unsophisticated inn —just the sort of house
that the novelists are so fond of writing
about, with the snowy curtains and the
sheets perfumed by lavender, and the
matronly landlady and the amusing sign-
post. This Elysium is called the Nag's Head.
Can the Nag's Head accommodate us? Yes,
with a delightful bedroom and a sweet
parlour. My wife takes off her bonnet and
makes herself at home, directly. She nods
her head at me with a look of triumph. Yes,
dear, on this occasion also I quite agree
with you. Here we have found perfect
quiet; here we may make sure of obeying
the doctor's orders; here we have, at last,
discovered Nothing.

Nothing?  Did I say Nothing?  We
arrive at the Nag's Head late in the evening,
have our tea, go to bed tired with our
journey, sleep delightfully till about three
o'clock in the morning, and, at that hour,
begin to discover that there are actually
noises even in this remote country seclusion.
They keep fowls at the Nag's Head; and,
at three o'clock, the cock begins to crow and
the hens to cluck under our window.
Pastoral, my dear, and suggestive of eggs for
breakfast whose reputation is above suspicion;
but I wish these cheerful fowls did not
wake quite so early.  Are there, likewise,
dogs, love, at the Nag's Head, and are they
trying to bark down the crowing and clucking
of the cheerful fowls?  I should wish to
guard myself against the possibility of making
a mistake, but I think I heard three dogs. A
small, shrill dog who barks rapidly; a
melancholy dog of uncertain size, who howls
monotonously; and a large hoarse dog who emits
barks at intervals like minute guns.  Is this
going on long?  Apparently it is.  My dear,
if you will refer to your pocket-book, I think
you will find that the doctor recommended
early hours. We will not be fretful and complain
of having our morning sleep disturbed:
we will be contented, and will only say that
it is time to get up.

Breakfast.  Delicious meal, let us linger
over it as long as we can, —let us linger, if
possible, till the drowsy midday tranquillity
begins to sink over this secluded village.
Strange!  but now I think of it again, do I,
or do I not, hear an incessant hammering
over the way?  No manufacture is carried
on in this peaceful place, no new houses are
being built; and yet there is such a hammering
that, if I shut my eyes, I can almost fancy
myself in the neighbourhood of a dock-yard.
Waggons, too.  Why does a waggon which
makes so little noise in London, make so
much noise here?  Is the dust on the road
detonating powder, that goes off with a
report at every turn of the heavy wheels?
Does the waggoner crack his whip or fire a
pistol to encourage his horses? Children,
next.  Only five of them, and they have not
been able to settle for the last half hour what
game they shall play at.  On two points
alone do they appear to be unanimous —they
are all agreed on making a noise and on
stopping to make it under our window.  I
think I am in some danger of forgetting one
of the doctor's directions: I rather fancy I
am allowing myself to be annoyed. Let us
take a turn in the garden, at the back of the
house.  Dogs again.  The yard is on one
side of the garden.  Every time our walk
takes us near it, the small shrill dog barks
and the large hoarse dog growls.  The doctor
tells me to have no anxieties. I am suffering
devouring anxieties.  These dogs may break
loose and fly at us, for anything I know to the
contrary, at a moment's notice.  What shall
I do? Give myself a drop of tonic? or
escape for a few hours from the perpetual
noises of this retired spot by taking a drive?
My wife says, take a drive.  I think I have
already mentioned that I invariably agree
with my wife.

The drive is successful in procuring us a
little quiet.  My directions to the coachman
are to take us where he pleases, so long as
he keeps away from secluded villages.  We
suffer much jolting in by-lanes, and
encounter a great variety of bad smells.  But
a bad smell is a quiet nuisance, and I am
ready to put up with it patiently.  Towards
dinner-time we return to our inn.  Meat,
vegetables, pudding, all excellent, clean and
perfectly cooked.  As good a dinner as I
wish ever to eat;—shall I get a little nap
after it?  The fowls, the dogs, the hammer,
the children, the waggons, are quiet at last.
Is there anything else left to make a noise?
Yes: there is the working population of
the place. It is getting on towards evening,
and the sons of labour are assembling on
the benches placed outside the inn to drink.
What a delightful scene they would make
of this homely every-day event on the stage!
How the simple creatures would clink their
tin mugs and drink each other's healths, and
laugh joyously in chorus!  How the peasant
maidens would come tripping on the
scene and lure the men tenderly to the
dance!  Where are the pipe and tabour that
I have seen in so many pictures; where the
simple songs that I have read about in so
many poems?  What do I hear as I listen,
prone on the sofa, to the evening gathering
of the rustic throng?  Oaths,—nothing, on
my word of honour, but oaths!  I look out,
and see gangs of cadaverous savages, drinking
gloomily from brown mugs, and swearing
at each other every time they open their
lips.  Never in any large town, at home or
abroad, have I been exposed to such an
incessant fire of unprintable words as now
assail my ears in this primitive village.  No
man can drink to another without swearing
at him first.  No man can ask a question
without adding a mark of interrogation at
the end in the shape of an oath.  Whether
they quarrel (which they do for the most
part), or whether they agree; whether they