Memorial of a great battle--An ancient fire-cresset--Free
feasting!--Country quiet--Travellers’ tales--Hatfield--An
Elizabethan architect--An author’s tomb--Day-dreaming--Mysterious
roadside monuments--Great North Road _versus_ Great Northern
Railway--Stevenage--Chats by the way--Field life--Nature as a
painter--Changed times.
Leaving Barnet, we soon reached a bit of triangular green enlivened by a
pond that was just then monopolised by geese; here, where the old and
formerly famous “Parliamentary and Mail Coach Turnpike” to Holyhead
diverges from the almost equally famous Great North Road of the
pre-railway days, stands a gray stone obelisk that challenges the
attention of the passer-by, and is inscribed with history thus:
Here was
Fought the
Famous Battle
Between Edward
the 4th. and the
Earl of Warwick
April the 14th.
Anno
1471.
In which the Earl
Was defeated
And Slain.
I regret to have to record that immediately below this inscription, cut
also in the stone, and in the same kind and size of lettering, is the
obtrusive warning notice, so over-familiar to nineteenth-century eyes,
“Stick no Bills.” What bathos this!
Here at Hadley the ancient church tower is surmounted by a rare and
interesting relic of the never-returning past in the shape of an iron
cresset or fire-beacon. The last time that this was used seriously was
in 1745, during the scare occasioned by the Stuart rising in the North.
The story goes that at the late hour in the evening when the beacon was
lighted, a large party from London, who had been feasting at the “Red
Lion” at Barnet upon the best that mine host could lay before them, all
rushed out during the excitement and quite forgot to return and pay
their reckoning! A curious example of forgetfulness caused by
excitement, as the fact that their bill remained unpaid never appears to
have occurred to any of the party in after days! This is a sample of one
of the stories of the road that, improved upon and embellished to fancy,
the coachmen of the past used to entertain their passengers with; there
was hardly a house, and certainly very few inns, on the way but had some
little incident, history, or tradition connected with it; these latter
afforded the jehus of the period (past-masters in the art of
embroidering fiction upon fact) plenty of raw material for the
production of their wonderful fund of anecdotes. My grandfather, who had
travelled a good deal by coach in his early life, said that the virtue
of these stories lay not so much in the matter as in
[Sidenote: _AN ANCIENT BEACON_]
the inimitable way in which they were told; but therein is the art of
story-telling--the craft of making much out of simple materials.
The primitive mode of signalling events by beacon had this serious
drawback, that, should any one beacon by accident or set purpose be set
alight, needless alarm was forthwith spread throughout the land, and no
amount of care in watching the various collections of piled-up wood and
other inflammable material could, experience proved, prevent mischievous
or designing persons from sometimes surreptitiously lighting them; on
the other hand, when they were lighted legitimately, possibly fraught
with warning of great import to the State, sudden fogs and storms
occasionally prevented the message from speeding on its way. It must
have been both a picturesque and a thrilling sight in “the brave days of
old” for the expectant watchers on some commanding eminence to observe
the progress of the blazing beacons, as one answered the other from
height to height, the ruddy glare of the fiery signals gleaming plainly
forth against the darkness of the night.
On from Hadley to Hatfield we had an excellent road, that led us through
a prettily wooded and pleasantly undulating country. As we drove along,
rejoicing in the pure sweet air and rural quietude after the smoke-laden
atmosphere and noise of town, the sunshine kept struggling through the
gray clouds overhead, and great gleams of golden light came and went,
warming and brightening up the little world around us, and enhancing the
natural beauty of the scenery by the varied effects they produced on
the landscape. A gleamy day is a picture-making and picture-suggesting
day, as artists full well know. By the time we reached Hatfield the sun
above had obtained complete mastery of the situation, and was doing his
best to make all things below pleasant for us.
At Hatfield we pulled up at another “Red Lion,” and there we elected to
rest a while and “refresh the inner man,” as the country-paper reporters
have it, for our halt at Barnet was solely for the benefit of our
horses. In the coffee-room we found a party of four gentlemen lunching;
laughing and talking, their conversation was carried on in so loud a
tone of voice that, willing or unwilling, we could not help hearing
nearly all they said; their jovial jokes they made public property, and
the general good-humour and enjoyment of the party was quite infectious.
