treasurer. " The distance is about ten miles. 
 It will cost us about four shillings or less each. 
 We could go by train, but that would not 
 be so pleasant. We should then be obliged 
 to go back over our way here to Ambergate, 
 change there, and then go over the other side 
 of the triangle to Mansfield, wait there for a 
 
 149
 
 Among English Inns 
 
 train to Hardwick, and when we get to the 
 Hardwick station we should still be two miles 
 from the inn. As I have planned it, we can 
 start from here to-morrow at about ten o'clock, 
 and we shall be at Chesterfield in time for 
 luncheon. I have wired to the Hardwick 
 Inn, and the landlord will meet us at Ches- 
 terfield and take us over the rest of the 
 road." 
 
 " As you have evidently settled all the plans, 
 we shall be content with your decision," said 
 the Matron. 
 
 Polly's plans were good. The sun shone 
 for us, the air was neither too warm nor too 
 cool, and we drove away over the moor in a 
 comfortable carriage. The driver com- 
 plained of the condition of the road, which, 
 to our American eyes, seemed not at all bad, 
 for it is a wild district. A lonely farmhouse 
 among desolate-looking fields now and then 
 broke the monotony of the scene. The whole 
 of the moorland was fenced off by stone walls, 
 but furze and bracken were the principal 
 crops we saw until we got to the edge of the 
 plateau beyond the Red Lion Inn. Here the 
 high ground fell away suddenly and a smiling 
 plain appeared, and the road goes down-hill 
 nearly all the way thence until the twisted 
 
 150
 
 Hardwick Inn 
 
 steeple which distinguishes Chesterfield came 
 in sight. 
 
 " They say the devil twisted it," was what 
 our driver volunteered, in answer to our ex- 
 clamations. 
 
 " It looks like the devil," murmured our 
 wittiest member, irreverently. 
 
 Chesterfield is an ugly town, as ugly as its 
 great church and twisted steeple. There was 
 nothing to interest us there, and rougher- 
 looking men and women we had seen nowhere 
 in the English country. 
 
 The road from Chesterfield to Hardwick 
 is a broad highway, leading through the coal- 
 mining district of Scarsdale. It is the only 
 road in our travels on which we saw untidy 
 homes, squalid children, and dreary, flower- 
 less, bare yards before the cottages. Low hills 
 covered with green were in the distance, but 
 nearer to us were chimneys belching forth 
 smoke and flame, great heaps of coal-dust, 
 and villainous-looking tramps. We had for- 
 gotten the existence of such creatures in our 
 rural wanderings. 
 
 It was a relief when we left the broad high- 
 way for the narrow, wooded road, where 
 Hardwick Hall soon showed itself, its many 
 
 J 5i
 
 Among English Inns 
 
 windows shining upon us from among the 
 trees on the hilltop. 
 
 The inn guards one gate of the park. It 
 is as secluded and sequestered as though there 
 were no collieries within a thousand miles. 
 A very old hostelry it is, and belongs to the 
 Duke of Devonshire. The bright little sit- 
 ting-room and four or five good bedrooms are 
 charmingly furnished in modern style for the 
 guests at the Hall, which is not large. The 
 Duchess of Devonshire sometimes finds it con- 
 venient to send the gentlemen of a house-party 
 here to sleep when her own stately bedrooms 
 are quite full. 
 
 We were very fortunate to time our arrival 
 when the Hall is vacant; so the innkeeper's 
 wife tells us. When the duke is not in resi- 
 dence, his sister, Lady Louisa Egerton, often 
 occupies the house, and then no visitors are 
 allowed to see the delightful interior. We 
 were more than glad, because, next to Had- 
 don, dismantled, old Hardwick, almost un- 
 touched since the days of Queen Elizabeth, 
 and full of remembrances of the remarkable 
 woman who built it, is one of the Halls we had 
 most desired to visit. 
 
 A curving avenue leads to the Hall from 
 the gate of the inn, but there is a short cut 
 
 152
 
 Hardwick Inn 
 
 climbing by grassy steps up the steep hillside. 
 The park is dotted thick with ancient oak- 
 trees, their withered branches standing out 
 sad and solemn against the sky. The duke 
 will not allow the leafless boughs to be lopped 
 off. He rightly thinks they suit the ancient 
 park. 
 
 Hardwick Hall, " more windows than 
 wall," stands surrounded by a courtyard, and 
 isolated from the green lawns of the estate 
 by a high wall resembling the house in its 
 architecture. It is square and solid, with the 
 spearlike ornaments so fashionable in Tudor 
 days decorating the top. The interior of the 
 courtyard is a bright carpet of flowers spread 
 before the noble entrance. The letters E. S., 
 with which the Countess of Shrewsbury orna- 
 mented the top of the towers, and which stand 
 out clear against the sky, are repeated by the 
 skill of the gardener in the flower-beds of 
 the courtyard. 
 
 Very near, outside the enclosure, are the 
 ivy-grown ruins of the house in which the 
 builder of the present Hall was born. It is 
 the old Hardwick Hall, the dwelling-place 
 of Elizabeth's ancestors, and which she dis- 
 mantled and tore down in order to get mate- 
 rials for the more modern structure. The 
 
 153
 
 Among English Inns 
 
 Countess of Shrewsbury not only had the 
 building mania, but she was filled with dread 
 of death should she cease erecting walls. A 
 soothsayer had told her that when she stopped 
 building she would stop living, and, strange 
 to say, she died when the frost of winter once 
 kept her workmen idle. To be sure, she was 
 then at the ripe age of eighty-seven. 
 
 " Quite a proper age to die," observed the 
 Invalid. 
 
 Hardwick Hall was built at the time when 
 Mary, Queen of Scots, was detained at Chats- 
 worth, but it was not finished until after her 
 execution. One of the chambers is furnished 
 with hangings said to be embroidered by that 
 unhappy captive, and the bed and other ob- 
 jects in the apartment are purported to have 
 been used by her. They may have been re- 
 moved here from the Chatsworth House. 
 Possibly the chamber might have been pre- 
 pared before the Hall was finished. It is cer- 
 tain that Mary often rode over here with the 
 countess while the building was in progress. 
 In the entrance-hall of Hardwick there is a 
 marble statue of Mary and a screen which is 
 pointed out as a specimen of her needlework. 
 
 This hall is adorned with a fine mantelpiece 
 of the (parget) raised stucco, so popular in 
 
 154
 
 Hardwick Inn 
 
 Elizabeth's day. All over the mansion there 
 are examples of the very best style of this kind 
 of ornamentation. In the great hall appear 
 the Hardwick arms supported by two stags, 
 while in the presence-chamber there is a 
 wonderful parget frieze. It represents a hunt 
 of Diana and her nymphs. Not only are there 
 stags, but all sorts of astonishing animals, 
 known and unknown, lingering under mar- 
 vellous trees until the huntress shall choose 
 to pursue them. This splendid work is col- 
 oured, and extends all around a room which 
 is sixty-five feet long. Great square bay- 
 windows break the design on one side. But, 
 wherever it is possible to find space between 
 them, a tree fifteen feet high spreads its 
 branches over an elephant about the size of 
 a stag, or the eager huntress is seen, sur- 
 rounded by her dogs, pictured quite as big 
 as the elephants. 
 
 Throughout the mansion the furniture of 
 the period when the Hall was first used as a 
 dwelling is still preserved, and the chairs and 
 tables are all fine specimens of the taste of 
 the days of Queen Elizabeth. 
 
 The great picture-gallery extends the whole 
 length of the front, one hundred and sixty- 
 six feet. The windows in this gallery are said 
 
 l 5S
 
 Among English Inns 
 
 to contain twenty-seven thousand panes of 
 glass. 
 
 " How ever do they get them washed?" 
 asked our practical housekeeper, the Matron. 
 That feat is evidently accomplished. They 
 were clean and shining enough for us to see 
 that the portraits were hung over the superb 
 old tapestry as if it were the commonest of 
 wall-paper. 
 
 " Do you suppose Queen Elizabeth gave 
 her portrait to everybody at her court? " 
 queried the Invalid, as she studied attentively 
 a picture of that overdressed virgin. 
 
 " No, Queen Elizabeth was not so extrav- 
 agant," answered Polly, promptly. " She 
 took, she did not give. She allowed her sub- 
 jects to order portraits of her from the great 
 artists, and she kindly consented to sit. Thus 
 did she patronize art." How Polly knew all 
 this Elizabethan gossip, we did not question. 
 Polly knows everything, that we do not dis- 
 pute. 
 
 The memory of the unfortunate Arabella 
 Stuart is inseparably connected with Hard- 
 wick Hall. The Countess of Shrewsbury was 
 her grandmother. Arabella's mother was the 
 most amiable of daughters, and it was by force 
 of maternal ambition that she was married to 
 
 156
 
 Hardwick Inn 
 
 a younger brother of Lord Darnley, and a 
 possible heir to the Scottish crown. This 
 prince, who had been sadly neglected all 
 during his youth, was on his way to Scotland, 
 where his mother, who had married in Eng- 
 land, was taking him to get a wife. The 
 party got no farther than Hardwick Hall. 
 Bess made their sojourn so pleasant that she 
 captured the young man for her own daugh- 
 ter, and in 1575 little Arabella Stuart was 
 born. 
 
 Her life here with her grandmother was 
 far from pleasant. Queen Elizabeth had been 
 perfectly beside herself with rage when Bess 
 married her daughter, Elizabeth Cavendish, 
 to one of the Stuarts, and it was only after 
 many attempts that the queen had taken her 
 subject again into partial favour. When Ara- 
 bella was born, the queen especially stipulated 
 that the child should never be allowed to 
 marry. 
 
 Little Arabella was painted as a child here 
 at Hardwick, and her picture hangs with the 
 other notabilities in the long gallery. 
 
 " Bess may have been able to build lovely 
 houses, but she certainly did not know how to 
 dress this unfortunate baby," declared the 
 Invalid. 
 
 157
 
 Among English Inns 
 
 The little girl is represented in a brocade 
 of pink flowers and green leaves. The dress 
 has great, stiff sleeves confined by bracelets 
 at the wrists, and covered with an ugly cape 
 of the same material coming up high about 
 the neck. A hideous pompadour of false red 
 hair crowns her pathetic little face, and on 
 a chain she wears a pendant in the shape of 
 a heart surmounted by a coronet. The device, 
 "Four parvenir '/endure'' the poor little soul 
 surely never chose for herself, although she 
 lived up to it, alas! 
 
 " It sounds like an inspiration of her grand- 
 mamma," was Polly's theory, " and the poor 
 little girl did endure, but her arrival was 
 misery." 
 
 This grandmamma, Bess of Hardwick, had 
 managed before her death to marry four rich 
 husbands, and to persuade them to give her 
 all their possessions, to the exclusion of their 
 own children. She was not beautiful, she 
 was masculine and domineering, although 
 she is said to have been witty. That she was 
 not strong in book-learning is revealed by her 
 ingenious way of spelling " orcus/' meaning 
 horses. She was a builder, a buyer and seller 
 of estates, a money-lender, a farmer, and a 
 merchant of lead, coals, and timber; she was 
 
 158
 
 Hardwick Inn 
 
 of masculine understanding and conduct, 
 proud, furious, selfish, and unfeeling. Such 
 was the grandmother with whom the child, 
 who had inherited the affectionate disposition 
 of her mother, was forced to pass all her 
 young days. Arabella was sweet and pliable, 
 but she hated the constant hunting and feast- 
 ing in which her grandmother delighted. 
 She loved books and learning, read the Greek 
 Testament in the original, and was senti- 
 mental and romantic. 
 
 " Like most quiet women," commented the 
 knowing Matron. As none of our party could 
 be dubbed quiet, we therefore agreed with 
 the Matron's analysis of character. 
 
 Arabella's grandmother was enormously 
 rich, her income at the time of her death being 
 two hundred thousand pounds. Although she 
 strictly forbade " all superfleuete or waste," 
 she entertained lavishly, and the unhappy lit- 
 tle Arabella had to sit on the dais at the end 
 of the great hall where we entered, and keep 
 still through interminable courses of — 
 
 First, roast swans, venison, pheasants, pul- 
 lets, pigeons, and pasty tarts of divers hues 
 and sundry denominations, followed by 
 mighty joints, with veal pies, capons, black 
 cocks, chickens, partridges, and two kinds of 
 
 *59
 
 Among English Inns 
 
 bread, marchpane and coarse cheats, a few 
 potatoes, no other vegetables, and ending with 
 sweets, jellies in shape of animals, trees, 
 houses. A great piece of sugar-work repre- 
 senting a fortress, or some such thing; con- 
 serves of fruits, gingerbread, marmalade, and 
 numerous comfits. 
 
 With this the guests drank ale, mead, and 
 wine, served in silver and sometimes Venice 
 glass, and the feast was eaten in perfect si- 
 lence. 
 
 Arabella's romantic nature pined for love, 
 and she escaped the vigilance of her guardians 
 by secretly marrying William Seymour. She 
 paid a bitter penalty by imprisonment in the 
 Tower, followed by insanity and death. The 
 room she occupied at Hardwick Hall is hung 
 with tapestry, representing cupids guiding a 
 boat through smooth waters, the attendants on 
 the banks garlanded with oak and ivy, and 
 following the stream. 
 
 " Poor Arabella ! This was the only smooth 
 water her life ever knew." 
 
 In an adjoining room hangs a portrait of 
 Bess of Hardwick, a sharp-featured lady, with 
 red wig, a black dress, and thick ruff, and a 
 chain of magnificent pearls around her neck. 
 
 1 60
 
 Hardwick Inn 
 
 Her wig is topped by a small black cap and 
 flowing veil. 
 
 She died, as the chronicle says, " continu- 
 ally flattered but seldom deceived, immensely 
 rich, without a friend." She left, however, 
 this charming dwelling-place, and her de- 
 scendants have preserved it as a perfect speci- 
 men of one of the most delightful treasures of 
 the Elizabethan Age. 
 
 The park embraces six hundred and twenty 
 acres of woodland, with broad sweeps of 
 meadow on which graze cattle and deer. 
 There are drives, a lake, and stretches of fine 
 trees. Toward the side where Hardwick Inn 
 lies, close at the foot of the hill, the ground 
 falls from the Hall steeply down to the oak- 
 bordered lake; but above, where the house 
 stands, is a broad plateau covered by the 
 greater extent of the park. 
 
 The fine stables built by Bess of Hardwick 
 are still used by the Duke of Devonshire, who 
 often houses his race-horses here. 
 
 Thomas Hobbes, a philosopher, who was 
 afraid of the dark, was a member of the house- 
 hold during the life of Bess of Shrewsbury. 
 He was tutor to her children, and lived nearly 
 all of the ninety-one years of his life at Hard- 
 wick, after he first came there at twenty-onf 
 
 161
 
 Among English Inns 
 
 years of age. His portrait hangs in the gal- 
 lery. 
 
 The brightness, the beauty, and the comfort 
 of the apartments at Hardwick so enchanted 
 the Invalid and the Matron that we could 
 scarcely get them back to luncheon at the 
 inn, and they returned for another look at the 
 interior before four o'clock (the closing 
 hour), while Polly and I were wandering 
 under the trees in the park. 
 
 162
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 THE DUKERIES 
 
 ESS of Hardwick 
 numbers among her 
 descendants many of 
 the most noble fami- 
 lies of England. 
 Within riding distance 
 of the birthplace of 
 their ancestress, the Duke of Portland, the 
 Duke of Newcastle, and Earl Manvers, all 
 members of the same distinguished family, 
 have those great estates in and about Sher- 
 wood Forest, which are embraced under the 
 title of The Dukeries. These great landed 
 properties were acquired by Bess during her 
 lifetime. She built one house at Welbeck, 
 and began another great manor at Worksop. 
 We drove the first five miles from Hard- 
 wick Inn to Bolsover over a delightful coun- 
 try road without seeing the sign of a collier 
 anywhere. For a mile or more, after leav- 
 
 163
 
 Among English Inns 
 
 ing the inn, the road goes through the park, 
 and then past several charming farmhouses 
 toward Bolsover. 
 
 Here there is a fine castle built by Sir 
 Charles Cavendish, one of the sons of Bess 
 of Hardwick. An old keep, dating from 
 Norman times, furnished the foundations of 
 the present house, and there are also remains 
 in a great riding-school or stable of some of 
 the work done here by King John. 
 
