better than crowded watering-places on the sea,
or swarming retreats upon the lakes. Hurstfield
is ugly, lonely, deserted,—and very
cheap. Once upon a, time a dozen four-horse
coaches passed through it everyday. There
were horns heard as the watchful guard
caught the first glance of the Buffalo Inn.
Horses were changed in less than a minute,
the luxurious Jehu smoking his cigar, and
never descending from the box. Horns with
a different tone were sounded at a later hour,
when the up Highflyer stopped at the Buffalo
to dine. Landlady, barmaid, and waiters
formed a corps of honour to receive the
dining coach. The insides tumbled out, and
the outsides tumbled down; and in hungry
hurry and confusion, all tumbled in and took
seats without ceremony, at the well-spread
table. How so much food could be disposed
of in fifteen minutes, and how such a charge
could be made for cold meat and stale bread,
were equally puzzling question to landlord
and traveller; but neither party stopped to
discuss them. The stuffed and infuriated
passenger paid his three-and-sixpence, and
resumed his place, thinking he had been
robbed; the grumbling landlord looked at
the diminished size of a round of beef as if
he had been grievously wronged. But horns
were heard no more, either with rapid note
demanding a change of horses, or with more
genial voice giving warning to get the dishes
on the table. The last dinner was eaten;
the last coacli disappeared. Hurstfield grew
into a really quiet, out-of-the way village,— the
Buffalo ceased to be an inn, except in a very
small portion of its former self. The right
wing was converted into a separate dwelling-
house, the left wing was used as a barn, and
the Buffalo, with tremendous tail and gilded
horns, swung on the centre part of the
ancient hostelry, and still held out a promise
of good entertainment for man and beast.
And not in vain. There was still a stall or
two in the stable, and just above the sign-
board was a suite of rooms, so calm, so cool,
so bright, that they formed a wonderful contrast
to the dingy apartments which it was
my fate to occupy for ten months of the year
in town— and the maid was so active, and
so pleasant to look upon, and the landlady
was a widow, and quite accommodated to
her fallen fortunes,—so motherly and attentive,
that before I had been established in the
rooms a week, I felt at home. To an Englishman,
especially if he has travelled abroad, or
if he has inhabited a London lodging, that
word expresses all. I felt at home, and that
is the reason I prefer Hurstfield to the most
picturesque and aristocratic residence in
England. How I walked from village to
village, guided across the low levels by the
tapering spires of some old churches, and
sometimes cheered in my progress by the
pleasant sound of their bells. How beautifully
those grey old towers rise, clear and
solemn in the calm evening air, and seem so
fitted to their position that a church in a
great roaring dirty London street seems by
contrast entirely out of place. But a truce
to walks and steeple-chaces such as I have
mentioned. The proper study of mankind is
man, so I invited the surgeon of Hurstfield
to dinner. The place of the ancient barber,
both in regard to phlebotomy and garrulity,
is supplied by the modern village doctor.
This was a very good specimen of the tribe.
He knew everybody far and near,—and all
professionally—not that he had attended on
the innumerable families he named— but his
memorials of them consisted of the illnesses
they had gone through, and the accidents
they had met with. The Smiths of Yewston,
were very delightful people—three of the
young ladies had had the scarlet fever three
years ago. The Browns of Elm Lodge,
wonderfully clever,— the eldest daughter had had
the small-pox, but it left no mark. Robinson
of Bowdan was one of the best Hebrew
scholars in England, and had broken his leg—
a compound fracture—seven years before.
When he came nearer home he was more
diffuse in his medico-personal anecdotes. He
told me the number of times the grocer's
wife had been bled. The curate must have
been a favourite with his physician, for he
was described as an admirable preacher, and
subject to inflammation of the liver. And
one man he told me of (he was sure I must
have seen him) an old man very meanly
dressed, who walked for hours on the shady
side of the road opposite my window. You
would almost think lie was a gentleman,
—perhaps he was—he was miserably poor
and very proud, and despised medicine
altogether. My friend had pressed a box of pills
upon him, had begged him to accept a small
phial of Gregory's Mixture; but the independent
pauper (so Sangrado, in his indignation,
called him) told him to throw physic to
the dogs, he would have none of it; " A very
impudent thing to say, sir, as if I were a
veterinary surgeon."

I had seen the man. There was
something in his appearance that struck me, a
sort of respectability run to seed, but with no
loss of personal dignity (as if the man felt the
inconvenience of poverty, but none of the
degradation), which made me resolve to make
his acquaintance.

"You'll find him a queer man, sir," said
the doctor. "I believe he was born in this
parish, of a highly honourable family.
They've all passed away. I believe he
hasn't a shilling, but he's as lofty as ever.
Gregory's Mixture would be excellent in his
stomach, for he complains of indigestion, and
says it is on that account he never tastes
animal food. I guess," continued this delicate-
minded practitioner, with a chuckling
laugh, as he poured out another glass of
sherry,—"I guess there's another reason for
his abstinence, and that his indigestion would
be greatly alleviated by a pound of beefsteaks.