again. Contrary to the general rule in country places, where everyone appears to take a particular interest in any strangers that may pass their way, as far as we observed nobody disturbed themselves about us, or troubled to discuss who we were or where we came from, unless it were the landlord of the clean-looking little Bell Inn, who stared at us in a languid sort of a manner; but then he was possibly interested in the way of business.

It was a pleasing and somewhat unusual experience for us to be able to sketch in and explore a country town without our movements rousing the curiosity of even one of its youthful inhabitants; to be enabled to stare about us without being stared at in return. How such places manage to exist at all, without any apparent business, having no attractions for the tourist or angler to make up for the loss of other custom, has frequently puzzled me. Even the hostels in such places seem to make a brave show of outward well-being, though one would imagine, now the need that caused their former prosperity has long since disappeared, that the limited local custom would hardly suffice to pay the rent alone, even were such custom all profit. But the wanderer by road, if observantly inclined and if he troubles himself to think at all, will find many things to wonder at and ponder over as he journeys on. Why in one place where land is plentiful a man should build his house of several stories, so that it would be considered high even in town; why in another spot we came upon there should be actually two churches in one small churchyard; why again the road he is

FACT AND FICTION.

333

travelling on should laboriously mount a stiff hill between two villages, when a more level way, and a shorter one as well, could as easily have been made in the valley below; why in one part of the country sign-posts should be found at almost every cross road in good order, with the inscriptions thereon plainly to be read, even sometimes the distances thoughtfully added as well, when in another part he may travel for days and many miles before coming upon one of these useful guides to the wandering stranger, or, if he does come upon one, to discover it either without arms at all or with the lettering weathered away so as to be wholly indecipherable?

Near to Ingatestone is the hall, a rambling old house of red brick and stone, built in the Tudor style in the reign of Henry VIII. Originally it must have been a very noble mansion, and though certain portions of it have been pulled down and the rest modernised even to the extent of introducing some sash windows, still what remains forms an extensive pile, picturesque as well with its many chimneys and ivy-clad gables. It possesses the inevitable secret hiding chamber without which no important house of those days seems to have been considered complete. But this ancient hall is now chiefly interesting for the air of romance cast over it by fiction, for it is the original from which Miss Braddon drew her picture of Audley Court, and here are laid the principal scenes of her novel, Lady Audley's Secret.' The lime-tree walk in which 'my lady' met her first husband, the old well down which she threw him, the fish-ponds and even the one-handed clock, have

D

actual existence.

On a former journey I came upon and was shown asome what similar old house in like manner made fictionally historic, a veritable romance in bricks and mortar. The old servant who did duty as a guide I found fully believed in the reality of the story and in the personality of the imaginary characters, nor would any words of mine unconvince him. Such is the magic power of the pen, turning fiction into fact and causing the creations of the brain to move, walk, and have their being, causing even, as in the case of Sir Walter Scott, remote spots to be visited by crowds of tourists to behold the scenes where imaginary heroes acted their part, heroes as real to many as those who actually lived and fought and died! Why, I have even had pointed out to me the very spot where the huntsman's horse fell, as described in the Lady of the Lake'!

Continuing on our way we passed through a pleasantly undulating country with peeps ever and again of distant blue hills; a country it was that reminded us much of Berkshire. Certainly had we been suddenly set down thereabouts without being told what part of England it was, we should never have guessed that we were in a portion of Essex.

Margaretting was the next village we came to, and again we were tempted to make a short stop to sketch the effective bit of iron-work that supports the sign-board of the Bull Inn. The church here is well worth a visit; it contains an early and very fine 'Jesse' window, and has two picturesque old wooden open porches, but the most interesting feature of the

A QUAINT SIGN-BOARD.

brown with age. and ingeniously mutual support.

35

ancient structure is its remarkable tower. This is constructed entirely of massive beams of oak, black and The great timbers are curiously arranged to ensure strength and Near to the south door is a unique brass; the figures are unfortunately mutilated and the inscription gone. It represents a knight in armour, with his wife, sons, and daughters, as was the fashion of memorials of the time, but what is especially remarkable about this brass is that the faces of the effigies are given in profile. I know of no other instance in which a profile is shown on a brass instead of the full face, and I believe that there is no other record of such a departure from the general custom that then obtained.

This old turnpike and coaching road along which we were travelling is studded with villages and thoroughfare towns; every few miles we came upon a smaller or larger collection of houses, and so, shortly after leaving Margaretting we found ourselves at Widford. The inn signs of Essex are frequently of interest, and here once more our attention was arrested by the curious old sign-board of the village public-house. This has on one side of it a pictorial representation of bluff King Hal, on the other a woman without a head, intended we were informed for the unfortunate Queen Anne Boleyn. It would be interesting to learn the origin and true history of this quaint sign.

CHAPTER III.

We come across a Character-Origin of the Names of Places-Guidebooks at fault-The 'Good Woman'-An old half-timbered Hostelrie-Roadside England-The Love of the Country-BorehamA Fine Altar-tomb-The Ancient Craftsman and the Modern Workman--An Old English Farmstead-The Farm of the Future -Cottage Gardens-Witham-At the Sign of the White HartThe Kindness of Country People-How to discover Objects of Interest A Fruitless Expedition-' Ghosts not kept here.'

AT Chelmsford, the next town on our road, we elected to stay the night at the sign of the Saracen's Head. In the coffee-room of the inn there we made friends with another traveller, who from his conversation was evidently an antiquary, and truly he looked his part, dressed as he was like a gentleman of the old school, fifty years at least behind time in regard to the fashion of his clothes; evidently purposely so, for the quality was good although the cut seemed quaint to our unfamiliar eyes. Manifestly we had come upon an original character, no mere stage make-believe, and we rejoiced in the fact, for in these days of slavish uniformity, a genuine character is a great relief to the wearisome monotony of multitudes.

We always make it a point when on a journey, as far as may lie in our power, to make friends with those people chance may throw in our path. Many