TOMB OF A CRUSADER.

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desire to see over the Primitive Methodist Chapel, and so went our way, thinking to ourselves that the people of Reepham were exceedingly stupid. Then we did the only thing remaining to be done: we sought out the rectory, getting even misdirected as to our road thither, but at last we discovered it, and, ringing the bell, asked to see the rector, explaining our wishes and the strange difficulty we had to learn anything about the habitation of the clerk. The rector very kindly offered to take us over the church himself. Here we found a very fine and interesting canopied tomb, with the effigy in marble of a Crusader, cross-legged, lying upon a heap of stones. The good knight's nose was broken, otherwise the monument was well preserved. The inscription told us this was to the memory of Sir Roger de Kerdeston who died in 1337. The rector pointed out to us a coat of arms and crest upon the tomb, which he said. was the same as now borne by the Girdlestones, which family therefore, it was presumed, had been related to the Crusader in question. The most curious thing about the monument is the fact that the valiant knight is shown as resting on a rough heap of stones—not a very easy bed. The rector said that he could give no explanation of this peculiar monumental . feature; he told us that it had puzzled several learned antiquaries who had seen it, and who disputed energetically upon the matter, as is their wont, but came to no satisfactory conclusion as to why the knight was so represented. We guessed that he might perchance have fallen in

the battle-field on a heap of stones, and the fact was thus recorded on his tomb. Next the rector called our attention to the very ancient lead-lined stone font, older than the church, and of Saxon origin. He told us that if we cared to mount to the top of the tower there was a very quaint inscribed bell there, well worth seeing; but as the steps were many, winding, and much worn, and the tower dark, we preferred to imagine the bell rather than to climb to it. Thanking the rector for his courtesy, we returned to our inn and ordered the horses to be' put to.' Whilst waiting for the phaeton to come round to the door, we discovered a work on Norfolk in our room. Glancing through this volume we came upon the particulars of two wonderful trees that grow in the bowling-green of the Woodrow inn, which inn we passed early in the morning on our way from Aylsham to Cawston, but not knowing at the time of these peculiar trees, we did not see them, though we might easily have done so, as we pulled up to make a sketch of the pretty wayside hostelry, which attracted us by its bold sign-board swinging from a beam that stretches right across the road in the old-time style. The following is the account of this strange freak of nature which we transcribed into our notebook: 'There are two trees situated in the bowling-green of the Woodrow inn which are great curiosities; not only every branch but every twig of which bears leaves of three different kinds of trees, namely, oak, beech, and hornbeam.' We also made a further extract from this work as follows:

AN OLD DUEL.

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'Near to the Woodrow inn, by the roadside, a small stone pillar is erected on the spot where Sir Henry Hobart, Bart., M.P. for Norfolk, fell in a duel with swords in 1709 with Mr. Oliver Le Neve, who fought with his left hand.'

CHAPTER XIV.

Bawdeswell-Deserted Highways-The Country from the Box SeatA Rebus-A Sudden Storm-East Dereham-Facts in PaintingsA House of MDII.'-Architectural Scenery-Cowper's GraveA Pious Theft-St. Withburga's Well-A Coloured Windmill-A curious Church Tower-A Ford on the Way-Watton-The Scene of the Tragedy of the 'Babes in the Wood'-A Steam Dog-cartAnother Rebus-The Beauties of Wet Weather.

FROM Reepham we drove to East Dereham, passing through a thinly populated country, wild and woody a great portion of the way. Bawdeswell, the first village we came to, has a modern church, the old one having been pulled down some years ago. I think this is the only village during our tour in the eastern counties the church of which was entirely devoid of interest. After leaving Bawdeswell our road was bounded to the left by a finely timbered park, which park was enclosed by a brick wall that followed faithfully every turn and twist of the way. The cost of building this must have been very considerable, and after all it did not form a good fence, for a wall is not difficult to climb for boys or poachers; a thick-set thorn hedge is by far a better protection, and much pleasanter to look upon; you cannot climb such a hedge, or break through it with impunity. On the other side of the road, in curious contrast with the well-wooded park, was a

A FORSAKEN ROAD.

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wild treeless common, its barren bleakness being enlivened however here and there by the bright and cheerful bloom of the gorse.

It was a lonely, forsaken road; we met no one of whom to ask the name of the park, and our map did. not give it. How strangely deserted now are the old highways, erst so full of life and bustle! What would our forefathers (who posted or travelled over them in coaches) think, could they come to life again and view the almost abandoned thoroughfares, with their sides grass-grown owing to the little traffic, their milestones chipped and crumbling away, their sign-posts gone, or armless and useless, their once flourishing inns converted into farmhouses or cottages -the traveller thereon unfrequent? A past presence seems to linger over these old roads; they recall memories of the days that are no more; a journey then was not such a matter-of-fact affair as it is now. There was a good deal of romance and picturesqueness in travelling when the road was in its full glory; too much of romance sometimes, indeed, for there was always the possible chance of a misadventure with the knights of the road,' besides plenty of excitement of a milder sort. Perhaps after all the present age is a pleasanter one to live in; we see now only the poetry of the past, we are chiefly familiar with its bright and sunny side. A modern generation knows nothing of the discomforts of a long journey by coach in stormy winter weather; a pleasure outing on a well-appointed drag upon a summer day is hardly a fair comparison; and has not even the poet said:

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