Manifestly they had no fear of strangers overhearing their tales and
talk, which rather surprised us, as sundry anecdotal reminiscences of
famous personages were freely related, which, if one could only have
felt sure of their veracity, would have been most entertaining. It was
indeed a right merry, possibly an inventive, and certainly a rather
noisy, quartet. Truly the various people that the road-traveller comes
in contact with from time to time often dispute interest with the
scenery. As Sir Arthur Helps says, “In travel it is remarkable how much
more pleasure we obtain from unexpected incidents than from deliberate
sight-seeing,” and it certainly appears to me that a driving tour
specially
[Sidenote: _ARTIST AND AUTHOR_]
lends itself to meeting with incidents. Such an informal and unusual way
of wandering puts you as a rule on a friendly, companionable footing
with everybody you meet: people take an interest in your journey, they
confide in you and you in them, there is a sort of freemasonry about the
road that has its attractions, you seem to belong to the countryside, to
be a part and parcel of your surroundings for the time being, in strong
contrast with the stranger suddenly arriving by the railway from
somewhere far away. He is brought, the driving tourist comes--a
distinction with a difference!
* * * * *
But to return to the coffee-room of our inn. Amongst the anecdotes that
were forced upon our attention, one still remains in my memory, and this
I think worth repeating as a fair sample of the rest, and because it
deserves to be true, though possibly it is not, or only in part;
however, here it is, and I trust if any one of that merry company should
by chance read this, they will pardon the liberty I have taken--or else
be more careful of their conversation for the future in public! The
story is of a perfectly harmless nature, and characteristic of the
parties concerned, or I would not repeat it. It appears then that one
day Carlyle was making a first call upon Millais at his fine mansion in
Palace Gate. After looking around the sumptuous interior, Carlyle
presently exclaimed, in his gruff manner, “What! all from paint?”
Millais made no reply at the moment, but as his guest was leaving he
quietly remarked, “By the way, what a reputation you’ve got,
Carlyle--and all from ink.”
One anecdote begets another, and the foregoing distantly reminds me of a
story of Turner that came to me through a private source, which
therefore I do not believe has got into print yet--but I may be
mistaken. Once upon a time then--as the fairy stories begin, for I am
not certain about the exact date, and do not care to guess it--a certain
art patron demanded of Turner the price of one of his pictures, with a
view to purchasing the same, and deeming that Turner asked rather a
large sum, he jokingly exclaimed, “What, all those golden guineas for so
much paint on so much canvas?” To which the famous artist replied, “Oh
no, not for the paint, but for the use of the brains to put it on with!”
and I think the artist scored.
Now I am wandering again, but not by road, as I set out to do, and
instead of enjoying the pleasant scenery and fresh air, I am wasting the
time indoors chatting about people. Let us get into the open country
again, and before we start on the next stage, there will be just time to
stroll round and take a glance at the fine old Jacobean pile of Hatfield
House, a glorious specimen of the renaissance of English architecture
that vividly recalls the half-forgotten fact that once we were, without
gainsaying, an artistic people; for no one but a great artist could have
designed such a picturesque and stately abode, two qualities not so easy
to combine as may be imagined.
It is a most singular fact that the name of the architect of this
majestic mansion is not known; but the building so distinctly reminds me
of the work of John Thorpe that I have no hesitation in putting it down
to his creative genius. He was beyond all doubt the greatest architect
of the Elizabethan age; it was he who designed the glorious mansions of
Burleigh “by Stamford town,” Longford Castle, Wollaton Hall, most
probably Hardwicke Hall, Holland House, and many other notable and
picturesque piles, not to forget Kirby in Northants, now, alas! a
splendid ruin, which we shall visit on our homeward way.
[Sidenote: _THE STONES OF ENGLAND_]
Writing of the stately homes of England, it seems to me that the stones
of England have their story to tell as well as the “Stones of Venice,”
over which Ruskin goes into such raptures. Why is it ever thus, that
other lands seem more attractive than our own; wherein lies the virtue
of the far-away? Who will do for Old England at our own doors what
Ruskin has so lovingly done for Venice of the past? What a song in stone
is Salisbury’s splendid cathedral, with its soaring spire rising like an
arrow into the air; what a poem is Tintern’s ruined abbey by the lovely
Wye-side; what a romance in building is Haddon’s feudal Hall; what a
picture is Compton Wynyates’ moated manor-house! and these are but
well-known specimens, jotted down hastily and at haphazard, of countless
other such treasures, that are scattered all over our pleasant land in
picturesque profusion, but which I will not attempt to enumerate
catalogue fashion.