 Sir Charles evidently admired his mother's 
 taste in architecture, for Bolsover bears a close 
 resemblance to the Hall at Hardwick. A 
 short distance from the smaller house, on the 
 keep, Sir Charles built a magnificent palace 
 fronting a wide terrace. This was erected 
 for the reception and entertainment of King 
 Charles the First and his queen. Within its 
 walls the monarch abode on three occasions, 
 and here for the royal pleasure " rare Ben 
 Jonson " wrote his masque, " Love's Wel- 
 come." The poet was master of ceremonies 
 during an entertainment which cost Sir 
 Charles Cavendish £70,000. This splendid 
 dwelling-place for royalty was dismantled by 
 the Roundheads, and has now become one 
 of the most picturesque ruins in England. 
 The great windows and doors are draped with 
 
 164
 
 -J 
 J 
 
 H 
 CO 
 
 «! 
 U 
 
 as 
 u 
 > 
 O 
 
 O 
 
 n
 
 The Dukeries 
 
 ivy, and stupid sheep now climb down the 
 ruined steps and browse along the terrace 
 where once the gay courtier strutted on his 
 high heels, making love to the simpering 
 coquette of the court of King Charles. 
 
 The Duke of Portland owns Bolsover, and 
 in the ancient house first built by Sir Charles 
 no one now is living. It is in perfect repair, 
 and among other curious decorations is a 
 room which the loyal Sir Charles built in 
 imitation of the Star Chamber of hated mem- 
 ory. 
 
 We found that we could only see the inte- 
 rior of the house by means of a ticket from 
 the agent of the estate, which we had neg- 
 lected to secure. Neither shillings nor pence 
 (we did not try pounds) could shake the 
 guardian's sense of duty, so we were forced to 
 content ourselves by staring at the outside of 
 the windows, and by wandering about among 
 the grass-grown halls of the great ruins. 
 
 Polly and I almost slid down the steep hill 
 trying to get to the railroad station, where we 
 proposed to go to find out for ourselves the 
 very best train for Edwinstowe. We left the 
 Matron and the Invalid to go back into the 
 town and order something we might eat be- 
 fore we started on our journey. 
 
 i6 5
 
 Among English Inns 
 
 Looking up from the station, Bolsover 
 Castle resembles a captain of the Middle Ages 
 leading a straggling company of soldiery. 
 Behind the tall pinnacles and points of the 
 house on the keep, rising sheer from the top 
 of the trees which cling to the sides of the 
 precipice, Bolsover streams away on the top 
 of the ridge, and the many-coloured roofs 
 give a motley air to the crowd. At the end 
 trail stand two miserable corrugated iron 
 huts, looking like shabby camp followers, 
 
 We found the Invalid and the Matron in 
 the village street engaged in a heated discus- 
 sion with the town policeman. They were 
 standing before the Swan Inn, which has a 
 most enchanting exterior, and is quoted as 
 the chief hostelry in Bolsover by the guide- 
 books. Yet the Matron had been obliged to 
 appeal to the police to get even such little 
 food as we needed. 
 
 " Inns there are in plenty. We have been 
 to them all, but they only sell drink, not a 
 morsel of food, and we are very hungry," ex- 
 plained the Invalid, as she threw one of her 
 appealing glances at the man. He at once 
 breaks forth into offers of assistance. He 
 marched sternly at the head of the party to the 
 Devonshire Arms, gave a thundering knock 
 
 166
 
 The Dukeries 
 
 at the door, whereupon a trembling female 
 appeared and offered to provide us with 
 everything she had, — " ham and eggs and a 
 little tea." 
 
 " Bolsover lives on simple diet," whispered 
 Polly to me, with a sigh. 
 
 " I thought perhaps the policeman would 
 take us to his home after your fascinating 
 appeal," said the Matron to the Invalid. 
 
 " Perhaps he has nothing there to eat, but 
 beer," answered the Invalid, as we mounted 
 the stairs to an uninviting sitting-room and 
 prepared to satisfy our longing for food. 
 
 " What a horrible town to be caught in at 
 night-time," said one. 
 
 " No beds, nothing to eat, and nobody here 
 but drinking miners," offered another. 
 
 " You forget the policeman," put in a 
 third. 
 
 " I can hardly bring myself to believe that 
 such inhospitality exists in England," was 
 the sigh of the fourth. 
 
 Bolsover was once a market-town. The 
 picturesque old inns, the Swan and the Angel, 
 were in those days not given over entirely, as 
 at present, to the sale of liquid refreshment. 
 The Devonshire Arms, where we were so un- 
 willingly served with ham and eggs, is a new 
 
 167
 
 Among English Inns 
 
 hotel. Polly questioned the small red-headed 
 servant who waited upon us, and she said that 
 food was seldom asked by the colliers and 
 their friends. There were no lodgings at any 
 inn in the town. 
 
 We shook the dust of inhospitable Bol- 
 sover gladly from our heels, as we scampered 
 down the hill to the train. We had enjoyed a 
 fine ruin, seen a noble castle, and nearly 
 starved to death. The train we took stopped 
 at countless small stations; the engine puffed 
 and worked hard to pull us up steep grades 
 before we saw Edwinstoive in large letters 
 on the station sign-board. 
 
 " I thought we were coming to Sherwood 
 Forest. Where is the wood?" asked the 
 Matron. 
 
 A huge plain with a track winding off on 
 a high bank extended as far as we could 
 see. 
 
 " There are certainly no trees here," cried 
 the others in chorus. 
 
 A porter stood ready to take our bags; the 
 daylight was waning; dinner-hour was near 
 at hand. I had never been near Sherwood 
 Forest in my life, but I waved my hand 
 vaguely toward some bushes in the distance, 
 saying: "Look! the trees are over there." 
 
 168
 
 The Dukeries 
 
 The cloudy evening came to my rescue, for 
 the daylight kindly flickered and went out. 
 
 The porter took us to the Dukeries Hotel, 
 which the Matron had chosen from a picture 
 in the guide-book. 
 
 "This house is modern enough!" said 
 Polly, as we entered. " It is nothing but an 
 American seaside hotel, with an English 
 coat on." 
 
 As soon as we were inside the door, we saw 
 before us the cheap stairway with machine- 
 carved banisters, a stained-glass window on 
 the landing, and we were led to narrow bed- 
 rooms with hotel furniture that would bring 
 blissful memories to the heart of the true citi- 
 zen of the United States. 
 
 " Do you suppose we shall have buckwheat 
 cakes for breakfast? " plaintively sighed the 
 Matron. 
 
 But if the architecture of the exterior dated 
 from the fifteenth century, and the interior 
 workmanship from the last sweet fashion of 
 New Jersey's coast, the bill of fare at the 
 Dukeries is, and always will remain, truly 
 British. We need no menu. We know what 
 we shall have to eat without that: Clear soup, 
 fish, roast mutton, potatoes, perhaps Polly's 
 favourite, vegetable marrow, and a tart. A 
 
 169
 
 Among English Inns 
 
 sweetly simple cuisine, innocent of flavour, 
 with as little salt as possible. 
 
 The following morning at breakfast, the 
 Invalid began conversation by remarking that 
 Sherwood Forest seemed very far away and 
 the coal-trains very near. 
 
 " Several times last night I expected an en- 
 gine or two to run in and share my bed," she 
 wailed. 
 
 " I am sure I heard a man being murdered 
 in the house," chimed Polly, cheerfully. 
 
 " Nonsense! " said I. " He had the night- 
 mare. I have heard those same sort of groans 
 before. The walls are so thin, I could hear 
 every one of you women breathe." 
 
 " Come find the forest; it must be hiding 
 in the neighbourhood," said Polly. 
 
 " When we find it, we will stay there," said 
 the Invalid. 
 
 The forest proved to be not so very far 
 away. We walked through the village street 
 of Edwinstowe, an ugly little collection of 
 houses all packed close together on a road 
 lacking even the usual village curve. Two 
 manor-houses are hidden away behind high 
 garden walls, a few uninviting hostelries, 
 some modern brick houses, and a shop in 
 which everything, from canned corn to a 
 
 170
 
 A GLADE IN SHERWOOD FOREST
 
 The Dukeries 
 
 photograph, is sold. A cottage at the end of 
 the street is made pretty by festoons of Vir- 
 ginia creeper, but otherwise there is very little 
 that is attractive about Edwinstowe. Finally 
 comes a strip of common, and then we plunge 
 from sunshine into the heart of a forest. 
 
 " The glades of the poets and the oaks of 
 the drawing-book!" was Polly's admission. 
 
 Under our feet lay a carpet of ferns, and 
 great oak-trees towered over our heads. The 
 sunlight shot down thin bright rays between 
 the green bowers, touching here and there the 
 silver trunk of a graceful birch, or the smooth 
 bark of a great beech-tree. 
 
 " It is the real Robin Hood wood out of 
 the picture-books. Where is Friar Tuck? 
 He must be waddling along here somewhere." 
 
 " There are the Merry Men under the 
 trees." 
 
 But the Merry Men turned out to be only 
 labourers picking up the dead branches, 
 which look like long bows. The Matron de- 
 clared Fontainebleau but a puny duchy com- 
 pared to this kingdom of green. Here vet- 
 eran oaks stand about in companies, nodding 
 stiffly to one another like aged men, while 
 their great roots grasp the green earth with 
 mammoth claws. Solemn, dignified, taciturn, 
 
 171
 
 Among English Inns 
 
 they lift their bodies, gnarled and ancient, 
 above all the other trees. 
 
 In Sherwood Forest the strong individual- 
 ity of the oak is very marked. If its life be 
 truly, as they tell us, three thousand years, 
 some of these forest oaks before us must have 
 looked down upon mighty changes, for they 
 now seem nearing their term of existence. 
 Misshapen and buffeted by storm and wind, 
 their hearts are so consumed by age that we 
 can crawl into some of the hollow trunks and 
 find there room to lie down. Models of tenac- 
 ity and courage, these aged oaks refuse to give 
 up life, and send out from the wreck of their 
 existence one or two branches bearing shining, 
 bright, green, healthy leaves. 
 
 The oaks at Hardwick seemed sad. They 
 are trees for a forest, not for a park. Like 
 sturdy peasants, they will not thrive in high 
 society. In Sherwood, however, the oaks are 
 with their kind in a great wood, as they have 
 grown for centuries; the birches and the 
 beeches keep company apart, while the firs 
 look on from a distance. 
 
 Polly admitted that, while " all trees seem 
 human to her, the oak has the strongest per- 
 sonality." 
 
 Paths are cut through the forest in many 
 
 172
 
 The Dukeries 
 
 ways under the thick trees, and roads branch 
 off in all directions. The strong mossy turf 
 takes no mark from the hoofs of passing 
 horses, and on its smooth surface wheel tracks 
 make little impression. The general public 
 may not drive upon the grassy avenues, but all 
 persons may walk wherever they will. No 
 flowers grow here under the greenwood trees; 
 the air is filled with the songs of birds, the 
 rabbits frisk, and the cock pheasants strut 
 about boldly. We caught sight of the red 
 brush of a slinking fox, stealing along after 
 his prey. 
 
 Sherwood was the haunt of Robin Hood, 
 Little John, and Will Scarlet and the Merry 
 Men all. Here the outlaws followed the lu- 
 crative profession of robbing the rich and 
 slaughtering the king's deer. The great oak 
 where Robin Hood hung his venison is still 
 pointed out, and there is another huge one 
 under which he fought the Lion-hearted 
 Richard. (The guide-book says so.) Neither 
 of these trees show any signs of decay, so in- 
 credulous Polly pretended they were bushe9 
 in Robin Hood's day. 
 
 Thoresby Park, the estate of Lord Manvers, 
 is in the depths of Sherwood Forest. Within 
 the park limits are the most magnificent old 
 
 173
 
 Among English Inns 
 
 trees and a wood as wild as it was centuries 
 ago. Earl Manvers will not allow one of the 
 oaks to be felled until Nature herself, or the 
 elements at her command, shall lay them low. 
 The hall at Thoresby is of modern con- 
 struction, and was built in the Elizabethan 
 style. It is not open to the public, but the 
 house can be seen from the road through the 
 park. Monday, Thursday, and Saturday are 
 the days on which the public may drive 
 through the three great estates which join 
 one another between Worksop and Edwin- 
 stowe. The road goes through the private 
 grounds of Earl Manvers, the Duke of New- 
 castle, and the Duke of Portland. We spent 
 our afternoon sitting under the oaks, and sent 
 Polly to make arrangements for The Duker- 
 ies drive. 1 
 
 1 THE DUKERIES POSTING ASSOCIATION 
 
 Fares from Edwinstowe 
 
 To Welbeck, Carburton, Clumber, Appley 
 
 Head, Normanton Inn, and Thoresby 
 Welbeck, Clumber, and Thoresby 
 Welbeck, Carburton, and Budby 
 Thoresby and Clumber 
 Thoresbv, via Buck Gates 
 Major Oak .... 
 
 174 
 
 Per 
 Head 
 
 %s. bd. 
 
 V- 
 is. bd. 
 
 2S. 
 IS. 
 
 bd.
 
 The Dukeries 
 
 Our itinerary included a trip to Rufford 
 Abbey, about three miles distant, and quite as 
 much an object of interest as the oak-trees. 
 The road leading there is bare and uninter- 
 esting. The abbey is now the property of the 
 Savilles, but the modern repairs have quite 
 obliterated all remains of the ancient mon- 
 astery. The Matron flatly refused to go. She 
 said she preferred old oaks to new houses, a 
 term not strictly proper for Rufford Abbey. 
 
 " You will find us by the Major Oak when 
 you have settled the carriage business," the 
 Invalid told Polly. We trudged off with a 
 tea basket, and, before the kettle was boiling, 
 Polly appeared to tell us of the arrangements 
 made. We are to have another morning in 
 the forest, and then start off after an early 
 lunch on the road through the parks of 
 Thoresby, Clumber, and Welbeck, and from 
 
 The Duke's Drive, Shepherd House, and 
 
 Ollerton Corner ..... 2S. 
 
 Budby, Carburton, and Normanton Inn . 31. 
 
 Easter and Whit Tuesdays, and all Bank Holidays bd. 
 
 per head extra. 
 
 The Park Drives are open on Mondays, Thursdays, and 
 
 Saturdays only. 
 
 Welbeck Abbey open Daily until 4 p. m., except Satur- 
 days, when it is closed at 12 noon. 
 
 l 7S
 
 Among English Inns 
 
 there we are to go on to Worksop to stop over- 
 night. Four shillings apiece our drive will 
 cost, and our bags and bundles will go with 
 us. One more night made hideous by the 
 coal-trains to the light sleepers of our party, 
 and then we are off to new sights and 
 sounds. 
 
 We took farewell glimpses in the morning 
 of the light filtering down through the trees 
 in the forest before we started off under a 
 heavenly blue sky, in a comfortable wagon- 
 ette, on one of the most perfect drives possible. 
 
 Thoresby House we only saw across the 
 water of a small lake. The formal garden 
 near the mansion is the only artificial note in 
 the entire landscape. The whole park is in 
 the wildest part of Sherwood Forest, and the 
 Matron insisted upon being disappointed be- 
 cause Earl Manvers did not bury his house 
 in the wood like a fairy castle, therefore Polly 
 instantly entered on a long discussion of the 
 subject with her. Polly is practical, and likes 
 warmth and sunshine more than poetical sur- 
 roundings. She approves of the open formal 
 garden. The drive through Thoresby Park 
 took us past miles of splendid oak-trees, and 
 then out of the gates into Clumber, where the 
 Duke of Newcastle has his domain. Here the 
 
 176
 
 The Dukeries 
 
 grizzled oaks grow scarce, but all around fir 
 and larch mingle with the silver birch, and in 
 the famous Lime Drive, an avenue of perfect 
 trees which goes on for three miles, the foliage 
 is so dense and so beautiful that the trunks of 
 the trees are almost invisible. At the end of 
 this quadruple row of magnificent limes we 
 came out in full view of Clumber House. 
 A great sheet of water bathes the steps of the 
 terrace. Clumber House was built at the time 
 of the Georges, and is no more picturesque 
 than any of the other princely dwellings of that 
 period, but the view across the water rather 
 softens the imperfections in the architecture, 
 and the broad lake and background of waving 
 green lends a charm the house otherwise 
 would not possess. There are great treasures 
 of art and literature in the vast rooms, but the 
 Invalid and the Matron refused decidedly to 
 leave the sunshine to be hurried about by the 
 housekeeper; Polly and I also found it re- 
 markably easy to deny ourselves that ques- 
 tionable pleasure. 
 
 " We can read all about it in the guide- 
 book," said the indifferent Invalid. 
 
 " I for one," announced the Matron, " do 
 not care at all to see other people's houses 
 
 177
 
 Among English Inns 
 
 unless they give me some suggestions for my 
 own. These palaces are of no use to me." 
 
