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FIGURES IN THE LANDSCAPE.

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recap our lens and talk to him about all sorts of things, and when he assumed a careless natural attitude we would quietly touch the spring of our instantaneous shutter, the result being a picture in black and white, though a photograph.

Most figures introduced into photographs, as I have before remarked, suggest the idea that they are merely standing where they are to have their likenesses taken, the landscape becoming a mere background to a portrait. Such figures are in the landscape truly, but not of it; they lend no interest to it, tell no story, and irritate rather than please the eye. Photography has too long been a science; let us hope that some day it may become an art. The mere mechanical production of a photograph is a simple matter; picture-making by aid of the lens and camera requires something more than mechanical skill—it requires the feeling and eye of an artist.

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CHAPTER XVI.

Bury St. Edmunds-Mr. Pickwick a Personality-At the Sign of the Angel-An Old-fashioned Host-English-grown Tobacco-St. Edmund's Ruined Abbey-Curious Relics-The Monks of old— 'For England's Ancient Liberties'—An Embalmed Warrior-The Abbot's Bridge-A Lock of Mary Tudor's Hair-A Gruesome Volume-A Splendid Norman Tower-Origin of Gothic Architecture A Magnificent Church-Flint Buildings-A Wonderful Roof-A Ghastly Tomb-Old Brasses and New Ones-A Quaint Epitaph.

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ARRIVING at Bury St. Edmunds, it was a pleasant change to find ourselves once more, after our long and lonely stage, amongst the cheerful homes of It will be remembered that the worthy Mr. Pickwick visited Bury during his travels; I quote from Dickens's immortal work. The coach rattled through the well-paved streets of a handsome little town of thriving and cleanly appearance, and stopped before a large inn situated in a wide open street nearly facing the old abbey "And this," said Mr. Pickwick, looking up, "is the Angel. We alight here, Sam." And it was at the Angel that Sam Weller was 'took in' by Job Trotter.

Finding that this ancient inn was still existing, we determined to take up our quarters there. It happened that we arrived on a day when a flower show was being held in the town, so that when we drove in to the ample courtyard of the Angel we

CHAT WITH MINE HOST.

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discovered it to be full of carriages, coachmen, and footmen in various liveries, giving the place quite a gay, bustling look, in strange contrast with the deserted appearance of inn yards generally, save in country towns upon a market-day. This gathering of carriages afforded us some idea of the aspect that these old courtyards must have presented to our road-travelling forefathers.

Strolling into the cosy bar of our inn during the evening we found our worthy landlord installed there; a landlord of the old-fashioned school was he, in keeping with his ancient hostelry. We joined him in a pipe and glass of whisky as an excuse for a chat. I may here state that we had already made acquaintance with our good-natured host, for whilst we were at dinner he came into the room to see to our entertainment, manifestly taking a personal interest in the welfare of his guests. Such little attentions are very pleasing, and we felt at once that our lines had fallen in pleasant places.' Said we, as we took a seat and lighted our pipe, 'Is this not the very hotel in which the famous Mr. Pickwick is supposed to have stayed? Supposed!' replied the landlord, indignantly; this, sir, is the inn where he stopped. I've the very carving knife and fork that that gentleman used when he was here; ivory-mounted they are, they go with the hotel, and were handed to me when I took it.' We were quite unprepared for this reply. Here again we found. fiction so strong as to be believed a fact, the clever creation of the novelist turned into a reality! Manifestly the landlord was in earnest when he made his

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remark, and how could we doubt the circumstance of Mr. Pickwick's individuality and his former presence here, when our worthy host had actually in his possession, treasured as a precious relic, the very ivory-mounted' knife and fork that he had used? Surely a greater compliment than this no writer of fiction could desire or expect!

Our host told us that he came from Newmarket, and that he had formerly kept an inn there; he well remembered the old coaching days, and related to us many anecdotes connected therewith.

I hear as how you are driving across country,' he remarked, 'so I sent over to a friend and borrowed an old road book as I thought might interest you;' and he handed to us a curious work of ancient date. I merely mention this fact to show what interest the landlords of these old-time inns take in their guests. We were no mere number here, left to the tender mercies of a waiter, who generally appears most anxious as to your welfare when you are about to depart and the time for the inevitable tip approaches.

Then our host said, 'You must have a look in the morning at the curious vaulted cellars under the hotel. There are not many people who have seen them; they used to be the cellars belonging to the monks, and a secret passage led under the road from the abbey to them. You must not go away without seeing them.' And we made a mental note that we would not. Presently, one by one several tradesmen of the place came in, and the conversation became general. One of these brought with

HOME-GROWN TOBACCO.

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him a sample of home-grown British tobacco, dark in colour and strong in flavour. The sample was tried, and universally condemned. Feeling that the character of the home production was at stake, I came to the rescue, venturing to remark that I had grown tobacco in a garden at Eastbourne which was light in colour and mild in flavour.

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There are few inns in pleasant England so charmingly situated as the Angel at Bury St. Edmunds. Our sunny room looked right down upon the gardens and picturesque remains of the once far-famed abbey, whose mould'ring ruins mark her fallen state.' The ancient time-toned abbey gateway and the hoary grey and weathered walls contrast most charmingly with the fresh green of the sward and trees around. Only one other hotel in England do I know that has such a romantic outlook, and that is the little rural inn at Tintern, which is perhaps the most pleasantly situated hostelry in all the land.

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Early in the morning we started out to view the ruins at our leisure and inspect the old historic town. We found that the landlord had not forgotten 'A friend of mine,' he said, 'will be very pleased to go round about and show you what is most interesting in the place, if you would care to have some one with you.' We could not well refuse such a kindly meant offer, and though we would rather have wandered about alone, we submitted, on this occasion only,' to be personally conducted. Placing ourselves therefore under the tender mercies of our guide, we were first taken to the abbey grounds.

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