Between Hatfield and Welwyn I find no mention of the country in my
note-book, nor does my memory in any way call it to mind; the scenery,
therefore, could not have impressed us, and so may be termed of the
uneventful order. At the sleepy little town of Welwyn we came upon its
gray-toned church standing close by the road, and as we noticed the door
thereof was invitingly open, we called a halt in order to take a peep
inside. We made it a point this journey never to pass by an ancient
church, if near at hand, without stepping within for a glance, should
happily, as in this case, the door be open; but with one or two rare
exceptions we did not go a-clerk-hunting,--that sport is apt to pall
upon the traveller in time, unless he be a very hardened antiquary or
ardent ecclesiologist. It was an open or closed door that generally
settled the point for us, whether to see a certain church or leave it
unseen! We were not guide-book compilers, we did not undertake our
journey with any set idea of “doing” everything, we took it solely for
the purpose of spending a pleasant holiday, so we went nowhere nor saw
anything under compulsion. I think it well to explain our position thus
clearly at the start, so that I may not hereafter be reproached for
passing this or that unvisited; nor now that our outing is over do I
believe we missed much that was noteworthy on the way--nothing, indeed,
of which I am aware; though, by some strange caprice of fate, it ever
seems that when the traveller returns home from a tour, should anything
escape his observation thereon, some kind friend is certain to assure
him that just what he failed to see happened to be the very thing of the
whole journey the best worth seeing! Indeed, this incident so
[Sidenote: _A SELF-APPOINTED GUIDE_]
regularly re-occurs to me, that I have become quite philosophical on the
subject! There is no novelty about the same experience often repeated;
the only rejoinder it provokes on my part is a smiling “Of course,” or a
mild, remonstrating “Oh! I left that for another day.”
On entering Welwyn church, we encountered a talkative old body; why she
was there I cannot say, for she was apparently doing nothing, and this
is no tourist-haunted region with guides of both sexes on the watch and
wait for the unwary; but there she was, a substantial personage not to
be overlooked. At once she attached herself to us, and asked if we had
come to see Dr. Young’s tomb--“him as wrote the _Night Thoughts_.” We
meekly replied that we did not even know that he was buried there.
“Well,” she responded, “now I do wonders at that, I thoughts as how
everybody knew it.” From the superior tone in which she said this, we
felt that she looked down upon us as ignoramuses--such is the lot of the
traveller who does not know everything! Then she pointed out with a
grimy finger--assuming the aggravating air of one who has valuable
information to impart, and will impart it whether you will or no--a
marble slab put up to the memory of the worthy doctor (I presume he was
a worthy doctor) on the south wall of the nave. Having duly inspected
this, our self-appointed guide suddenly exclaimed, still maintaining her
amusing didactic manner, “He’d much better have gone to bed and slept
like a good Christian than have sit up o’ nights a-writing his
thoughts.” We weakly smiled acquiescence, though perhaps it was hardly
a fair thing to do, for we had to confess to ourselves that we had not
even read the book in question. “Have you?” we queried. “Lor’ bless you,
sir,” replied she, still in an authoritative tone of voice, “books is
all rubbish, I never reads rubbish; give me the papers with some news in
’em, I says, that’s the reading for me,” and with this we took our
hurried departure. We have taught the people to read, which is a most
excellent thing, but, from all my experience, the country folk prefer
newspapers, frequently of a trashy nature, to solid books; for the
present they devour the “penny dreadful,” whilst the cheap classic
remains unread!
Out of Welwyn the road mounted slightly, and to our left we passed a
large park; the sun’s rays glinting down between the big tree-trunks
therein sent long lines of golden light athwart the smooth sward, and
the lengthening shadows suggested to us that the day was growing old,
and that, unless we wished to be belated, we had better hasten on. Then
followed a pleasant stretch of wooded country, the west all aglow with
the glory of the setting sun, whilst a soft grayness was gradually
spreading over the east, blotting out all trivial details, and causing
the landscape there to assume a dim, mysterious aspect; in that
direction the scenery might be commonplace enough in the glaring light
of mid-day--possibly it was, but just then under that vague effect it
looked quite poetical, and by giving our romantic fancies full rein we
could almost have imagined that there lay the enchanted forest of
[Sidenote: _A ROADSIDE ENIGMA_]
fairy-tale renown. A little occasional romancing may be allowed on a
driving tour; he is a dull and unpoetic soul, indeed, who never indulges
in a moment’s harmless day-dreaming now and again!