 Polly and I were struck dumb by the Ma- 
 tron's peculiar reason. Imagine any one 
 gleaning ideas for a small country house from 
 a palace the size of Clumber. 
 
 The estate of Welbeck joins Clumber, and 
 we drove on through a woody park, much 
 more carefully laid out than either of those 
 we have seen, until we arrived at the gate, 
 where we left the carriage to visit the sights 
 seen at Welbeck Abbey. The many tales we 
 have read of the late duke, of his eccentrici- 
 ties, and the underground apartments he built, 
 had filled us with delightful curiosity. Our 
 disappointment was great, therefore, when 
 we found we could visit nothing but the Rid- 
 ing-School, which is frankly above ground, 
 the kitchen-garden, and the shrubberies. 
 
 This was another case of what Polly calls 
 " the vagaries of British information." The 
 guide-books we bought assured us that it was 
 easy to see the famous underground rooms; 
 the keeper of the Dukeries Hotel declared 
 that any one could visit these apartments, and 
 even our driver reiterated the statement that 
 they were open to the public, " but you may 
 have to give an extra fee." 
 
 178
 
 The Dukeries 
 
 This condition wc were more than willing 
 to fulfil ; therefore, after paying the cus- 
 tomary shilling, and receiving a ticket of ad- 
 mission to the Riding-School and the kitchen- 
 garden, Polly stealthily approached the civil 
 guide allotted our party. To our surprise she 
 fell back from his side with a despairing look 
 on her face. 
 
 " For two years past, these rooms have been 
 closed to the public. All the furniture of 
 Welbeck Abbey is packed into the under- 
 ground apartments, while the house is be- 
 ing restored after a very bad fire," she told 
 us. 
 
 It will be three or four years more before 
 the house will be opened again to the public, 
 the work is going so slowly. We were forced 
 to content ourselves with the little we were 
 allowed to see. The Riding-School was built 
 by the late Duke of Portland, who, like his 
 ancestress, Bess of Hardwick, was afflicted 
 with the building mania. He had an army of 
 men working about Welbeck all the time, and 
 he accomplished an enormous amount of 
 building. If the work done by his architect 
 did not suit him, as sometimes happened, 
 after it was quite finished, he simply sum- 
 moned the workmen and pulled it all down 
 
 179
 
 Among English Inns 
 
 again. Underground rooms and long tunnels 
 through the ground, and passages only lighted 
 from above, this queer duke constructed in 
 all directions. 
 
 It is a disputed question why this very 
 peculiar man fled from the sight of his fellow 
 men and enjoyed living underground. The 
 splendid Riding-School is an extravagant 
 piece of work. The birds of England, each 
 nesting in its favourite tree, are finely wrought 
 in beautiful coloured bronze to make a frieze 
 running around the ring 380 feet long by 104 
 feet in width. The great glass roof is arched 
 and springs from graceful iron pillars which 
 divide the centre ring from the broad passage 
 running around the sides. We were treated 
 to a glimpse of one concealed passage as we 
 left the Riding-School. It leads to the house 
 and is lighted by skylights which are con- 
 cealed on the outside by the shrubbery and 
 the turf. The walls, damp and green, extend 
 for nearly a mile under the earth. From 
 this passage we came out upon a most lovely 
 sunken winter garden, and we here could see 
 the doors and windows which led to the noted 
 underground picture-gallery and ballroom, 
 said to be the largest rooms in all England. 
 
 180
 
 The Dukeries 
 
 Our guide had been five years in the serv- 
 ice of the eccentric duke before he died. He 
 told us that any servant found wandering in 
 these concealed passages during the old duke's 
 lifetime was instantly discharged. From the 
 winter garden we stepped out into a rose-gar- 
 den four hundred feet long and half as wide, 
 sunken below the turf of the lawn. The old 
 duke had built here great walls of Portland 
 cement, and had planned an apartment which 
 he called a Bachelor's Hall (although he in- 
 tended admitting no bachelor but himself to 
 its privacy) . ,He died before these walls were 
 covered in, and the present duke, a cousin, 
 loves air and the sun, and has draped the un- 
 finished room with ivy and planted the great 
 floor with beautiful roses. 
 
 The lake at Welbeck is the biggest, the deer 
 park is the biggest, everything is the biggest. 
 The offices and the stables and the houses of 
 the employees form a town; there is a fire 
 department. We, being simple folk, found 
 our minds somewhat confused by all this vast- 
 ness, but we could not refrain from admiring 
 the wonderful order and great care bestowed 
 upon this huge park, the lake, the garden, and 
 all the buildings on the estate. 
 
 Welbeck has thirty-two acres of kitchen- 
 
 x8i
 
 Among English Inns 
 
 garden and an immense glass-house for trop- 
 ical plants, fruits, and vegetables. We walked 
 through an arbour four hundred feet long, 
 of which one side was formed by pear-trees 
 and the other by apple-trees trained over iron 
 arches and mingling their fruit over our 
 heads. Along by the side of this remarkable 
 arbour is an apricot wall of equal length, the 
 trees in espalier all thick with shining fruit 
 hanging from the branches, spread out to 
 catch every ray of the sun. 
 
 The house is not very beautiful from an 
 architectural standpoint. It is vast in its 
 dimensions, but quainter and older than 
 Chatsworth. The pleasure-grounds around 
 the mansion, which reach down to the great 
 lake, are lovely in the extreme, and on the 
 green slope opposite browse a herd of pure 
 white deer. 
 
 Outside the great gate, but still within the 
 limits of the estate, is a picturesque little 
 group of houses called " The Winnings." 
 The Duke of Portland has erected these 
 houses as homes for his aged servitors with 
 the money won by his race-horses. The ori- 
 gin of these artistic little dwellings is ex- 
 plained by an inscription carved in stone on 
 the central house: 
 
 182
 
 The Dukeries 
 
 " These houses were erected by the Sixth 
 Duke of Portland at the request of his wife 
 for the benefit of the poor, and to commem- 
 orate the success of his race-horses in the years 
 1888, 1889, and 1890: 
 
 "Ayrshire — Two thousand guineas and 
 Derby, 1888. 
 
 "Donovan — Derby and St. Leger, 1889. 
 
 "Memoir — The Oaks and St. Leger, 
 1890. 
 
 " Semolina — One thousand guineas, 1890." 
 
 There are six houses, each with two bed- 
 rooms, a sitting-room, and a kitchen, and all 
 are artistically and comfortably furnished. 
 
 The way on to Worksop is through one of 
 the long tunnels built by the late duke. We 
 passed the remains of Worksop Manor-house, 
 which was begun by Bess of Hardwick. Al- 
 though the building was never finished, the 
 manor-house as it now stands is a mansion 
 by no means to be despised for its size. 
 
 Worksop is a commonplace little English 
 town, with all the characteristics of one of 
 that sort. The wagonette left us at the Royal, 
 a little slice of a hotel in the principal street, 
 sandwiched between a bank and a bake-shop. 
 It is spotless and clean, if not very large. The 
 Matron's bedroom took up the entire front 
 
 183
 
 Among English Inns 
 
 of the house, and the rest of our rooms fill a 
 whole wing at the back of the house. The 
 Invalid looked out of her window upon a 
 blank wall and heaved a mighty sigh of relief 
 because the noise of no coal-train can reach 
 her ears to-night. Worksop has the ruins of a 
 fine priory with a superb gateway, now fast 
 falling into decay, which led into the monas- 
 tery grounds. The Church of the Priors has 
 been restored; it has fragments of Norman 
 work about the doors, and in the nave and 
 side aisles. Other than by these, our walk 
 in Worksop was unrewarded by any subject 
 of interest save a photographer's shop, and 
 even there we could get no good pictures of 
 Sherwood Forest. After our walk, we had 
 our supper, and each one food to her own 
 liking. Polly ordered eggs, the Invalid fish, 
 the Matron chicken, and I, a slice cut from 
 the joint. After this feast, which put us in 
 high good humour, we retired to the Matron's 
 sumptuous bedroom to talk over future plans, 
 and had just settled our affairs for the mor- 
 row, when Polly sat down on a deceptively 
 comfortable chair in the corner. Being a 
 fraud and a delusion, with only three legs, the 
 comfortable seat collapsed at once. This in- 
 cident broke up the meeting, but not before 
 
 184
 
 The Dukeries 
 
 we had decided for Lincolnshire the next 
 morning, to see the Fen Country and Old Bos- 
 ton Town, which some of our ancestors left 
 for the bleak coast of New England. 
 
 We bid good-bye to Worksop early in the 
 morning, knowing we must change our train 
 at Mansfield. The stupidity of a railway 
 porter made us miss our train, so, instead of 
 reaching Boston at two o'clock, we did not 
 get there until nearly sundown. This loss 
 in the end proved a gain. Polly and I, who 
 were highly indignant at what we supposed 
 would be a long wait in Mansfield, were 
 busily making life miserable for the booking- 
 agent, who was serenely listening to our re- 
 marks behind his little window, when a pleas- 
 ant old gentleman standing by said, civilly: 
 " Why do you ladies not go to Newstead 
 Abbey instead of spending four hours in 
 Mansfield? To-day is visiting-day, and I am 
 sure you can get back in time for your train." 
 
 Thanking the old gentleman for the wel- 
 come proposal, we returned to the attack on 
 the booking-agent. 
 
 " Is Newstead so near? " 
 
 " Only five miles," said the booking-agent. 
 " There will be a train going in five minutes. 
 Three single thirds? Sixpence each." 
 
 185
 
 Among English Inns 
 
 We seized the tickets, got a porter in hot 
 haste, deposited all our bags in the cloak- 
 room, and hurried the Invalid and the Ma- 
 tron over the bridge into a waiting train. 
 Before they had time to ask us where they 
 were going, we were rushing along between 
 green mounds and great black hills of refuse, 
 thrown from the coal-pits, before we ex- 
 plained to them that we were not on the way 
 to Boston. 
 
 Between Mansfield and Newstead we 
 passed Annesley, the home of Byron's early 
 love, Mary Chaworth. We could not see 
 the house from the windows of the train. It 
 is among the thick trees on the slope of the 
 hill. About the station at Newstead are piled 
 black, uninviting signs of prosperity and coal, 
 but the lodge-gates of the abbey are near and 
 when they are passed the wide meadow-lands 
 extend far on either side of the avenue. 
 
 The distance from the station to Newstead 
 Abbey is a good long mile, and the private 
 road begins almost at the station gates. The 
 first half-mile of the avenue is planted on 
 either side with very young trees. It must 
 have been that the wicked Byron, who pre- 
 ceded the poet as owner of the estate, cut down 
 the forest trees. At the second lodge, the 
 
 186
 
 The Dukeries 
 
 destruction was arrested by an injunction 
 served upon the miserable old uncle, and 
 thence the avenue winds about wooded knolls 
 covered with fine trees and thick underbrush. 
 When the little gem of a monkish dwelling 
 appears in the hollow, it stands against a back- 
 ground of thick green. The clear blue sky 
 made colour in the great ruined window of 
 the dismantled church, while the fine foliage 
 of the garden trees was seen through the doors 
 and portal of its ruined facade. The garden 
 covers the space once occupied by the church. 
 The house, which extends along beside the 
 ruin, has been restored nearly to the same state 
 in which it was when the monks were driven 
 forth. The long windows of the abbot's re- 
 fectory, now the great hall, are above the low 
 entrance door to the abbey. Colonel Wild- 
 man, who bought the estate from Byron, spent 
 £100,000 in restoring and fitting up the house. 
 What he left undone has been finished by 
 W. F. Webb, Esq., whose descendants now 
 live here. 
 
 The Byrons were a sad lot, as every one 
 knows, and had not Lord Byron made a place 
 for orgies out of the mansion he so loved and 
 of which he was so proud, he might have kept 
 the estate with which he was forced to part. 
 
 187
 
 Among English Inns 
 
 We found here in Newstead Abbey a most 
 interesting and interested housekeeper who 
 showed us through. She was as much enam- 
 oured of Lord Byron as were the ladies in 
 his own time. She kept repeating to us, as 
 she took us through the rooms in which he 
 had lived, and exhibiting some relics of the 
 poet: 
 
 "Pore thing! Pore fellow! I think that 
 he might have been better, and quite different 
 perhaps, if some one had only loved him." 
 
 To be sure, his mother was not exactly the 
 kind of a woman calculated to train in the 
 right way the sort of nature which Lord 
 Byron possessed, but the sentimental house- 
 keeper's admiration was not shared by Polly. 
 
 The old Chapel House, wherein Lord 
 Byron kept his dogs, and which was in a most 
 ruined condition during his lifetime, has been 
 restored by the present owners. The little 
 dining-room, where he and his boon compan- 
 ions sat often and long, is exactly as he left 
 it; so is his bedchamber, and the room (said 
 to be haunted) where slept his page. The 
 cloisters, the almonry, and the stone staircases 
 appear as though left by the abbots but yes- 
 terday. The water trickles from a quaint old 
 fountain, with weird beasts carved upon it, 
 
 188
 
 The Dukeries 
 
 in the close, and the furnishing and fitting of 
 the house is in every respect appropriate for 
 the severe style of architecture. The lake, 
 when we saw it, was being drained and 
 cleaned. At the time when Byron nearly 
 drowned in it, he was saved from death by 
 his faithful Newfoundland dog, Boatswain, 
 and the tomb of this devoted friend is in the 
 garden within sight of the windows of the 
 great drawing-room. The painting of the 
 first Lord Byron, to whom the king gave this 
 estate, hangs here on the wall, together with 
 the well-known painting of the poet. 
 
 The little housekeeper lamented sorely that 
 Byron had not known of the presence of coal 
 at Newstead. Her affection for the dead poet 
 was touching. 
 
 " He would have saved all this if he'd only 
 had that money," she told us. She always 
 loved his poetry, she said, and admired his 
 personality when she was a young girl, and 
 the privilege of now living in his former home 
 was a romantic joy to her. It was a novel 
 pleasure to meet an English housekeeper who 
 permitted her mind to entertain other ideas 
 than those connected with the mere duties of 
 her position. Only the fear of losing another 
 
 189
 
 Among English Inns 
 
 train forced us away from this entertaining 
 little guide. 
 
 Newstead Abbey has harboured other dis- 
 tinguished guests since Byron left it. Liv- 
 ingstone, the explorer, often lived here for 
 months at a time with Mr. Webb, who was 
 his friend, and here he wrote much of his 
 great work. There are several interesting 
 relics of the discoverer in the same gallery 
 where is preserved the uniform worn by 
 Byron during his last days in Greece. 
 
 " Shall we ever get to Boston? " asked the 
 Matron, falling panting into the train for 
 Mansfield. Polly's entertaining quotations 
 from The Real Lord Byron had so absorbed 
 our attention that we had deliberately walked 
 out of Newstead Abbey gates into the wrong 
 station, and were only saved by an accident 
 from sitting there all day. Both the Great 
 Northern and the Midland Railroad have 
 stations at Newstead, and both lines run very 
 near the park gates. This we had not no- 
 ticed when we arrived, and on our departure 
 we went carelessly into the first station we saw. 
 Luckily our sixpence back to Mansfield had 
 not been paid, and when, at ten minutes of 
 train-time, no booking-agent appeared, Polly 
 started off on an exploring expedition. Pres- 
 
 190
 
 The Dukeries 
 
 ently we saw her at the extreme end of the 
 platform, talking to a porter, and making 
 wild gestures to us, then quickly starting off 
 to run down the road. We followed her 
 blindly, — we invariably did, — and reached 
 the Midland Station just in time to tumble 
 into a carriage. 
 
 " So glad you got here," gasped Polly. " I 
 ran ahead, because I knew the obliging train- 
 guard would wait for you if I asked him." 
 
 In the Mansfield station, where passengers 
 change cars and lose trains and wait hours, 
 there is no refreshment-room. By asking 
 many questions, and asking them of many 
 people, we learned that the town proper, and 
 food, lay within five minutes' walk of the 
 station. 
 
 " It is lucky for us that we have not, as 
 usual, two miles to tramp before we come to 
 the market-place," was the Invalid's comment, 
 as we started down the steep hill beside the 
 station and entered on a broad space filled 
 with booths. It was market-day, but, as no 
 signs of " Luncheon served " appeared in any 
 window of the market-place, we turned hur- 
 riedly down a narrow street, where Polly 
 pointed with glee to the sign, " Oriental 
 Cafe." 
 
