coming down in a little grey and noiseless
shower, like the stealthiness and mystery of
death. The ironwork, as in the hinges of doors,
is red and cankered with the rust of years; and
damp "has written strange defeatures" on the
ceilings. Creeping about the rooms and
corridors in this summer noon, I fancy that here is
the very corpse of a house, slowly decomposing
before my eyes, rather than a living house, such
as one is accustomed to dwell in. I think I
should hardly like to sleep here—not for fear of
seeing ghosts, but because I should be oppressed
by a sense of the immense array of human
lives that had been before me in these rooms,
and had traced their little circles, and passed
away into the dim immensity, leaving no record
of their presence. What dreams have been
dreamt in these sleeping chambers by those who
are themselves dreams now, and dreams that are
forgotten! Dreams of good and evil, of youth
and age; lovers' dreams, avaricious dreams,
ambitious dreams, incoherent dreams, murderous
dreams, with the knife at the throat, and a sense
of life-long horror; wicked and haggish dreams;
and others, again, fair with the promise of goodly
days, or sweet with exquisite memories of the
past! What projects have been formed here by
pilgrims wending to the shrine of Thomas à
Becket, or travellers going about their secular
business; projects of which, whether in success
or failure, the cynic hand of Time has written
the old old moral, that all is vanity beneath the
sun! Truly, these ancient houses preach more
grimly than a death's-head. Up here in the
deserted garrets, crouching under the sloping
roof, one might indulge the Jaques vein bravely.
All garrets are melancholy places; but were
there ever such forlorn garrets as these! Thick
with dust, ghastly with rotting wood and
crumbling iron (here is a hinge on one of the doors
so primitive in shape, that it looks as if it might
have been made by Tubal Cain), dim, blinking,
and haggard with long solitude, they look as if
they had been abandoned for centuries. A
skeleton bedstead lurks in one, and a skeleton
arm-chair in another—both gone to decay. If
anybody comes up here alone, at night, with a
swaling, sputtering candle, I think he is a bold
man. Surely there are no such rooms as these,
except in a ghost story; they look so "eerie,"
even in the sunlight, that we will descend once
more to the gallery and the main suite of
chambers.

So, this little cupboard is "The Pilgrims'
Room," where Harry Baily (landlord temp.
Richard the Second) feasted the nine-and-twenty
pilgrims? Yes, says my conductress; but then
the hall originally ran along the whole length of
the gallery, and has since been divided into a
number of little rooms. That this was really
the case is very probable. The idea first struck
Mr. John Saunders, on his visit in 1841,
described in the paper to which allusion has
already been made; and the conjecture thus
thrown out is now stated by the attendants at
the inn as a positive fact. The architectural
features of the rooms show signs that all was
at one time open from end to end; and it is not
improbable that Master J. Preston made the
alteration when he was about his repairs. Over
the chimney-piece in "The Pilgrims' Room"
there was at one time a fragment of ancient
tapestry, representing a procession; but this
has now disappeared. Outside on the gallery,
however, you may still see, under the penthouse
roof, a picture of the pilgrims, said to have been
painted by Blake, but which is now so obscured
by dirt and weather that scarcely a single figure
can be detected in the general haze.

And this strange old inn—this most interesting
memorial of the earliest work of genius in
our language—this house which, in France, or
Germany, or Italy, would be regarded as almost
sacred, and which, in fact, is visited by literary
pilgrims from America, as well as from various
parts of England—is to be pulled down! After
lasting for five centuries, it is at length to give
way before the devastating rush of modern
change. They tell me at the inn that the lease
will run out in some two years from the present
time, and that then the old walls are doomed.
A pile of warehouses, I understand, is to take
their place. The back of the High-street,
Southwark, as I have already remarked, is a
cluster of old inns and inn-yards, all of them
interesting, but none so interesting or so old
as this Tabard or Talbot. Will the literary
men and the antiquarians of England suffer
such a loss without at least making an effort to
avert it? There is time enough for the attempt,
and time in itself is a great auxiliary. We
have saved Shakespeare's house at Stratford;
let us all do our best to save Chaucer's house at
Southwark.

Just published, bound in cloth, price 5s. 6d.,
THE THIRTEENTH VOLUME.

NEW WORK BY MR. DICKENS,
In Monthly Parts, uniform with the Original Editions of
"Pickwick," "Copperfield," &c.
Now publishing, PART XVI., price 1s., of
OUR MUTUAL FRIEND.
BY CHARLES DICKENS.
IN TWENTY MONTHLY PARTS.
With Illustrations by MARCUS STONE.
London: CHAPMAN and HALL, 193, Piccadilly.

A new Serial Novel, by CHARLES COLLINS, entitled
AT THE BAR,
Will be commenced in No. 335, for September 23rd, in
addition to HALF A MILLION OF MONEY, by AMELIA
B. EDWARDS, which will be continued from week to week
until completed.