Soon the slumberous, unprogressive little town of Stevenage came in
view, and just before it, on a green space to the right of the road, we
espied six curious-looking, grass-grown mounds all in a row, like so
many pigmy green pyramids. We afterwards learnt that these are supposed
to be Danish Barrows; but learned antiquaries, like most of their kind,
are not all agreed upon this point, though the majority hold to the
Danish theory. Still, Danish or not, there they stand to challenge the
curiosity of the observant wayfarer. A roadside enigma that doubtless
puzzled our forefathers, and afforded food for discussion when
journeying in these parts, the railway traveller misses them and much
else besides as he is whirled through the land at a speed that only
permits of a blurred impression of fields and woods, of rivers and
hills, of church towers, towns, hamlets, and farmsteads--that is, when
the train is not rushing through a cutting, or plunging into a darksome
tunnel. In a scenic sense between the Great North Road and the Great
Northern Railway is a vast gulf!
At the present day, at any rate at the time we were there, these
prehistoric relics were serving the undistinguished purpose of a
ready-made and somewhat original recreation-ground for the town’s
children; for as we passed by we observed quite a number of them
climbing up and down the barrows, playing “King of the Castle” thereon,
and generally romping over and round about them with much noisy
merriment. I really think that these ancient mounds deserve to be better
cared for; those things that are worthy of being preserved should be
preserved, for antiquity once destroyed can never be replaced; it is too
late when a monument of the past has disappeared to discover how
interesting it was.
At Stevenage we put up for the night at the “White Lion,” a homely
little hostelry, where we found clean and comfortable, if not luxurious,
quarters for ourselves, and good accommodation for our horses, and not
being of an exacting nature, were well content. So ended our first long
day’s wanderings.
We had seen so much since we left London in the early morning, that we
felt it difficult to realise, on the authority of our copy of
_Paterson’s Roads_ (last edition of 1829), we had only travelled some
thirty-one miles; the precise distance we could not arrive at, since
Paterson takes his measurement from “Hick’s Hall,” and we did not start
from the site thereof; indeed, exactly where “Hick’s Hall” stood I am
not very clear--somewhere in Smithfield, I believe.
Next morning, following the excellent example of the chatty Mr. Pepys,
and to borrow his favourite expression, we “awoke betimes,” to find the
sunshine streaming in through our windows, whilst a glance outside
revealed to us a glorious bright blue sky, flecked with fleecy
fine-weather clouds.
[Sidenote: _LEISURELY TRAVEL_]
This cheery morning greeting could not be resisted, so, early though it
was, we got up and dressed without any needless delay, and, sketch-book
in hand, set forth to explore the place before breakfast, which,
however, we took the precaution of ordering to be ready for us on our
return, for it is trying for a hungry man to have to wait for his meal!
Before going out, however, we paid our usual visit of inspection to the
horses, who, we discovered, were having their toilet performed for them,
luxurious creatures! though not without much “sishing,” and subdued
exclamations of “Whoa! my beauty,” “Steady there now,” “Hold up, can’t
yer”--sounds and utterances dear to the hearts of grooms and ostlers. We
were glad to note that the horses looked fit and fresh, and not a whit
the worse for their previous hard day’s work.
On the road we have always found that it is the pace rather than the
distance that “knocks up cattle”; but haste formed no part of our
programme, as we travelled to see and enjoy the scenery, not merely to
pass through it, to sketch, to photograph, to inspect a ruin, or to do
whatever took our fancy at the time; also to chat at our leisure with
any one who appeared to be interesting and willing to chat--prepared
under those conditions to converse with anybody from a ploughboy to a
peer that chance might bring across our path, so that we might learn
“how the world wags” according to the different parties’ views.
As Montaigne remarked, “Every man knows some one thing better than I do,
and when I meet a stranger therefore I engage him in conversation to
find that one thing out.” So we have discovered that even a
lightly-esteemed ploughboy, familiar all his life with Nature in her
many moods, at home in the fields and hedgerows, could tell us many
things we did not know, which are common knowledge to him. A chat with
an intelligent ploughboy, for such boys exist, may prove a profitable
and interesting experience, for perchance it may be racy of the soil,
full of the ways of wild birds and winged things, of the doings of
hares, rabbits, weasels, foxes, and other animals belonging to the
countryside, and of countless idle-growing things besides; above all, it
is genuinely rural, and conveys an unmistakable flavour of the open air.