 191
 
 Among English Inns 
 
 These establishments, not as Eastern as the 
 name promises, are to be found in all pro- 
 vincial towns, and they are an oasis in the 
 desert to the hungry English tourist. We got 
 an excellent cup of real coffee, together with 
 a light, substantial luncheon, for a very rea- 
 sonable sum.
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 THE PEACOCK 
 AND ROYAL 
 
 Boston 
 
 E are actually on 
 our way to Bos- 
 ton at last," said the 
 Matron. We had left nothing behind in 
 Mansfield but a few shillings, and we rode on 
 slowly as far as Nottingham, where we were 
 obliged to change again. There were no lace 
 curtains in the station at Nottingham, much 
 to our disappointment. There appeared, 
 however, two very fat rams dyed a deep red. 
 Their war-paint had evidently struck inward, 
 for all the porters were engaged in trying to 
 conduct the belligerent animals from one van 
 to another. When the warlike beasts were not 
 engaging one porter with their horns, they 
 were executing flank movements on the others 
 with their hoofs. The battle was so exciting 
 
 193
 
 Among English Inns 
 
 that we quite forgot about our train until in- 
 dustrious Polly seized a porter, luckily too 
 small to resist her, loaded him down with be- 
 longings, and, before he knew what was being 
 done, had steered him into more peaceful 
 quarters — the Boston train. 
 
 The prize rams were still fighting for lib- 
 erty. Nottingham Castle disappeared through 
 the smoke of the busy town, and then we were 
 off through the country, — a billowy country 
 with very little woodland. The train passes 
 near Belvoir Castle, built on a high ridge. It 
 looked very like Windsor through the haze of 
 the afternoon. The Dukes of Rutland have 
 been living at Belvoir ever since they deserted 
 Haddon Hall, or, rather, they have been liv- 
 ing there since the younger branch of the 
 Manners family succeeded to the title. 
 
 Not long after passing Belvoir and Slea- 
 ford Station, we came into the Fen Country. 
 When the Puritans left Lincolnshire for 
 America, this vast region was a savage tract, 
 desolate, uncultivated, full of bogs and ague. 
 The inhabitants were a rude people who 
 barely managed to exist by the crops they got 
 off the small patches of land they reclaimed 
 from the water. Now all this is changed. 
 The Big Drain flows along beside the track 
 
 194
 
 The Peacock and Royal 
 
 as wide as a canal, and is spanned by bridges 
 more or less picturesque, and at intervals 
 smaller drains run from all sides to meet it. 
 The fields are fertile and the farms look 
 prosperous. 
 
 The style of architecture so much admired, 
 and so continually copied by the early settlers 
 in New England, is the architecture of the 
 Lincolnshire Fens. Square houses with long, 
 slanting roofs, a door in the middle, and one 
 or two windows on either side of it, can be 
 seen here in brick, quite like the wooden re- 
 productions that predominate in the old towns 
 about Boston, Mass. Before the Fens were 
 drained, the roofs of the cottages were made 
 of the reeds so plentiful in the district, and 
 this must have added a decidedly picturesque 
 quality to the little dwellings now made ugly 
 by dull slate. The reeds have disappeared 
 with the reclaiming of the land, and we were 
 told that it was hard now to find a good 
 thatcher in this part of Lincolnshire. 
 
 The dampness of the flat lands here is 
 responsible for the loveliest atmospheric ef- 
 fects. Over this otherwise uninteresting plain 
 there spreads at the sunset hour a most won- 
 derful colour. The air glows like gold, the 
 drains glitter like molten metal, and the wide 
 
 J 95
 
 Among English Inns 
 
 fields and commonplace houses become glori- 
 fied by the light of the hour. It was through 
 this golden mist that we first saw the tall tower 
 of St. Botolph's Church — the Boston Stump, 
 as it is called — looming gray before us. We 
 had reached Boston at last, after all our 
 troubles! 
 
 Following the advice of a lady who hap- 
 pened to be in the carriage with us, we gave 
 our luggage to the 'bus driver to take to the 
 hotel, and walked there with our new-found 
 acquaintance by a short cut. Our guide was 
 a Boston woman, and knew the road, or we 
 surely should have found ourselves as com- 
 pletely astray as does the Western stranger in 
 Boston, U. S. A. 
 
 On the street leading from the station, down 
 which we followed the Boston lady, the low 
 brick houses were all exactly alike, and out 
 of them poured forth large families of dirty 
 children. After two minutes' walk through 
 this uninviting beginning of the town, the 
 street suddenly stopped, and we stood above 
 the parapet where the river ran swift beneath, 
 and we looked across the water at the great 
 tower of St. Botolph's Church shooting up 
 into the red sky. 
 
 This is the finest view in Boston, and, as 
 
 196
 
 ST. BOTOLPH S CHURCH, BOSTON
 
 The Peacock and Royal 
 
 we saw it in sharp contrast to the dull com- 
 monplace street by which we had come, our 
 enthusiasm was correspondingly great. From 
 this spectacle we understood plainly why Bos- 
 ton is said, by the English, to look like a 
 Dutch town. Along the river gorgeously 
 painted fishing-boats were making their way 
 out at high tide to The Wash. Bridges 
 spanned the river, and gardens grew along the 
 side behind the high walls required to curb 
 the River Wytham's ardour. As a tidal river, 
 it has a way of climbing over barriers and even 
 at intervals invading the great church. Bos- 
 ton has no pleasant recollections of these frol- 
 ics. They have wrought horrible destruction, 
 and once nearly destroyed the whole town. 
 From the river-bank we went to the bridge, 
 through a distracting maze of narrow lanes, 
 before we reached our hotel on the market- 
 place, as Polly observed, " quite Bostonese." 
 The Peacock and Royal is a commercial 
 hotel of cheerful aspect. The front is dec- 
 orated by bright flowers and long trailing 
 vines growing from the window-boxes on the 
 balconies, and above all is a most gorgeous 
 sign of the most gorgeous of birds, from which 
 it takes its name. We ate our comfortable 
 little dinner in the coffee-room, our table 
 
 197
 
 Among English Inns 
 
 placed in a " Dendy Sadler bow-window," 
 behind one of which the Matron has always 
 pined to sit. It was nine o'clock before we 
 left the table. We were too tired to explore 
 Boston's winding ways, and, as it was too early 
 for bed, I had this time secured a large front 
 room looking over the market-place, and my 
 sleepy friends soon found entertainment there. 
 The sound of a twanging banjo, which 
 came from beneath our window, gathered the 
 few stragglers in the market-place into a cir- 
 cle around the door of the Peacock. We 
 could not see the musician from our window, 
 but he broke forth as soon as the audience 
 had gathered into the usual sentimental bal- 
 lad dear to English ears. Some boys, with 
 dogs at their heels, formed the outside of the 
 meagre crowd, and then from a side street 
 came belated mothers, pushing their babies 
 home in perambulators. Polly says that at 
 no hour in the twenty-four are English streets 
 entirely free from perambulators, and, late 
 as it was, three of these useful carriages 
 joined the circle, the mothers, in true Boston 
 fashion, being unable to resist music. The 
 audience grew larger and the circle wider; 
 the songs were succeeded by dialogues, and 
 coppers rained plentifully into the collector's 
 
 198
 
 The Peacock and Royal 
 
 hand, until a baby set up an opposition con- 
 cert, and an enterprising dog was encouraged 
 by the noise to fight his four-legged neigh- 
 bour. During the rumpus which succeeded, 
 the musicians vanished. The dog riot was 
 finally quelled, the babies trundled home, and 
 the market-place in a few minutes was abso- 
 lutely deserted for the night. 
 
 Next morning unwonted sounds of activity 
 got me out of bed at an early hour. Booths 
 were being put up for a market. 
 
 " We cannot seem to get away from mar- 
 kets," the Matron said. " There is one in 
 every town we visit. We left the weekly 
 market yesterday in Mansfield to find it to-day 
 in Boston." 
 
 Little houses on wheels are drawn clatter- 
 ing over the stones, and take their places all 
 in a row near the inn. Then signs are hung 
 out on each, announcing that within wonder- 
 ful seeds and infallible means of making the 
 seeds grow are to be purchased. The many 
 canvas-roofed booths are soon taken in charge 
 by buxom market-women. They pile up fruit 
 and vegetables which speak well for the fer- 
 tility of the Fen Country in each of these. 
 We could hardly wait to finish our breakfast, 
 so interested did we become in what was going 
 
 199
 
 Among English Inns 
 
 on in the little outdoor shops. A descent into 
 the market-place revealed that they were not 
 only occupied by market products, but several 
 were given up to the sale of the most wonder- 
 ful and tooth-destroying sweeties ever in- 
 vented. 
 
 " No wonder there are not teeth enough to 
 go around in England!" exclaimed Polly, as 
 she pointed in horror to a perfect copy in ex- 
 traordinary candy of the Royal Crown. 
 Bright red sugar on top, with deadly yellow 
 confection below and silver stuck on above 
 ermine trimmings, it is as astonishing confec- 
 tionery as can be imagined. Piled high above 
 the insignia of royalty were great cakes at least 
 fifteen inches around; a brilliant scarlet gela- 
 tine was smeared on top and orange-hued 
 candy appeared beneath. Pounds of a dark 
 brown brick-like sweet were piled up beside 
 sugar sticks of surprising manufacture that 
 were at least two feet long and two inches 
 thick. 
 
 " The motto goes all the way through the 
 stick," proudly announced the vender, as he 
 broke up for our admiration one of the great 
 clubs, — pink on the edge, white in the mid- 
 dle, with " Give me your heart " in black. 
 These marvellous sweets sold in packages of 
 
 aoo
 
 The Peacock and Royal 
 
 various weight from a penny upwards, and 
 disappeared more quickly than their out- 
 ward appearance would warrant. 
 
 There were baskets so enticing in another 
 booth that the Matron and the Invalid 
 walked all around town laden down with 
 wicker purchases. Onward we strolled 
 through the market-place, delighted with 
 everything we saw, and Polly had hard work 
 to fix our wayward attention long enough to 
 tell us that John Fox was born in a house 
 where now stands an inn called " The Rum 
 Puncheon." 
 
 " What a jolly name for an inn," said the 
 Matron, who cares nothing for celebrities. 
 The Invalid exclaimed " Fox's Martyrs " at 
 the same moment (that is all she knew about 
 him, probably, though she looked very wise). 
 The quaintest old building on the market- 
 place stands next the Rum Puncheon, and is 
 called " The Angel." We forgot John Fox 
 and all his writings at the next toy booth with 
 its penny wares. There were barrel-bodied 
 horses, solemn-looking dogs, and very woolly 
 sheep, all of which the Matron wanted to take 
 home with her. The English children show 
 the national love of animals by the toys they 
 choose. 
 
 201
 
 Among English Inns 
 
 Who has spent a day in old Boston and not 
 heard the town-crier? On this particular 
 market-day that functionary, in a somewhat 
 shabby, sombre brown suit, brandishing a 
 huge, shiny bell, held the awestricken pink- 
 cheeked market-women entranced while he 
 recited, in a stentorian voice, the dismal news: 
 "A ter-r-rible murder! Three victims dead! 
 Murderer at large!" jingling his bell so dis- 
 mally that involuntarily we looked over our 
 shoulders, getting nearer to the loud-tongued 
 bell, as though it could protect us. The most 
 enterprising member of the group hurried 
 to the corner news-stand, and came back with 
 The Boston Post, wherein we read that the 
 murder had been committed fully twenty 
 miles from the crier's bell, so we might safely 
 resume our explorations in the town without 
 colliding with the escaping wretch. 
 
 St. Botolph is at the farthest corner of the 
 market-place from the Peacock. We strolled 
 there among the booths and peered over the 
 high wall, which protects the church from 
 the water, to find the rushing river of the night 
 before was reduced by the outgoing tide to 
 the merest ditch. About St. Botolph's Church 
 still remained a close, with queer-looking, 
 ancient structures with steep, curious gables. 
 
 202
 
 The Peacock and Royal 
 
 The church architecture is very foreign in 
 style, but modern English taste prevails in 
 the restored interior. The tower, piled up so 
 high, lacks that finish on top, which only its 
 nickname, " The Stump," describes. 
 
 A very narrow lane between the old houses, 
 marked " Worm Gate," led away from the 
 close. That the languages are cultivated in 
 this town was evident from a sign we saw 
 there in a tiny shop: 
 
 "L. KEPER, TAILOR D'HOMMES." 
 
 We left the Worm Gate on the broad 
 road along the Maud Foster Drain. Why 
 Maud Foster nobody knows, but, as such a 
 person is known to have had business rela- 
 tions with the corporation of Boston in 1568, 
 it is supposed that the lady allowed the drain 
 to be cut through her property on condition 
 that it should be called by her name. It is 
 as wide as a small river, has high walls on 
 either side, and the irregular red houses with 
 the windmill twirling above them is another 
 touch of Holland. John Cotton and his 
 friends did not take all the east wind over 
 the ocean with them when they left home. 
 A good portion of it we found blowing furi- 
 
 203
 
 Among English Inns 
 
 ously along the Maud Foster Drain. We 
 turned from the drain to the Wide Bar Gate, 
 a long open space of pens, filled with red 
 cattle and thousands of sheep for market. 
 Above the homesick bleating of the sheep 
 arose the tones of " Rule Britannia," which 
 were being flung into the teeth of the east 
 wind by a choir of small boys who had 
 swarmed up on a monument made of cannon 
 acquired in some bygone Boston victory, and 
 were bawling the tune to please the shepherds. 
 The Invalid soon began questioning a hand- 
 some farmer with glowing cheeks, whose good 
 looks were greatly enhanced by his immacu- 
 late riding costume. 
 
 " This is the season for big sheep markets," 
 we heard him say, " and to-day there are a 
 great many here, but Boston once had a great 
 market at which thirty-two thousand sheep 
 were sold." 
 
 The Invalid was duly impressed. She tried 
 other questions in her most fascinating man- 
 ner, but ended by joining us, with the remark: 
 " Pity he knows nothing but sheep! " 
 
 The Red Lion Inn, which faces the Narrow 
 Bargate, has a more venerable exterior than 
 the Peacock, but a decidedly decayed interior. 
 It owns to the age of four hundred years, so 
 
 204
 
 BOSTON MARKET-PLACE. — SHEEP MARKET IN THE WIDE 
 
 BAR GATE
 
 The Peacock and Royal 
 
 no wonder that it is neither very clean nor 
 very modern at the present time. It was for- 
 merly the property of one of the Boston guilds, 
 and in the inn yard strolling players were wont 
 to perform for the delight of all Boston. At 
 the other end of the market-place, past our 
 lodging at the Peacock, is the South End, a 
 very familiar term to the American Bostonian. 
 The way there leads past Shod Friars Hall, 
 an antique, picturesque-appearing building. 
 It seems almost cruel to be forced to say it 
 is but a restoration. Old Boston, which was 
 founded by hermits, was a famous place for 
 friars. They were the revivalists of olden 
 times, and one family, the Tilneys, were so 
 influenced that they founded no fewer than 
 three friaries in Boston, while a fourth, the 
 Carmelites, was endowed by a knight named 
 De Orreby. For a small city, Boston was in 
 olden times unusually well provided with re- 
 ligion. Even the celebrated guilds of Boston 
 were semi-religious; nevertheless Boston, of 
 all English cities, showed early the strongest 
 Puritan spirit and the most decided sympathy 
 with every action of the Reformed Parliament 
 in England. 
 
 On the way to South End there still stand 
 many old warehouses, and one of the largest, 
 
 205
 
 Among English Inns 
 
 Mustard, Harrow & Company, manufacture 
 mushroom ketchup. Numerous houses of the 
 Georgian period, with broad gardens in front 
 of them, proclaim this end of the town — un- 
 like its namesake in the U. S. A. — a dwelling- 
 place of the rich. Behind one fine old man- 
 sion is the Grammar School, built in Tudor 
 times. Boston, England, is as proud of the 
 scholars turned out by this famous school as 
 the Boston over the water ever has been of 
 the glories of Harvard. Once the home of 
 those foreigners whose honesty gave the word 
 " sterling " to the English language, and a 
 city so prosperous that, when King John lev- 
 ied a tax on all merchants within the kingdom, 
 Boston paid the next largest sum to London, 
 this city of the Fens has suffered from the 
 decay of its trade for several centuries. Its 
 citizens and corporation hope for great things 
 in the future, with the completion of a fine 
 dock recently built and capable of receiving 
 large ships. 
 
 There is almost no gentry living near Bos- 
 ton, and no great estates in the neighbourhood. 
 The Fen Country was a desirable property 
 with which the Crown dared reward the 
 nobles in the olden times. Now it is all so 
 highly cultivated that there are no covers for 
 
 206
 
 
 K^f i tt L* 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 ,.M 
 
 Hi 
 
 ii'^a«d 
 
 ?^ f -^ 
 
 
 ^ ? - 
 
 
 mil 
 
 ^PW^^r 
 
 
 
 THE RIVER WYTHAM AND ST. BOTOLPH's CHURCH. — OLD 
 BOSTON WAREHOUSES. — THE MAUD FOSTER DRAIN
 
 The Peacock and Royal 
 
 game. " No hunting, consequently no high 
 society," said Polly, regretfully. 
 
 Old Boston town, which went to sleep after 
 the excitement furnished by the departure of 
 their vicar, John Cotton, and his followers, 
 is now just beginning to wake up again. 
 There is still a very stern, solemn, Puritanical 
 look about the dull little Holland-like city, 
 in spite of the numerous houses of entertain- 
 ment. Some of these rejoice in extraordinary 
 names. There is " The Axe and Cleaver," 
 " The Loggerhead," " The Indian Queen," 
 " The Ram," " The Whale," " The Unicorn," 
 "The Red Cow," "The Blue Lion," and 
 " The Black Bull." They all furnish abun- 
 dant liquid refreshment, with our favourite 
 " The Rum Puncheon," and the picturesque 
 " Angel." Even the streets have delicious 
 names: " Paradise Lane," and " Pinfold Al- 
 ley," "Liquor Pond Street" and "Silver 
 Street," " The Worm Gate," " The Bar Gate," 
 Wide, and Narrow, and " Robin Hood's 
 Walk." There is " Pump Square; " there is 
 " Fish Loft Road," and in quaint " Spain 
 Lane," in a house since demolished, until she 
 was fourteen years old, lived jean Ingelow, 
 the writer. Boston is proud of its literary 
 celebrities, and has erected a statue to Herbert 
 
 207
 
 Among English Inns 
 
 Ingram, the founder of the London Illustrated 
 News. 
 
 When we left Boston it was again the late 
 afternoon. The sky was flooded with bril- 
 liant orange, and light clouds tinged with 
 rose colour floated over the glowing surface. 
 The sails of the many windmills each showed 
 colour or hue. They varied from violet to 
 bright orange. As we looked out of the win- 
 dow on one side of the carriage the drains 
 ran gold, while from the other side the colours 
 of the fields were doubly strong. Every leaf 
 stood out, vivid and distinct, on the fruit-trees, 
 shaken and bent by the wind. The water of 
 the Big Drain ran dark, making the whiteness 
 of the many ducks, which were taking their 
 evening swim, almost dazzling, and one dark 
 gray windmill on a high dike, with its sails 
 pure white and a roof richly red, looked like a 
 painted toy. Not an inch of land in the Fen 
 Country is wasted. The well-tilled fields are 
 divided by the drains or thick thorn hedges; 
 prosperous-looking haystacks are piled all 
 over them, promising good feed to the herds 
 of cattle now eating the rich green grass, and 
 out of the rosy mist rises in the distance at 
 intervals the steeple of a village church, with 
 a cluster of roofs about it. As soon as we 
 
 208
 
 The Peacock and Royal 
 
 came upon an irregular gray stone farmhouse, 
 with dormer windows and picturesque 
 thatched roof, we knew that we had left 
 Lincolnshire behind and were nearing Peter- 
 boro, where we changed for Norwich. 
 
 209
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 THE MAID'S HEAD 
 
 Norwich 
 
 o^< 
 
 HE first view 
 of Norwich 
 was slightly 
 ^ disappointing. The 
 twilight was fading 
 rapidly, and in the half-light the drive in the 
 'bus to the Maid's Head took us through 
 streets which looked like any other street in 
 any other city. An electric car which passed 
 us made the resemblance to more common- 
 place localities even stronger. 
 
 The Maid's Head, one of the most noted 
 inns in England, now dignified (or disgraced) 
 by the name of Hotel, is a judicious mixture 
 of ancient and modern. After a career which 
 associated its name with some of the most in- 
 teresting and entertaining events in the history 
 
 210
 
 X 
 
 u 
 
 O 
 
 a 
 < 
 
 x 
 
 ■si 
 
 Q 
 
 < 
 
 u 
 
 s
 
 The Maid's Head 
 
 of Norwich, it was about to pass into the hands 
 of a brewing company, when it was rescued 
 and put into its present shape by Mr. Walter 
 Rye, a distinguished antiquarian, who has the 
 interests of his native city of Norwich very 
 near to his heart. The fine Tudor office, the 
 bar, and the carved wainscoted smoke-room 
 have been saved from the vandals and beer- 
 drinkers. The ancient gables look down 
 throughUhe glass of the roofed-in courtyard, 
 and Queen Elizabeth's room, with its narrow 
 private stairway, remains in all its pristine 
 glory. 
 
 Queen Elizabeth, as great a lover of change 
 as Emperor William, if tradition speaks truly, 
 made Norfolk several visits during her many 
 progresses. In Norfolk her mother's early 
 youth was passed. 
 
 The Maid's Head is full of treasures. The 
 corridor is hung with charming old prints, 
 and with drawings of ancient Norwich monu- 
 ments now destroyed. The bedrooms, in spite 
 of their modern furniture and electric lights, 
 still show heavy oak beams across the ceil- 
 ings, and the inside walls take quaint forms 
 from the outside gables. The great assembly- 
 room, at present given over to French cook- 
 ing and a table d'hote, has witnessed the efforts 
 
 21 I
 
 Among English Inns 
 
 of strolling players and the concerts of court 
 musicians. 
 
 It was in this hall, where we hungry travel- 
 lers gathered about a daintily lighted little 
 table to eat with the vigour of Goths, that 
 the good people of Norwich held a meeting 
 in 1778, to decide whether they should or 
 should not collect money to help conquer 
 " the American rebels." The Norfolk men, it 
 seems, had, however, so many relatives and 
 friends among these same rebels, and so little 
 love for King George, that they decided to 
 refuse the government pecuniary assistance. 
 
 Great feastings went on within these four 
 walls early in the history of Norwich. In the 
 Paston letters — and every one who goes to 
 Norfolk must read the Paston letters — " Ye 
 Mayde's Hede " figures several times. All 
 the great Norfolk families patronized this 
 hostelry on their journeys to and from the 
 court in London. The paved courtyard walls 
 have echoed to the wheels of the lumber- 
 ing coaches and the hoof-beats of the stout 
 travelling horses of the Howards, the Ox- 
 fords, the Walpoles, and the Bullens, as they 
 drove in for a halt, a change, or a night in 
 Norwich before proceeding farther. The 
 heavy oaken iron-barred doors, still to be seen 
 
 212
 
 The Maid's Head 
 
 at the entrance, were hung here earlier in the 
 inn's history; indeed they were on duty fully 
 a century before Sir John Paston's time. In 
 the thirteenth or early fourteenth century a 
 robbery of some pilgrims took place in a cham- 
 ber of the Mayde's Hede. The unjust accusa- 
 tion that the victims directed against an inno- 
 cent girl in their party brought the landlord 
 before the courts of English justice, and the 
 innkeeper put up these heavy doors to prevent 
 thieves from entering in future. 
 
 The Maid's Head is a house of entertain- 
 ment so full of interest that we each spent a 
 profitable evening reading the artistic little 
 pamphlet containing its history, and presented 
 us by the thoughtful management, along with 
 our rooms. 
 
 Norwich does not get the attention it de- 
 serves from the tourist. We discovered, the 
 morning following our arrival, that, in spite 
 of the uninteresting streets on which we had 
 passed judgment the evening before, this city 
 possessed great charm for the antiquarian. It 
 is as full of ancient flint churches as if they 
 had been sprinkled out of a pepper-pot. Many 
 of them are falling rapidly into a state of utter 
 dilapidation, while others have been well re- 
 stored. 
 
 213
 
 Among English Inns 
 
 The narrow lanes teem with houses of the 
 most curious sort, with gables of quaint 
 shapes and heavy overhanging facades, which 
 cluster about the melancholy old churches; 
 and it is to be feared they will soon all dis- 
 appear, together with the old lanes and alleys, 
 which are too narrow to admit of thorough- 
 fare or other than foot-passengers. 
 
 Norwich, too, has a town-crier, but he is al- 
 together a much more magnificent personage 
 than his Boston confrere. He is a pompous 
 little man, with a voice and a bell quite out 
 of proportion to his stature. He hurries from 
 corner to corner with an air of great mystery 
 and importance, halting only to swing his loud 
 bell and announce that some noted man has 
 died, or that a church concert will be given. 
 Dressed in a long blue coat much embellished 
 with red and gold, a broad gold band around 
 his hat, and gold stripes down the sides of his 
 trousers, Norwich has cause to be proud of its 
 town-crier. 
 
 Norwich has only within the last year or 
 so been put upon the itinerary of the well- 
 known tourist agencies. Not only for its 
 noted cathedral, still enclosed by the great 
 wall surrounding it in monkish times, but for 
 the mixture of old and new is this city original 
 
 214
 
 The Maid's Head 
 
 and charming. Its position in the centre of a 
 most interesting county lends additional mo- 
 tives for attraction of visitors. 
 
 The cathedral is within a stone's throw 
 of the Maid's Head. Its beautiful cloisters 
 and splendidly carved gateways do honour 
 to architects long forgotten, while its tall 
 spire towers loftily above the many churches 
 in its neighbourhood. Near to the cathedral, 
 upon Tombland Square, stand many noble 
 and ancient houses. The most interesting of 
 these is now become an antiquity shop, and is 
 called the House of the Giants, from two 
 great figures which support the coping over 
 the entrance porch. 
 
 This square of Tombland was the scene of 
 a horrible explosion in olden times, when an 
 enterprising mayor sought to celebrate his 
 election in a novel way. Fireworks were then 
 little understood, and, while endeavouring to 
 entertain his fellow citizens by a display of 
 rockets, the unfortunate city officer succeeded 
 in killing several hundred of the spectators. 
 
 George Borrow's description of Norwich 
 is as graphic to-day as when the author of 
 " Lavengro," a native of Norfolk, first wrote 
 it: "A fine old city," he calls it, "view it 
 from whatever side you will ... its thrice 
 
 215
 
 Among English Inns 
 
 twelve churches, its mighty mound, which, if 
 tradition speaks true, was raised by human 
 hands to serve as a grave heap for a heathen 
 king." The mound is still topped by a castle, 
 but one of modern date, while at the bottom, 
 on Saturday, crowds gather to inspect the fine 
 fat cattle raised on Norfolk's rich pasture- 
 lands, and here offered for sale, and also to 
 buy the handsome horses trotted about for 
 inspection by the successors of George Bor- 
 row's gipsy friend, Mr. Pentelengro. Great 
 stallions, with their tails and manes braided 
 up in straw or ribbons, muscular ponies, and 
 even showy carriage-horses are stabled here 
 by the dealers under the castle wall. Oppo- 
 site the horse and cattle markets, through a 
 narrow street at the foot of the mound, runs 
 the electric tram, at once the terror and the 
 delight of the Norwich citizen. It is not a 
 formidable danger, judged from the stand- 
 point of a dweller in New York, and it winds 
 through narrow and quaintly named streets, 
 along Unthank Road, Rampant Horse Street, 
 Grape Lane, The Gentleman's Walk, Timber 
 Hill, and so on to Mousehold Heath, the city's 
 park and pleasure-ground. 
 
 Past the antique Guild Hall, it is a long 
 tram ride to the Dolphin Inn in the ancient 
 
 216
 
 The Maid's Head 
 
 hamlet of Heigham, now a portion of Nor- 
 wich. This inn was once the country house 
 of Bishop Hall. It is an enchanting spot for 
 afternoon tea. The river flows away at the 
 bottom of its garden, a windmill is perched 
 up on a low hill in the distance, and a charm- 
 ing view of Norwich forms a background. 
 
 The Invalid, who boasts a fine taste in 
 ecclesiastical architecture, rather scorned the 
 cathedral for the sake of St. Peter Mancroft, 
 the great church on the market-place. We 
 could hardly force her to leave the rosy- 
 cheeked sexton, with whom she had lengthy 
 gossips concerning St. Peter's history and rich 
 relics, and she was amply rewarded by a sight 
 of the fine communion plate, the monument to 
 Sir Thomas Browne, and the leather money 
 paid the bell-ringers long ago, and which they 
 could only exchange for beer. We had no 
 chance to test their powers, but the Invalid 
 assured us, on the authority of the sexton, that, 
 when the present generation of St. Peter's 
 ringers get the bells in hand, the famous ring- 
 ers of Christ Church, Oxford, hide their 
 diminished heads with shame. 
 
 Polly's favourite haunt in Norwich was the 
 book-shop of Mr. Agas Goose, in Rampant 
 Horse Street. There she filled her mind with 
 
 217
 
 Among English Inns 
 
 proper information concerning the whole of 
 Norfolk county, and the best way to see it in 
 the short time we had to spend there. It was 
 she who decided that we were to visit, of 
 all its famous country-seats, Blickling Hall, 
 which we surnamed " the beautiful." 
 
 " And when are you going to lead us 
 there? " questioned the Matron, as we sipped 
 coffee and nibbled toast and coquetted with 
 pink petals of Wiltshire bacon, and discussed 
 our plans. 
 
 " To-day at ten-twenty, if we go by train. 
 It is an easy ride of ten miles by bicycle, if 
 any one chooses that method of locomotion," 
 was the prompt reply. 
 
 But the longer ride by rail tempted us in 
 our indolence, and accordingly we " booked " 
 for Aylsham, the railroad station nearest to 
 Blickling. Aylsham revealed its incontest- 
 able charms as we walked up from its station, 
 by a dear old manor-house, now vacant, and 
 surrounded by a fine park gone nearly wild. 
 
 " How I should like to hire it and write 
 a story about it," said the Invalid, who never 
 wrote a line in her life, and whose ideas of 
 the uncertain profits of literature are vague. 
 This sad-looking brick manor-house, deserted 
 since the last heir vanished from history, sits 
 
 218
 
 The Maid's Head 
 
 in a tangle of wild roses and shrubbery, and 
 would afford a perfect scene for a novel. 
 
 At the other end of the town, as soon as we 
 could manage to get the Invalid and Polly 
 past a cottage where they hung over the pal- 
 ings wrapt in admiration at the profusion, size, 
 and colour of some wonderful begonias, we 
 started out, along the smooth flint Norfolk 
 road lined with fascinating country houses of 
 ancient make, and between two rows of great 
 elm-trees, to Anne Bullen's ancestral home. 
 
 Blickling Hall bursts a bit suddenly on the 
 view. It looks more French than English, at 
 the end of a grass and gravelled court, with 
 low stables, as at Fontainebleau, stretching 
 down on either side of the court to the gate. 
 The entrance to the garden is through a col- 
 onnade, and the like of this garden grows no- 
 where save in England. It spreads its beau- 
 ties on but one side of this fine old Tudor 
 mansion. The beds, in which each flower 
 which grows is doing its mightiest to make 
 the sweetness of its scented pleasure felt, are 
 divided by great, fine clipped walls of box. 
 Nowhere is a richer or more democratic gar- 
 den. There the nobles and commons, the 
 great and the humble ones of the floral king- 
 dom, who, regardless of season, blow and blos- 
 
 219
 
 Among English Inns 
 
 som with all their power. Beyond the great 
 carpet of flowers stretches for acres a wide 
 demesne of dense groves and long, shady paths, 
 in which Anne Bullen is said to wander and 
 to wail by night for her lost home and happi- 
 ness. 
 
 Within the Hall, on the great staircase 
 which divides at the landing, are two por- 
 traits carved in wood. In one of them, Anne 
 Bullen stands here revealed in all the sprightly 
 charm which captivated Henry's fickle heart, 
 in spite of her somewhat plain face. She dis- 
 plays a style, a dash, an entrancing coquetry, 
 which, from the other pictures we had seen of 
 this unhappy woman, we had never suspected. 
 In the opposite carving, her daughter, Queen 
 Elizabeth, stands stiff in a bedizened costume, 
 lacking all the grace of her mother. About 
 this attractive, homelike mansion everywhere 
 the black bull of the Bullen family crest is 
 to be seen, either carved in wood or inlaid in 
 marble. The restorations and the splendid 
 new library on the garden side are models of 
 the perfect taste of their modern designers. 
 
 At the gate of Blickling Hall is a little inn 
 called the Buckinghamshire Arms. It is one 
 of those inns which have been lately estab- 
 lished in England to discourage the sale of 
 
 220
 
 2 
 W 
 Q 
 X 
 K 
 O 
 
 J 
 
 < 
 
 o 
 z 
 
 l-H 
 
 u 
 
 j 
 
 pa
 
 The Maid's Head 
 
 alcoholic drinks by making it more profitable 
 to the innkeeper to sell milder beverages. 
 The Buckinghamshire Arms is said to be a 
 very successful experiment. It is neat, clean, 
 a relic in architecture of Tudor days, dressed 
 up a little to suit modern times, and there we 
 had a most excellent luncheon for the price 
 of one shilling each. 
 