An intelligent rustic is unconsciously a close Nature-observer, and by
listening to what he has got to say, if you can only get him to talk and
keep him to his subject, you may make valuable use of the eyes of others
who can see, but give small thought to what they see.
The works of White of Selborne and of Richard Jefferies have proved how
attractive and refreshing to the town-tired brain are the faithful and
simple record of the natural history of the English fields and
woodlands, and the descriptions of the charms and beauties of the
English country in all its varied aspects. One great value of such
writings is that they induce people to search for, and teach them how to
seek out, similar beauties for themselves in their everyday
surroundings, that they never before so much as imagined to exist. So
that truly a new, a costless, and a lasting pleasure in life is opened
out to them.
[Sidenote: _A “THOROUGHFARE” TOWN_]
We found Stevenage to be a quiet, neat little town of the “thoroughfare”
type, to employ a term much in vogue in the coaching days when
describing places consisting chiefly of one long street. Wandering
about, we noticed an old building that had manifestly been a hostelry of
some importance in the pre-railway period, the archway giving entrance
to the stable-yard still remaining. Now the building is converted into a
pleasant residence, though, owing to the necessities of its former uses,
it stands too close to the roadway to afford that privacy which the
home-loving Briton so dearly delights in; which, on the other hand, the
average American citizen so heartily dislikes, considering such
comparative seclusion to make for dulness, and to savour of
unsociability. Such old buildings, converted, wholly or in part, from
inns to houses, are to be found frequently along the Great North Road. A
stranger, not aware of the fact, might well wonder why those great
houses were built with their ample arches in the little village street,
and so close upon the roadside.
At one end of the town we found a rather pretty gabled cottage with a
high-pitched roof, from which rose a good group of chimneys. This
cottage, with its tiny garden railed off from the footpath by a wooden
paling, made quite a charming subject for the pencil, and was the first
to adorn our sketch-book. Whilst putting a few finishing touches to our
drawing, a native came up. An artist at work always seems to have an
irresistible attraction for country people. He opened up a conversation
by admiring our sketch, though in a qualified manner. He was pleased to
say that it was “mighty” pretty, only he preferred a photograph to a
drawing any day. He had had a photograph taken of his house lately, and
on the photograph you could count every brick on the walls and every
tile on the roofs. “Now, that’s what I call a proper kind of
picture,--not but that yours is very nice for hand-work”!
This is a very fair specimen of the criticisms that the long-enduring
landscape painter has frequently to put up with when at work in the
open.
Next our art-critic and photograph-admirer presumed that we must be
strangers, as he knew most of the folk round about, but did not remember
having “sighted us afore.” We replied that we were. “Now, do you know,”
responded he, “I was sure of that”; and seeing no advantage in further
continuing the conversation, we hastened off to our inn--and breakfast.
In spite of our early rising, it was ten o’clock before we got “under
weigh,” but when one sets out exploring and sketching, to say nothing of
gossiping, time flies.
It was one of those rare and perfect days that come only now and then in
the year, which, when they come, linger lovingly in the memory for long
after. A stilly day of soft sunshine wherein is no glare; overhead great
rounded clouds of golden white, shading off into a tender pearly-gray,
were sailing slowly across a sea of pure, pale blue,--clouds
[Sidenote: _CLOUD SCENERY_]
ever varying in size and form, so that the eye was involuntarily
attracted to the scenery of the sky, as well as to that of the land; for
the changeful sky-scape--as Turner, Constable, and other painters have
shown--lends a wonderful charm to our English scenery,--clouds that
caused vast cool-gray shadows to chase each other in endless succession
over the wide countryside, till, space-diminished, the shadows vanished
into infinity, where the circling gray of the dim horizon melted into a
misty nothingness.
The warmth of the cheerful sunshine was tempered by a soothing southerly
wind--a lazy wind that came to us laden with a mingling of fragrant
country odours distilled from flower, field, tree, and countless green
growing things as it lightly passed them by. It was a day inspiriting
enough, one would have imagined, to convert even a confirmed pessimist
into a cheerful optimist, and for us it made the fact of simply existing
a something to be thankful for!