 The church at Blickling has a fine marble 
 monument to the memory of the late Marquis 
 of Lothian. Here also are many relics of the 
 very early days when the church was put up 
 or the foundations put down. The dates be- 
 ing somewhat effaced, the sexton makes them 
 as remote as he chooses. 
 
 After viewing house and park, we still had 
 two good hours before train-time, so we 
 strolled along slowly back to Aylsham. Be- 
 fore us strode three farm labourers, going 
 home after hoeing in a field, — a father and 
 his two sons, or it might possibly have been 
 a grandfather, father, and son. 
 
 " Behold the true kernel of the British nut! " 
 exclaimed the admiring Matron, as the three 
 men, straight of limb, flat of back, and broad 
 of shoulder, started off so briskly that it was 
 impossible to believe they had been bent up 
 nearly double all day. The boy, whose age 
 
 221
 
 Among English Inns 
 
 was perhaps fourteen, stopped at a gate to 
 shoulder a heavy bag of potatoes. After he 
 raised the sack over his shoulder, he stood per- 
 fectly erect, in spite of the heavy weight, and, 
 puckering up his lips, began to whistle what 
 he imagined to be a tune; then started off 
 at a pace which soon left us far behind. 
 
 In Aylsham there is a great old church of 
 John of Gaunt's time, with a venerable lich- 
 gate at the entrance to the churchyard. The 
 interior, however, has been too much restored, 
 as is often the case in Norfolk, and it is spoiled 
 by being crowded with pews. 
 
 After the day of delights at Blickling, we 
 took train the following morning in Norwich, 
 and rattled away, through corn and turnip- 
 fields, past red farms and square gray church 
 towers, a brief twenty miles, to Yarmouth on 
 the North Sea shore. The waves of this sea 
 play wild games, they told us, with parts of 
 the Norfolk coast. At some points it has 
 wiped out whole villages, at another it has 
 dashed up great sand-dunes and buried church 
 and tower and surrounding houses out of 
 sight. 
 
 Old Yarmouth, cockney resort though it 
 be, is more interesting to the lover of the 
 quaint and curious than any of the other more 
 
 222
 
 The Maid's Head 
 
 fashionable and less historic places on the 
 Norfolk coast. It has, to be sure, a Parade 
 for the pleasure of the tripper, and long streets 
 of commonplace houses like those of every 
 English seaside town. Down behind all this 
 modern sea-wall, however, in the ancient town 
 where the Peggottys wandered, are the curi- 
 ous Yarmouth Rows. These are narrow pas- 
 sages between the high houses, where neigh- 
 bours can shake hands across the opening 
 from the windows of their homes. Unlike 
 similar passages in old Continental towns, the 
 Yarmouth Rows are clean and fresh. 
 
 We ate our dinner at " The Star," looking 
 out at the many gaudy boats tied up by the 
 side of the solid stone quay along the river. 
 Black sails from the Broads, and red sails 
 from the south coast were drying out side by 
 side, while the sharp-arched bridge, like a 
 Chinese print, led our eyes over to the 
 weather-worn warehouses on the other side. 
 Our hot luncheon, price, " two and six," was 
 just like any other hot luncheon. It con- 
 sisted of the usual joint, potatoes and cabbage, 
 and a tart. With eyes closed, we could imag- 
 ine eating it in any part of England through 
 which we had passed, but, looking over the 
 well-known menu, we forgot its monotony 
 
 223
 
 Among English Inns 
 
 because of the noble room in which it was 
 served. " The Star " was once the home of 
 one of those judges who condemned Charles, 
 the king, to death. This room, with its su- 
 perbly carved black oak walls, its lovely- 
 plaster ceiling and quaint blue-tiled fire- 
 place, remains as it was in the seventeenth 
 century, and it is the pride of the present host 
 and owner of the hotel. Once upon a time 
 a wealthy American offered the generous sum 
 of six thousand pounds for its panelled walls, 
 ceiling, and fireplace. He wished to trans- 
 port them across the ocean to his fine new 
 house in the States; but the owner of "The 
 Star " proved to be a man of sentiment and 
 artistic appreciation. He disdained the offer, 
 and we rejoiced in his admirable decision. 
 
 It was on one of our many journeys by rail 
 through Norfolk that we had caught sight of 
 ruined towers and arches amid the foliage, 
 and discovered our American weakness for 
 antiquarian research and the study of church 
 architecture. Therefore, as we rattled away 
 in the train from Yarmouth, again bound for 
 our headquarters in Norwich, we agreed 
 upon a bicycle trip or two. Our conclusion 
 was to follow the queer highways to the haunts 
 of the ancient, the beautiful, and the grace- 
 
 224
 
 The Maid's Head 
 
 fully dilapidated. Our consultation in the 
 railway carriage resulted in an agreement to 
 forswear a visit to modern and royal San- 
 dringham, and give time and attention and 
 admiration to Wymondham, where there is 
 a ruined abbey, and to Thetford, an ancient 
 Royal city. 
 
 Wymondham, by the way, is pronounced 
 as if it were spelled Windham, for Norfolk 
 is the prize county of all England for serious 
 differences between the spelling and pronun- 
 ciation of proper names. In preparation for 
 this bicycle excursion, Polly and I bestirred 
 ourselves early, and got four wheels down to 
 the ten o'clock train going south. We had 
 bought tickets both for machines and for the 
 people who were to ride them, before the 
 Matron and the Invalid came to the platform 
 gate. The bicycle tickets cost three pence 
 each; without tickets the wheels are not al- 
 lowed on the train. 
 
 They have a way in rural England of keep- 
 ing the railway from spoiling all pretty vil- 
 lages by its bustle and smoke, and this pre- 
 caution involves a station sometimes a very 
 long way from the attractive parts of the little 
 towns. Neither the Invalid nor the Matron 
 got a chance to fuss nor to make themselves 
 
 225
 
 Among English Inns 
 
 miserable about the bicycles. We said not a 
 word to them about our arrangements, but let 
 them enjoy the Norfolk scenery without anx- 
 ious anticipations. The substantial walls of 
 Coleman's Mustard Factory, just outside Nor- 
 wich, the plumy trees of Hetherset, the 
 ancient granges by the roadside, and the 
 numerous flint churches so aroused their en- 
 thusiasm and engaged their whole attention 
 that, when we presented them at Wymond- 
 ham station with bicycles to ride to the then 
 invisible town, never a question nor an objec- 
 tion did either of them offer. Their interest 
 and admiration were wholly absorbed by the 
 long lines of glittering flint walls, beautifully 
 put together, and surrounding ancient flint 
 churches, with thatched roofs, built to last to 
 eternity of that proverbially hard substance. 
 The flints, cracked in half for building, shine 
 in the sun as though artificially polished, and, 
 at nearer range, show blue, white, pink, and 
 black, their irregular surfaces shining like 
 jewels. 
 
 " I believe the monks have only gone off 
 for a pilgrimage, and will be back to-mor- 
 row," was the Matron's first comment, as we 
 rode down the street of Wymondham in the 
 shadow of overhanging gables. 
 
 226
 
 The Maid's Head 
 
 " We shall probably find a fat old cellarer 
 in here," said Polly, when we entered at the 
 sign of " The Green Dragon " to order lunch. 
 Never did there exist a more perfect little 
 hostelry than this. It has lingered on to hale 
 old age from some time in the thirteenth cen- 
 tury, when the abbey was in its glory. Then 
 this jewel of an inn was used as a shelter for 
 lay guests. It is a cosy place, but now too 
 small to afford sleeping-room for any but the 
 innkeeper and his family. 
 
 Under the carved beam which supports the 
 overhanging casements we found an opening 
 to a narrow passage warped by age or the 
 inaccuracy of the monkish architect. Before 
 this entrance hangs a nail-studded door strong 
 enough for a fortress. Through a stuccoed 
 corridor, one way led to the present tap-room. 
 Before the rest of us had finished admiring 
 the exterior, the Invalid was deep in conver- 
 sation with the rosy-cheeked, buxom landlady, 
 who sat behind a tiny bar. This bar in monk- 
 ish times was a cupboard. Sticklers for pres- 
 ervation of antiques as we are, we did not 
 think is a very aggressive innovation to make 
 a bar of this little bowed window in the cor- 
 ner, where all the bright mugs and polished 
 glasses hung as a background to the most 
 
 227
 
 Among English Inns 
 
 respectable of barmaids. The heavy oak 
 beams of the ceiling in the quaint hall, black 
 with age, are upheld with rudely carved fig- 
 ures of the knights who may have feasted 
 here. The marks of the sculptor's tools are 
 upon them and on the carvings which adorn 
 the great fireplace. 
 
 " Don't turn the knob, Polly, or a monk 
 will pop out of that low cellar door," I ad- 
 vised cautiously, as that inquisitive maiden 
 embarked on one of her voyages of discovery 
 around the rooms. 
 
 " Tumble out, you mean. I know there is 
 one in there, all vine grown, who has been 
 sipping for centuries at the noble wine laid 
 down for guests three hundred years ago," 
 she retorted, falling in with our mood. 
 
 " He can't get out," advised the Matron. 
 " Don't you see the huge bunch of keys hang- 
 ing on the antlers above the door? A prima 
 donna will perhaps trip down those stairs in 
 the corner if we stop here long enough," she 
 continued, seriously. " Did you ever lunch in 
 a stage inn before, all set for the first act? ' 
 
 " I want but one pull at one of those leather 
 tankards," said Polly, longingly, " and then 
 I shall be able to tell you more about 
 Wymondham Abbey than any guide-book." 
 
 228
 
 The Maid's Head 
 
 " Yes, ladies, you can have tea and bread 
 and butter, and eggs any way you choose, 
 ready in half an hour," was the landlady's 
 practical contribution to the conversation, as, 
 bustling in, she unconsciously sent our imag- 
 inations back to the wants of the present time. 
 
 We stacked our bicycles before the inn's 
 door, for the churchyard where, among the 
 old cedars, stand the picturesque remains of 
 the great abbey, is near. 
 
 Wymondham Priory was founded in 1107. 
 It was a very rich institution, with all sorts 
 of privileges, which made the monks very 
 independent of the higher church authorities, 
 They owned fields and meadows and all the 
 lands about, and even changed the king's high- 
 way to suit themselves. A quarrel between 
 the prior and a jealous superior, the Abbot of 
 St. Albans, caused the Pope to turn the priory 
 into an abbey for the Benedictines in 1448, 
 and such it remained until the time of the 
 dissolution. Another difference, with the 
 Archdeacon of Norfolk, took the parish 
 church from the jurisdiction of the abbey, 
 and it was then that the queer things hap- 
 pened which gave the parish church its pres- 
 ent unusual architectural peculiarities. The 
 Pope decided that the abbot had no jurisdic- 
 
 229
 
 Among English Inns 
 
 tion over the parishioners; the monks at once 
 made a division in the church, and built an- 
 other tower, in which to hang the bell which 
 called them to matins and primes. The parish 
 church with the parish bell-tower is pre- 
 served as in ancient times, but the monks' beau- 
 tiful tower, built in 1260, is a ruin draped 
 from top to bottom with green vines. The 
 parish church has a superb wooden ceiling in 
 the nave, the spandrels springing from the 
 backs of winged angels resting on grotesque 
 heads. 
 
 It is easy to trace the former entrances to 
 the cloisters, the chapter-house, and the vari- 
 ous portions of the abbey by the closed door- 
 ways still visible. Extending over the church- 
 yard from this fine shattered tower are groups 
 of clustered columns and picturesque arches, 
 — all that now remains of the abbey's old 
 glory. 
 
 " I am quite satisfied that I have seen the 
 finest old church in Norfolk," declared the 
 Invalid, our chief amateur student of antique 
 places of worship. " There may be others, 
 but, as we have not months to spare here, I 
 am glad to take home a remembrance of the 
 noble beauty of these dignified aisles." 
 
 An ancient font, mutilated but still beauti- 
 
 220
 
 The Maid's Head 
 
 ful, the pulpit, the chapels, and the base of 
 the font were being that day decorated with 
 fruits, vegetables, and flowers for the Harvest 
 Festival. 
 
 The many venerable cedars in the church- 
 yard suit the old place admirably, and so do 
 the solemn, sleepy dwellings about the close. 
 The old Green Dragon stood genial and 
 smiling. It will take more storms than the 
 little inn has yet weathered to wear off the 
 jolly remembrance of its youth. 
 
 Whether it was that the landlady heard 
 Polly's shivering at ghostly monks, or simply 
 because she wanted us to enjoy freedom from 
 intrusion, but she served our simple lunch in 
 a little sitting-room, one side all lattice win- 
 dow, and with a ceiling so low that the short- 
 est member of the party could touch it with 
 an extra stretch of the arm. Great poppies 
 on the paper and a wide fireplace caused the 
 Matron to nod approval, as she devoured sev- 
 eral extra slices of delicious cake. 
 
 The landlady, probably in gratitude for be- 
 ing answered all sorts of ingeniously conceived 
 questions about America, recommended us ear- 
 nestly to ride out to Stanfield Hall. It is not 
 more than two miles from town. An atrocious 
 murder having been committed there in 1848, 
 
 231
 
 Among English Inns 
 
 and Wymondham folk have not yet recovered 
 from what to them is but a recent excitement. 
 The present house is an Elizabethan moated 
 grange surrounded by an unkempt park full 
 of oak-trees; the atmosphere of the place is 
 unaccountably sad and gloomy, but the melan- 
 choly is perhaps not so much due to the tragic 
 death of the later master who was shot here 
 by his tenant and bailiff, as to the memories 
 of Amy Robsart, who wandered under the 
 shade of the ancient trees with Leicester in 
 the short bright days when he wooed her. 
 This old estate was her father's home. Leices- 
 ter, then Lord Robert Dudley, came wounded 
 to old Stanfield Hall when his duty brought 
 him to Norfolk with the troops at the time 
 of the Ket rebellion, and Amy nursed him 
 and loved him. The road to Stanfield, one of 
 those perfect Norfolk highways which puts 
 all other roads to shame, leads along with 
 only one turn between the town and the Hall, 
 passing fascinating old farmhouses, none 
 younger than the age of Queen Elizabeth, 
 with their front gardens decorated with 
 quaint sun-dials, stilted rows of box, and fan- 
 cifully trimmed bay-trees. 
 
 " We are the perfect time-keepers," said 
 Polly, as we rode up to the station just one 
 
 131
 
 The Maid's Head 
 
 minute before the Thetford train was due. 
 When we got to Thetford, we very nearly 
 wished we had stayed in curious old 
 Wymondham. 
 
 " This may be an ancient royal city," said 
 the Matron, " but it looks more early Vic- 
 torian." 
 
 " But here is one of Mr. Pickwick's inns 
 to console us," said the Invalid, as we rode into 
 the court of " The Bell L " a marked contrast 
 to the thirteenth-century style of the Green 
 Dragon. 
 
 "Those deceptive guide-books!" indig- 
 nantly exclaimed the Matron, without notic- 
 ing the interruption. " I supposed these 
 streets would be full of queer old things, and 
 all I see is a Jane Austen house or two." 
 
 We did not ask what a Jane Austen house 
 was, but we did try to get some information 
 from the green-aproned Boots at the Bell 
 concerning the King's House, certain as- 
 surance of its existence having been dug by 
 me out of our Norfolk Guide. 
 
 " I never heard of no King's House. Did 
 you mean the house of Mr. King? " was his 
 lucid reply. 
 
 The guide-book had told us that immedi- 
 ately upon entering Thetford we should be-
 
 Among English Inns 
 
 come conscious of its antiquity. Wc stared 
 about in indignant disgust. 
 
 " That writer could not have known Wy- 
 mondham," said Polly. " I only see Geor- 
 gian houses, but perhaps we are not experts." 
 
 At last we found the so-called King's House, 
 a former country residence of English kings, 
 now a plain square brick mansion set in a 
 garden and showing a small royal emblem 
 stuck up above the flat cornice. 
 
 " This is all the king left there," said Polly, 
 as she pointed her camera in the air. Thet- 
 ford, we discovered for ourselves, possesses 
 an artificial mound as large as the castle 
 foundations at Norwich. There we also found 
 a fine Elizabethan house down near the mill- 
 stream, and outside the town lies a huge rab- 
 bit-warren extending for miles. It seemed to 
 go on for ever over hill and hollow, and the 
 little cottontails were skipping around, or 
 sunning themselves outside their front doors, 
 in the tamest sort of way, not at all like their 
 wild Dartmoor kindred. Their silver-tipped 
 tails amid the bracken made the whole great 
 undulating plain flash and sparkle. 
 
 The Bell Inn is the most ancient and ad- 
 mirable structure remaining in Thetford, but 
 all the quaintness is on the outside. The in- 
 
 234
 
 THE RUINS OF WYMONDHAM PRIORY. THE GREEN 
 
 DRAGON INN, WYMONDHAM. — A THETFORD WIN- 
 DOW. THE INN AT BLICKLING
 
 The Maid's Head 
 
 side has followed the prevailing Thetford 
 fashion and become Georgian. The tea we 
 found was of the extreme modern sort, — very 
 dear and no flavour. 
 
 " After all, it was a delightful day," said 
 the Invalid, as we said farewell to the last of 
 the Thetford antiquities, the abbey gateway 
 near the station, which is really more royal 
 than the King's House. It led formerly to 
 Thetford Abbey, the ancient burial-place of 
 the Dukes of Norfolk. 
 
 *3 S
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 ANGEL INN 
 Acle Bridge 
 
 ITHOUT a sail on 
 the Broads, I refuse 
 to leave Norfolk," 
 declared the Matron, as we sat at dinner the 
 night of our return from Thetford. " It 
 would be rather hard to answer the questions 
 our numerous friends will ask when they hear 
 we have been in Norfolk." 
 
 " I know lots of people at home who think 
 there is nothing to see in Norfolk but San- 
 dringham and the Broads," continued the In- 
 valid. 
 
 " And are not quite sure about Sandring- 
 ham, either," finished Polly. " I don't see 
 how we are going to manage it," said Polly. 
 
 236
 
 to 
 
 < 
 o 
 
 X 
 X 
 
 _) 
 
 o 
 
 X 
 
 o 
 w 
 
 X 
 H 
 
 z 
 
 o
 
 Angel Inn 
 
 " Go ask the hotel manager, that is the 
 wisest way, and we will decide ourselves when 
 we hear what he tells you." 
 
 So Polly left us to go into the pretty Jaco- 
 bean office, which looks for all the world like 
 a monstrous piece of oak furniture, and we 
 went on to warm ourselves before the great 
 thirteenth-century fireplace in the reading- 
 room. What a comfortable, great room it 
 was! with writing-tables and tables covered 
 with current literature. Our good luck in- 
 spired a gentleman sitting next us to talk to 
 his wife of a cruise they were preparing to 
 take on the Broads. He had been that day 
 to engage a large wherry at Thorpe just be- 
 yond the railroad station, and the couple were 
 preparing to live on the boat for two weeks. 
 From his conversation we inferred that he had 
 evidently rented a large boat capable of ac- 
 commodating five or six people, for which he 
 was to pay a pound a day. A man and a lad 
 constituted the crew. How we wished we 
 could exchange our coming ocean voyage and 
 the big rocking steamer for such a quiet cruise 
 and such a roomy wherry! The gentleman 
 went off to complete his plans. He was not 
 well out of the room, however, before the 
 Invalid was deep in conversation with his
 
 Among English Inns 
 
 lady, and asking questions in her most en- 
 chanting manner. Who would not tell the 
 Invalid all she wants to know when she cocks 
 her pretty head on one side and looks so 
 deeply interested? She entices knowledge 
 from every one she meets. 
 
 Polly returned while the Invalid was imbib- 
 ing knowledge, and our scheme for the mor- 
 row was satisfactorily arranged before the 
 questioner rejoined us, bursting with informa- 
 tion. 
 
 " They will take only a few tinned deli- 
 cacies," she began, but never finished; we 
 were too full of our own projects to listen 
 to what others intended doing. 
 
 " We are in great luck," began Polly. 
 11 The manager referred me to the lady-man- 
 ager, who, when she heard what we wanted, 
 at once said that there happened to be two 
 young men stopping in the hotel who had 
 a large wherry at Wroxham Bridge which 
 they wanted sailed down to Yarmouth. She 
 had heard them talking about it to-day. They 
 would let us hire it, she was sure, because 
 they did not wish to rejoin the boat until some- 
 time at the end of the week. If the wind is 
 right, she says we can make the necessary 
 twenty-six miles in a day. Even if there is
 
 Angel Inn 
 
 not a spanking breeze, it will be possible to 
 see one or two of the Broads, and come back 
 by rail from Salhouse or Acle. The mana- 
 geress then went off to fetch one of the young 
 men, and came back instead with their deci- 
 sion. We can have the boat to-morrow morn- 
 ing if we are each willing to pay them three 
 dollars apiece for the day's pleasure; that 
 sum will include luncheon, which we can take 
 from here." 
 
 " Oh, why not stop at a riverside inn," 
 exclaimed the Matron. 
 
 " We won't have much time for stopping 
 unless the wind blows a gale or doesn't blow 
 at all," answered Polly. 
 
 So we decided to take the wherry and see 
 what we could. 
 
 We woke early on the eventful day to find 
 the weather all we desired. Our plan of ac- 
 tion included a very early breakfast and an 
 early train to Wroxham Bridge, where we 
 were to join " our ship," as Polly insisted 
 upon calling it. 
 
 " Come early and avoid confusion," was the 
 somewhat banal quotation the Invalid made 
 when we stepped into the railroad carriage. 
 For the first time in our travelling experi- 
 
 239
 
 Among English Inns 
 
 ence, Thorpe station did not resemble a hive 
 of crazed bees. The English are not com- 
 monly stirring very early in the morning, and 
 there were but a few passengers in the train 
 besides ourselves. Wroxham Bridge lies eight 
 miles from Norwich, and we were soon on 
 board the wherry, which we found waiting at 
 the landing. "There was a good breeze!" 
 the skipper informed us. " If it kept up, we 
 would be able to make our voyage to Yar- 
 mouth." 
 
 As the skipper proceeded to haul up the 
 sail, the Matron exclaimed with delight: " It 
 is black!" 
 
 " And we have a pink and purple boat," 
 chimed in Polly. 
 
 " Only green and red," contradicted the 
 Invalid. 
 
 At Wroxham Bridge countless boats of all 
 sizes are gathered together. This is the halt- 
 ing-place for most of those who sail the 
 Broads. We had twenty-six miles before us, 
 — the distance by water to Yarmouth, — and 
 we flew along with our black sail reefed. We 
 skimmed between the flower-decked banks of 
 the narrow stream into a spacious sheet of 
 green rippling water, called Wroxham Broad. 
 
 240
 
 X 
 
 u 
 
 x 
 o 
 z 
 
 < 
 
 z 
 
 w 
 
 
 w 
 z; 
 
 c/T 
 
 a 
 
 < 
 o 
 
 BS 
 M 
 
 W 
 I 
 H 
 
 Z 
 
 o
 
 Angel Inn 
 
 Polly asked the skipper why these little lakes 
 are called Broads. 
 
 " Because the stream is broad here," was 
 the lucid answer. 
 
 Wroxham stretched out before us like a 
 long lake. The reeds grew thick on the shore, 
 and beyond them were clumps of low trees 
 and broad meadows of soft-coloured grass, 
 green fruitful park-lands, and glimpses of 
 cattle in the shade. From Wroxham Broad 
 our boat wound down a small stream, past a 
 quaint village built along the water's edge 
 on low swampy ground, showing colours of 
 purple, green, yellow, and red in the meadow- 
 grass. Away we went past a delightful, 
 quaint inn at Horning Ferry. Here the Ma- 
 tron clamoured to stop and eat lunch under 
 the sturdy willow-trees, but time was precious 
 and the wind in our favour, and the skipper 
 would not allow us to stop at Ranworth if we 
 lingered at Horning Ferry. The Invalid had 
 registered a vow to see in that hamlet an old 
 church which boasts a celebrated rood screen. 
 We therefore sailed along, discussing willows 
 and luncheon at the same time, and we were 
 in Ranworth Broad, flying before the wind, 
 before we had ceased regretting the Horning 
 inn. The hills suddenly rose on one side of 
 
 241
 
 Among English Inns 
 
 the water. Thick trees crowned their sides, 
 but we got peeps at neat cottages and a church 
 or two. Before we entered Ranworth Broad, 
 the skipper told us of a model village, Wood- 
 bastwick, where the cottages are said to be like 
 rose bowers, the village green is an ideal spot, 
 and the church is full of wonderful brasses. 
 
 " Why can't we see everything? " sighed 
 the Invalid. 
 
 " It is sometimes more satisfactory to hear 
 descriptions than to see places," replied the 
 suspicious Polly. 
 
 We pushed in among the rushes about the 
 landing-place, where lay bundles of reeds 
 stacked up for the thatchers, and the only 
 building visible was a hoary old cottage, de- 
 serted save by a cat and her kittens who were 
 having great games together in the small 
 window. 
 
 A tidy old inn, the Malster, was discov- 
 ered at a turn in the road, and Polly and I 
 went in to see if the landlady could furnish 
 us with some cream for our tea, while the 
 Matron and the Invalid took their way on- 
 ward up a short hilly road to the church. 
 
 Ranworth is a hamlet. It has not even a 
 " village store "; the cottages are tucked away 
 in little crannies of the uneven ground; there 
 
 242
 
 Angel Inn 
 
 is no railway within several miles; a cheerful 
 parsonage and a comfortable manor-house 
 are the only dwellings except a few small 
 cottages. When Polly and I left the Malster, 
 and climbed the road to the church, we found 
 the Matron embracing two very beautiful 
 white Borzoi hounds, while a cheeky little 
 black Scotch terrier looked on and barked in 
 disgust. The Invalid was not visible, and, 
 as soon as the Matron could get her head away 
 from the dogs, she told us that the vicar had 
 met them and he was now inside the church, 
 showing the Invalid the noted painted screen 
 she had so wished to see. The Matron frankly 
 " preferred playing with his fine dogs to seeing 
 any ancient screen, no matter how lovely." 
 
 " Remember we can only have ten min- 
 utes here," said methodical Polly, and we left 
 our companion romping with the graceful 
 hounds. My heart was divided between the 
 screen and the dogs, so I took the screen first. 
 Those who like antiquities are prepared to 
 rave about everything, whether it be really 
 worth their enthusiasm or not, but even the 
 greatest of Philistines, and I am of their num- 
 ber, could see the beauty of this old church and 
 its painted reredos. I rushed out as soon as 
 I had looked at it, and forced the Matron to 
 
 243
 
 Among English Inns 
 
 come back with me, if only to admire for a 
 moment the elaborate flower-work and the 
 splendid colours in the dresses of the saints. 
 There proved to be other interesting things in 
 Ranworth Church. A fine old font and a 
 curious lectern are, with its screen, among its 
 prized possessions. Our skipper told us that 
 it is the church best worth visiting on the 
 Broads. 
 
 " I must return some day and see your dogs," 
 cried the Matron, when she hears they have a 
 kennel full of puppies. 
 
 " And I want really to live a summer in 
 this country, through which we only have 
 flown to-day," added the Invalid. 
 
 The wind still held good, so we sailed down 
 the river past St. Benet's Abbey. A queer 
 ruin this; it looks like a giant hop-kiln. The 
 remains to be seen from the water of this once 
 very rich and powerful monastery are meagre, 
 though at nearer range some of its tall arched 
 doorways appear, and the hues on the marshy 
 meadows about the ruins make a poetic pic- 
 ture of the few stone walls still left standing. 
 
 We had not the time to enter South Wal- 
 sham Broad, about which there is great excite- 
 ment in the neighbourhood, for fear the squire 
 
 244
 
 Angel Inn 
 
 will fulfil his threat and close its waters to the 
 public. 
 
 " South Walsham," said our skipper, " is a 
 charming village, and the Broad small but 
 lovely." We had no time to linger, but flew 
 with well-filled sail past the windmill at its 
 mouth, where another small river joins the 
 Bure. Our course was straight away for 
 Acle Bridge. The stream runs rapidly be- 
 tween banks, protected from the encroach- 
 ment of the water by bulkheads. The mead- 
 ows, on which great herds of cattle and horses 
 were feeding, were bright with the scarlet 
 flame of the poppies, and soon the three-arched 
 Acle Bridge was before us, and many wind- 
 mills twirled their white arms over the flat 
 land. Down went our mast, as we slid under 
 the middle arch of the bridge, and we tied up 
 for tea at the Angel. 
 
 " The skipper says we need not hurry; we 
 have but twelve miles still before us. With a 
 good wind we should be in Yarmouth before 
 eight, even if we while away an hour before 
 leaving here. Let us order tea, and then go to 
 the village," suggested our Matron. 
 
 Acle proved to be half a mile from the inn. 
 The village consisted of a group of houses 
 without visible gardens, built on three sides 
 
 245
 
 Among English Inns 
 
 of a village green minus any green thing, ex- 
 cepting one great tree. But we shall always 
 have tender remembrance of it for the sake 
 of the larks who sang us enchanting trills and 
 roulades as we took our way back to the Angel. 
 The sun was getting low, the evening light was 
 golden, and the songsters were rising for their 
 last flight, their voices loud and clear when 
 their tiny forms had become mere specks in 
 the glowing sky. As we started off again down 
 the river, the air was full of their music. This 
 part of the Bure is a land for painters ; a great, 
 flat sweep of country, with here and there a 
 group of trees about a red farmhouse, or a 
 beckoning windmill. The sails of many boats, 
 black, white, or coloured by the weather, ap- 
 parently skim over the distant meadow; now 
 and again a little red-brick village nestles 
 down near to the water's edge, and every high 
 point of land is crowned by a noble square 
 flint church tower. Even the moon was kind 
 to us, and came up, peeping out among pink 
 clouds, to make our way more beautiful. 
 
 " You should take a month to see the Broads 
 and a year to see Norfolk," was the skipper's 
 oft-repeated advice. We agreed humbly. We 
 had passed villages we longed to explore, and 
 Broads of which we could not even get a 
 
 246
 
 SK? \ 
 
 
 Q 
 
 H 
 ■< 
 O 
 
 w 
 o 
 < 
 
 w 
 
 u 
 
 < 
 
 o 
 
 Q 
 
 P3 
 
 Id 
 J 
 U 
 < 
 
 < 
 
 ai 
 O 
 O 
 Q 
 
 Z 
 
 z 
 z
 
 Angel Inn 
 
 glimpse. The flint churches, with their 
 thatched roofs, all out of proportion to the 
 size of the congregations who support them, 
 are sprinkled thick over the landscape, and the 
 skipper told the Invalid such tales of the treas- 
 ures in brass and carving they contain that she 
 heaved mighty sighs of longing. We made 
 a record sail; we skimmed down Wroxham 
 Broad and peeped into Ranworth, but we 
 passed by five other little lakes. We heard 
 tales of three others into which our large boat 
 could not sail, but which are well worth visit- 
 ing. A summer land flitted past our eyes, and 
 we hated to leave it. Along the banks and 
 in small boats out in the stream we saw pa- 
 tient anglers, and one queer little covered 
 boat, moored in the reeds, was pointed out 
 as the abode of a professional eel-catcher. It 
 was a diminutive house-boat of exceedingly 
 rude description. Polly and the Invalid plied 
 the skipper with practical questions. 
 
 For a party of four or five, the expense of 
 two weeks on the Broads would not exceed 
 three dollars apiece per day, taken in the most 
 extravagant fashion. For the artist there is 
 sketching, for the sportsman fishing and sport- 
 ing, and for every one a lazy, happy life sur- 
 rounded by unwonted beauty of scene. 
 
 247
 
 Among English Inns 
 
 " To be sure, there be the Rogers some- 
 times," said the skipper, who is listening at- 
 tentively to our ravings. 
 
 "The Rogers! Who are they?" asked 
 Polly, looking around, as if she expected to 
 see an army of tramps or worse bearing down 
 upon us from the shore. 
 
 "The Rogers? Oh, they are a sort of 
 squall," he explained, and Polly was so re- 
 lieved that she forgot to ask why they bear 
 that name, and left the skipper to continue 
 his tales of the good skating and ice-boating 
 to be had upon the Bure and the Broads in 
 fine winter weather. 
 
 As we neared Yarmouth, the changing sky 
 and the moonlight made lovely the banks 
 which in brighter light might look dull and 
 squalid, and, when the dark outlines of the 
 town houses appeared on the horizon, we had 
 a scene to thrown an artist into a state of ec- 
 stasy. From our boat at the stone quay, we 
 had but a short walk, amid the old buildings, 
 to the station, where a train returning to Nor- 
 wich was just about to depart. 
 
 The day had been so crowded with experi- 
 ence that it seemed a week long. 
 