Manifestly the Fates were kindly disposed towards us. It was no small
matter to start forth thus in the fulness and freshness of such a
morning, free as the air we breathed, with our holiday only just
beginning, its pleasures barely tasted, and positively no solicitude
whatever except to reach an inn for the night; in truth, there was no
room for the demon Care in our dog-cart, so he was compelled to stay
behind “out of sight” and “out of mind.” We were purely on pleasure
bent, and we managed very successfully to maintain that part of our
programme from the beginning to the end of our tour. Good health means
good spirits, and being out so much in the open air, we laid in a
plentiful stock of the former. An out-of-door life, such as the one we
led, without fatigue, and with a sufficiency of interest to pleasurably
engage the attention, is the finest tonic in the world, I verily
believe, for mind and body, bracing both up; so that the answer of the
happy driving tourist to the doleful query, “Is life worth living?”
would be, to employ the schoolboy’s expressive slang, “Very much so.”
After Stevenage we entered upon a pleasantly undulating and purely
agricultural and pastoral country, with nothing noteworthy till we came
to a neat little village that we made out from our map to be Graveley.
Here an unpretending inn, the “George and Dragon” to wit, boasted of a
fine wrought-iron support for its sign, doubtless a relic of a past
prosperity when this was a much-travelled highway, and the hostelries on
the road had the benefit of many customers. We noticed that the painting
of the sign, at least in our estimation, was sadly inferior in artistic
spirit to the clever craftsmanship displayed in the iron-work supporting
it; possibly the sign-board was of old as artistically limned as its
support was wrought, but the weathering of years would efface the
drawing and colouring, and later and less skilful hands may have renewed
the design, whilst, of course, the more enduring iron would still retain
its ancient charm of form unimpaired.
The gracefulness and bold curving and twisting of the metal-work that
supports and upholds the sign of many an ancient coaching inn had a
peculiar fascination for us, and frequently brought our pencil
[Sidenote: _A CONCEIT IN METAL_]
into requisition to record their varied outlines and quaint conceits,
that truly splendid specimen of the “Bell” at Stilton--about which I
shall have more to say when we arrive there--especially delighting us.
At the sign of a certain “White Hart” elsewhere we could not but imagine
that the open iron-work above it in the shape of a heart was not
accidental, but intended as a play on words in metal, if the expression
may be allowed.
After Graveley the road plucked up a little spirit and the scenery
improved, just as though it were doing its best to please us. At one
point there suddenly opened a fine view to the left, reaching over a
vast extent of country bounded by an uneven horizon of wooded
hills--hills that showed as a long, low undulating line, deeply blue,
but enlivened by touches of greeny-gold where the sunshine rested for a
moment here and there; it was as if Nature in one of her lavish moods
had washed the horizon over with a tint of ultramarine, “for who can
paint like Nature?”--little she recks the quantity or the rarity of the
hues she employs, miles upon miles oftentimes, and that for a mere
transient effect! To our right also our charmed visions ranged over a
wide expanse of wooded plain, so space-expressing in its wealth of
distances, the blue of which made us realise the ocean of air that lay
between us and the remote horizon, the reality of the invisible!
After the confined limits of the house-bound streets of town, our eyes
positively rejoiced in the unaccustomed freedom of roving unrestrained
over so much space--a sudden change from yards to miles! I have found
from experience what a relief it is for the eye to be able thus to alter
its focus from the near to the far-away: the vision like the mind is apt
to become cramped by not being able to take a broad view of things. I
verily believe that the eyes are strengthened by having the daily
opportunity of exercising their full functions; this may be a fanciful
belief on my part, but I hold it and write advisedly.
Gradually, as we proceeded, our road widened out, and was bounded on
either hand by pleasant grassy margins, that, had we been on a riding
instead of a driving tour, would certainly have tempted us to indulge in
a canter. These grassy margins used to form part of the hard, well-kept
highway when there was room for four coaches abreast at one time
thereon. I wonder whether these spare spaces will ever be utilised for
cycle tracks?
What, I further wonder, would our ancestors--could they come back to
life again, and travel once more along the old familiar roads--think of
the new steel-steed, and what would they make of the following notice,
appended to the sign of an old inn on the way, which we deemed worthy of
being copied?--
Good Accommodation
and
Stabling
for
Cyclists and Motorists.
This brings to mind the truth that lies in the old Latin saying,
_Tempora mutantur, et nos mutamur in illis_.