 " We at least know where to go when, next 
 
 248
 
 Angel Inn 
 
 year, we come back to Norfolk," philosophizes 
 Polly. 
 
 " I shall sail the Broads," said the Invalid, 
 gazing back at the great wherry with a sigh. 
 
 Early next morning we left our comfortable 
 lodgings at the Maid's Head. Again we saw 
 Wymondham and Thetford in the distance 
 as the train flew past, and, with a glimpse of 
 Ely and Cambridge on our way, we pulled up 
 at last in London again at St. Pancras. We 
 had left many things undone. We had not 
 seen half Norfolk, but we had discovered that 
 it is a county full of diversified charm, and 
 with greater variety than any part of England 
 into which our tour had led us. The Maid's 
 Head was not cheap, perhaps, but it was good, 
 for all the inns which glory in the modern 
 title of hotel cost at the very least three or 
 four dollars a day. Norfolk is rich in charm- 
 ing little wayside inns, picturesque and tidy, 
 but, as we found elsewhere, they had no beds 
 to offer the traveller; plenty to drink, but 
 little to eat. The majority of the smaller and 
 older inns have fallen into the hands of the 
 brewers, alas! who care more for the sale of 
 their beer than for the preservation of the 
 picturesque and ancient hospitality. 
 
 Our tour was over with our farewell to 
 
 249
 
 Among English Inns 
 
 Norfolk and our sail on the Broads; and the 
 whole party have fallen so deeply in love with 
 the little country full of green fields and sing- 
 ing birds, bright flowers, pleasant hostelries, 
 and civil, simple people, that they look for- 
 ward with longing to future expeditions in 
 other counties of Merrie England. 
 
 THE END. 
 
 250
 
 INDEX 
 
 Abbey, The, Tewkesbury, 124- 
 
 126, 129. 
 Acle Bridge, 245, 246. 
 Acle Bridge, The Angel Inn, 
 
 245- 
 Alton, 5, 6, 10, 13, 21, 25. 
 Angel Inn, The, Acle Bridge, 
 
 245. 
 Arlesford, 26. 
 Aschurch, 122, 123. 
 Avon, River, 81, 95-97, 101. 
 Aylsham, 218, 222. 
 Aylsham, Blickling Hall, 218- 
 
 221. 
 Aylsham, Buckinghamshire Arms, 
 
 220, 221. 
 
 Bath, 87. 
 
 Battlefield, The, Tewkesbury, 
 
 126-127. 
 Beaufort, Cardinal, 28. 
 Beeley Moor, 142. 
 Bell Inn, The, Tewkesbury, 123, 
 
 124, 127. 
 Bell Inn, The, Thetford, 233, 
 
 234- 
 Bell Tower, The, Evesham, 89, 
 
 90, 92-94. 
 Belper, 132. 
 
 Belvoir Castle, 140, 194. 
 Bideford, 65-68, 82-84. 
 Bideford, The Royal Hotel, 83. 
 Blickling Hall, Aylsham, 218- 
 
 221. 
 Bolsover, 163-168. 
 Bolsover Castle, 164, 166. 
 Bolsover, The Devonshire Arms, 
 
 166, 167. 
 Bolsover, The Swan Inn, 166. 
 
 Borrow,' George, 215, 216. 
 
 Boston, 185, 190, 193, 196-208. 
 
 Boston, St. Botolph's Church, 
 196, 202, 203. 
 
 Boston, The Maud Foster Drain, 
 203, 204. 
 
 Boston, The Peacock and Royal, 
 197-200. 
 
 Boston, The Red Lion Inn, 204, 
 205. 
 
 Breden Hill, 99, 101, 104, 105. 
 
 Broadway, 106-109. 
 
 Broadway, Stanton, 108. 
 
 Broadway, Stanway Hall, 108. 
 
 Broadway, The Lygon Arms, 
 107. 
 
 Broadway, Toddington, 108. 
 
 Buckinghamshire Arms, Ayl- 
 sham, 220, 221. 
 
 Bullen, Anne, 219, 220. 
 
 Byron, Lord, 186-190. 
 
 Cathedral, The, Norwich, 215. 
 Cathedral, The, Winchester, 28- 
 
 3°- 
 Cavendish, Sir Charles, 164. 
 Chagford, Devon, 32, 33, 36-48, 
 
 54- 55. 5 8 - 
 
 Chagford, Fingle Bridge, 54, 55. 
 
 Chagford, St. Michael's Church, 
 47, 48. 
 
 Chagford, The " Three Crowns," 
 32, 37-40. 
 
 Chatsworth, 141-148, 154. 
 
 Chawton, 7, 10, 15. 
 
 Cheltenham, 87, 88. 
 
 Chesterfield, 150, 151. 
 
 Church of St. Peter's, The, Nor- 
 wich, 217. 
 
 5 1
 
 Index 
 
 Clerk's Hill Farm, Evesham, 82, 
 
 91, 96-98, 110-112. 
 Clovelly, 66-83. 
 
 Clovelly, Gallantry Bower, 75, 76. 
 Clovelly, Hartland Bay, 68. 
 Clovelly, Lundy's Island, 81. 
 Clovelly, The Hobby Drive, 75, 
 
 81. 
 Clovelly, The New Inn, 69-72, 
 
 76-78. 
 Clumber House, 176-178. 
 Cotswold Hills, 81, 88, 97, 99. 
 Cranmere Pool, 53—54. 
 Cromwell, Oliver, 107. 
 Cropthorne, 98-101. 
 Crown Inn, The, Evesham, 82, 
 
 88-91. 
 
 Dartmoor, 41-45, 48-54, 62. 
 Dartmoor, Cranmere Pool, 53, 
 
 54- 
 Dartmoor, Grimspound, 49, 50. 
 Dartmoor, Kes Tor, 36, 43-45- 
 Dartmoor, Nattadown Common, 
 
 48. 
 Dartmoor, Yes Tor, 61, 62. 
 De Montfort, Simon, 103, 109. 
 Derby, 131. 
 
 Derwent River, 133, 136, 141, 145. 
 Devonshire Arms, The, Bolsover, 
 
 166, 167. 
 Duffield, 132. 
 Dukeries Inn, The, Edwinstowe, 
 
 169, 170, 174, 175. 
 
 Edensor, 146, 147. 
 Edwinstowe, 165, 1 68-171. 
 Edwinstowe, The Dukeries Inn, 
 
 169, 170, 174, 175. 
 Eliot, George, 132. 
 Elmley Castle, 103-105. 
 Evesham, 82, 84, 88-122. 
 Evesham, Bell Tower, 89, 90, 92- 
 
 94. 
 Evesham, Clerk's Hill Farm, 82, 
 
 91, 96-98, 110-112. 
 Evesham, Northwick Arms, 115. 
 Evesham, The Crown Inn, 82, 
 
 88-91. 
 
 Evesham, Victoria Theatre, 1 13— 
 
 121. 
 Exeter, 35, 63, 85. 
 Exeter Cathedral, 65. 
 Exmoor, 36. 
 
 Fen Country, The, 194-196, 208, 
 
 209. 
 Fingle Bridge, Chagford, 54, 55. 
 Fladbury, 96, 101-103. 
 Fletcher, Private, Tomb of, 30. 
 
 Gallantry Bower, Clovelly, 75, 
 
 76. 
 George Inn, The, Winchester, 27. 
 Godolphin, Sir Sydney, 38. 
 Great Malvern, 88, 99, 129. 
 Great South Western Hotel, 
 
 Southampton, 3, 4. 
 Green Dragon Inn,The,Wymond- 
 
 ham, 227, 228, 232. 
 Green Hill, 103. 
 Grimspound, 49, 50. 
 
 Haddon Hall, 1 36-141. 
 
 " Hanger," The, Selborne, 7, 13, 
 
 14. 
 Hardwick Hall, 142, 149-162. 
 Hardwick Inn, 150, 163. 
 Hartland Bay, Clovelly, 68. 
 Hobbes, Thomas, 16 1. 
 Hobby Drive, Clovelly, 75, 81. 
 Horning Ferry, 241. 
 
 Inns. 
 
 Clerk's Hill Farm, Evesham, 
 
 82, 91, 96-98, 110-112. 
 Hardwick Inn, Hardwick, 15c, 
 
 163. 
 The Angel Inn, Acle Bridge, 
 
 245- 
 The Bell Inn, Tewkesbury, 123, 
 
 124, 127. 
 The Bell Inn, Thetford, 233, 
 
 234- 
 The Buckinghamshire Arms, 
 
 Aylsham, 220, 221. 
 The Crown Inn, Evesham, 82, 
 
 88-91. 
 
 : 5 2
 
 Index 
 
 The Devonshire Arms, Bol- 
 sover, 166, 167. 
 
 The Dukeries Inn, Edwin- 
 stowe, 169, 170, 174, 175. 
 
 The George Inn, Winchester, 
 27. 
 
 The Great South Western 
 Hotel, Southampton, 3, 4. 
 
 The Green Dragon Inn, Wy- 
 mondham, 227, 228, 232. 
 
 The Lygon Arms, Broadway, 
 107. 
 
 The Maid's Head, Norwich, 
 210-213, 236-239, 249. 
 
 The Malster Inn, Ranworth, 
 242. 
 
 The New Inn, Clovelly, 69-72, 
 76-78. 
 
 The Northwick Arms, Eve- 
 sham, 115. 
 
 The Peacock and Royal, Bos- 
 ton, 197-200, 204, 205. 
 
 The Peacock Inn, Rowsley, 
 
 I3i» 133-135. H2. 
 
 The Queen's Arms, Selborne, 
 
 6, 8-10, 18-20, 24-26. 
 The Red Lion Inn, Boston, 
 
 204, 205. 
 The Royal Hotel, Bideford, 83. 
 The Star Inn, Yarmouth, 223, 
 
 224. 
 The Swan Inn, Bolsover, 166. 
 The Three Crowns Inn, Chag- 
 
 ford, 32, 37-40. 
 The White Hart Inn, Oke- 
 
 hampton, 59. 
 Itchen Abbas, 26. 
 Itchen River, 26. 
 
 "John Halifax, Gentleman," 122, 
 125-127. 
 
 Kes Tor, 36, 43-45. 
 
 King's House, The, Thetford, 
 
 2 33- 2 3S- 
 
 Kingsley, Charles, 67, 71-73, 83. 
 
 Leicester, Earl of, 232. 
 Leigh Bridge, 45, 46. 
 
 Lundy's Island, Clovelly, 81. 
 Lygon Arms, The, Broadway, 
 
 107. 
 Lythe, The, 9, 23, 24. 
 
 Maid's Head, The, Norwich, 210- 
 
 213, 236-239, 249. 
 Malster Inn, The, Ranworth, 
 
 242. 
 Manners, Sir John, 139. 
 Mansfield, 185, 191, 192. 
 Mary, Queen of Scotland, 142, 
 
 147, 148. 
 Matlock, 133. 
 Maud Foster Drain, The, Boston, 
 
 203, 204. 
 Moreton Hampstead, 62, 63. 
 Mulock, Miss, 122, 123, 125, 
 
 127. 
 
 Nattadown Common, 48. 
 
 New Inn, The, Clovelly, 69-72, 
 
 76-78. 
 Newstead Abbey, 185-190. 
 Newton Abbot, 63, 64. 
 Newton Valance, 14, 15. 
 Norfolk Broads, The, 236-250. 
 Northwick Arms, The, Evesham, 
 
 US- 
 Norwich, 210-217, 224, 239. 
 Norwich, The Cathedral, 215. 
 Norwich, The Church of St. 
 
 Peter's, 217. 
 Norwich, The "Maid's Head," 
 
 210-213, 236, 239, 249. 
 Nottingham, 193, 194. 
 
 Okehampton, 53, 55, 56-61, 63. 
 Okehampton, The White Hart 
 Inn, 59. 
 
 Peacock Inn, The, Rowsley, 131, 
 
 133-135, 142. 
 Peacock and Royal, The, Boston, 
 
 197-200, 204, 205. 
 Phillpotts, Eden, 42, 50. 
 Priory, The, Selborne, 23, 24. 
 Priory, The, Wymondham, 229- 
 
 232. 
 
 S3
 
 Index 
 
 Queen's Arms, The, Selborne, 6, 
 
 8-10, 18-20, 24-26. 
 Queen Elizabeth, 152, 155-157. 
 
 211, 220. 
 
 Ranworth, 241-244, 247. 
 Ranvvorth, Malster Inn, 242. 
 Red Lion Inn, The, Boston, 204, 
 
 205. 
 Robsart, Amy, 232. 
 Rowsley, 131, 133-13 6 . Hh *4 2 > 
 
 148. 
 Rowsley, The Peacock Inn, 131, 
 
 ^-^S' J 4 2 - 
 Royal Hotel, The, Bideford, 83. 
 Rufford Abbey, 175. 
 
 St. Botolph's Church, Boston, 
 
 196, 202, 203. 
 St. Michael's Church, Chagford, 
 
 47. 48. 
 Salisbury Cathedral, 35. 
 Salisbury Plain, 35. 
 Selborne, 1, 5, 6-25. 
 Selborne, Queen's Arms, 1, 6, 8- 
 
 10, 18-20, 24-26. 
 Selborne, The " Hanger," 7, 13, 
 
 14. 
 Selborne, The Priory, 23, 24. 
 Selborne, The Wakes, 11-13, 16, 
 
 20, 21. 
 Selborne, Wollmer Forest, 24. 
 Sherwood Forest, 168, 170-178, 
 
 184. 
 Shrewsbury, Countess of (" Bess 
 
 of Hardvvick "), 142, 146-147, 
 
 154, 1 56-161, 163, 164. 
 Shrewsbury, Earl of, 146, 147. 
 Southampton, 1, 3. 
 Southampton, Great South West- 
 ern Hotel, 3, 4. 
 South Walsham, 244, 245. 
 Stanfield Hall, Wymondham, 231, 
 
 232. 
 Stanton, Broadway, 108. 
 Stanway Hall, Broadway, 108. 
 Star Inn, The, Yarmouth, 223, 
 
 224. 
 
 Stuart, Arabella, 156-160. 
 Swan Inn, The, Bolsover, 166. 
 
 Templecombe, 85, 86. 
 Tewkesbury, 122-130, 131. 
 Tewkesbury, Battlefield, 126, 
 
 127. 
 Tewkesbury, The Abbey, 124, 
 
 126, 129. 
 Tewkesbury, The Bell Inn, 123, 
 
 124, 127. 
 Thetford, 225, 232, 235, 249. 
 Thetford, The Bell Inn, 233, 
 
 234- 
 Thetford, The King's House, 
 
 2 33~-35- 
 
 Thoresby Park, 173-176. 
 
 Thorpe, 237, 240. 
 Three Crowns Inn, The, Chag- 
 ford, 32, 37-40. 
 Toddington, Broadway, 108. 
 
 Vernon, Dorothy, 139, 140. 
 Victoria Theatre, The, Evesham, 
 113-121. 
 
 Wakes, The, Selborne, 11-13, 16, 
 
 20, 21. 
 Washington, Penelope, 105, 106. 
 Welbeck Abbey, 163, 178-183. 
 White, Gilbert, 5, 10-12, 13, 
 
 2 3- 
 White Hart Inn, The, Okehamp- 
 
 ton, 59. 
 Whyddon, Sir John, 38, 40. 
 Wickhampton, 105, 106. 
 Winchester, 23, 25-31. 
 Winchester, Bishop of, 23. 
 Winchester Cathedral, 28-30. 
 Winchester College, 31. 
 Winchester, The "George" Inn, 
 
 27. 
 Wollmer Forest, Selborne, 24. 
 Worksop, 163, 183, 184. 
 Wroxham, 238, 240, 241, 247. 
 Wye River, 135, 141. 
 Wymondham, 225-232, 249. 
 Wymondham, Stanfield Hall, 231, 
 
 232. 
 
 54
 
 Index 
 
 Wymondham, The " Green Drag- 
 on " Inn, 227, 228, 232. 
 
 Wymondham, The Priory, 229- 
 232. 
 
 Wytham River, 197. 
 
 Yarmouth, 222-224, 238, 245, 
 
 248. 
 Yarmouth, " The Star " Inn, 223, 
 
 224. 
 
 Yeoford, ^> 3S> 39> 63- 
 \ es lor, 61, 62. 
 
 *ss
 
 ^ 
 
 o 
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 Santa Barbara 
 
 
 STACK COLLECTION 
 
 THIS BOOK IS DUE ON THE LAST DATE 
 STAMPED BELOW. 
 
 IOm-5,'65(P4458s4 ) I7GD 
 
 LT>p