The New Monthly Magazine and Humorist

RAILROADS have not made every place more accessible than of yore. In some instances they have even had the effect of rendering well known localities comparatively remote.

Of this kind is the village of Chilton, which stands about a mile from what was once the great thoroughfare through a frequented part of Hampshire. In those days not fewer than four-and-twenty coaches, up and down, used to change horses at the White Lion, the great posting-house on that line; and when travellers were not in so great a hurry as they now are to get to their journey's end, the White Lion was a pleasant place to stop at. The mutton they gave you there was excellent; it was bred on the neighbouring downs. The chickens were scarcely inferior to "Dorking;" and when served up as a "spatch-cock" with the mushrooms from the same chalky range, might defy competition. The small, purple trout from the hill-streams were as firm and well-flavoured as Switzerland or the Pyrenees can boast. The cellars of the White Lion, too, contained some choice old port; British brandy was a thing unknown; and Spigot, who kept the house for so many years, had no rival on the road in the art of compounding an undeniable bowl of punch. You paid, it is true, pretty well for what you had, but what did that signify, so long as you were comfortable; and, besides, those who were in the habit of sojourning at the White Lion, went there for the express purpose of being comfortable.

Though not absolutely picturesque, the country had its attractions also. There were "barrows" and "encampments" for the antiquaries of the Roman period; one or two churches near, with Norman portals and fragments of old stained glass, for the medieval worshipper; there were coursing and fishing for the sportsman; and the botanist or the simplyidle pedestrian might find plenty of amusement along the winding lanes that led into the more closely cultivated districts. So that, if anybody were in search of health, or the quiet pleasure to be gleaned in a not over-populous country, he might find his account in putting up at the White Lion for a day or two, even if he were less influenced by the prospect of good cheer which that establishment held out, than is generally the case with those who seek "their warmest welcome at an inn." As far as the White Lion is concerned, this is the history of the Past. The building stands, and-to speak figuratively as well as literallystands still. It is not a Poor-Law Union, though there was once a great talk of making it one; neither is it a manufactory, though a paper-maker once cast his eyes upon it for such a purpose, and only relinquished the idea because he doubted the "water power" which was necessary to convert it into a mill. But there it stands, shut up, in every sense, and one of these days, perhaps, when the gusts of winter blow rather fresher Oct.-VOL. XCVI. NO. CCCLXXXII.

than usual over the Hampshire hills, it may tumble down altogether, like a house built of cards.

At present there are few sites in England more directly suggestive of Wordsworth's lines:

A merry place, 'twas said, in days of yore;

But something ails it now,-the place is curst!

And this conclusion brings me to my more immediate purpose in describing the country of which the White Lion was once the chief pride and ornament, in the eyes of at least one class of her Majesty's subjects-and that of some importance in their day-the Jehus of the great western road.

Before the entire extinction of the glories of the Hampshire caravanserai, and while yet the White Lion, with mane and tail alike erect, glared fiercely, yet hospitably, upon the traveller, as much as to say, "I won't eat you myself, but-you'll be taken care of inside, yonder" before that day of doom had quite arrived, a four-horse coach, that did its "eleven mile of ground" comfortably within the hour, deposited me one afternoon in October on the steps of the Leonine portico. Half-minute time sufficed for the "change," the consumption of the coachman's glass of sherry and bitters, the pocketing of the customary half-crown for the box-seat which I had just vacated, and the removal of the horsecloths, which set the team off into a hand-gallop, and then the spot where the "Tellygraft" had pulled up was a blank-blanker even than the countenances of the ostlers and helpers who watched the coach out of sight. I, too, having gazed my fill-as if it signified to me where the Telegraph was going, now that I had reached my destination-turned to occupy myself with the White Lion, its Landlord, its Waiter, its Boots, and its Chambermaid, all of whom cccupied themselves with me.

In palmier days I should have had to speak plurally of all these functionaries, supposing that the landlord's double-the landlady-was coequal with himself; but the days of the White Lion were beginning to be numbered the landlady was defunct, sixteen coaches had already been taken off the road, and the domestic staff of Mr. Spigot had been proportionably curtailed; there were many more bedrooms now than travellers to fill them, and it was merely a tradition of the house to relate how George III. and Queen Charlotte used to stop there to eat carp and tench out of the famous pond in the garden of the White Lion. But tradition though it was, this royal fact used, somehow or other, to reach the guest's ears before he had been domiciled half an hour, if, indeed, he had not been informed of it—as was most likely-by the all-communicative coachman as soon as the White Lion hove in sight. In any case, he was sure to hear of it when the bill of fare was presented for his choice, though the pond itself was dried up which had supplied royalty with a banquet, and not a chance remained of getting either carp or tench, if even the traveller's inclination had induced him to desire those antediluvian fish.

What I dined upon that day it is scarcely worth while to recal, seeing that the White Lion larder is now empty, and can never again tickle the palate of living gastronome; nor would it be any more to the purpose to speak of Spigot's port, if Spigot himself had not assisted me to discuss it, and, while he officiated in this not uncongenial line, had not played

the part of historiographer with regard to a family respecting which I was somewhat interested.

But, before that subject came on the tapis, what led to it ought to be told.

II.

A HAMPSHIRE VILLAGE.

As soon as I had seen my bedroom and ordered my dinner, the afternoon not being far spent, I asked the waiter how far it was to the village of Chilton, and whether the road was easily found.

Chilton, sir," said he; "oh, yes-a short walk of half an hour or so. Way to it, down the lane that you see there just at the edge of the common, turning to the left when you get by the stables. A dull place Chilton, sir, though it be so nigh."

"So I have heard," I replied; "but as I have business there, I must put up with its want of gaiety. To the left, I think you said?" "Yes, sir, to the left, after you've passed the stables.

just show you?"

“No, I thank you; I dare say I shan't miss the road." "Dare say not, sir. Dinner at six, I believe, sir?"

Shall the ostler

It's now

"At six, I answered. "There will be plenty of time. two." And, this brief colloquy ended, I set out on my expedition.

The waiter's direction being clearer than that given by Tony Lumpkin, I very soon found myself in the lane leading to Chilton. It was one of those hollow ways that are so often met with at the foot of a range of downs. The bank on the upper side broke off abruptly from the chalk, and the bushes at first were scanty. It then deepened as it got away from the hill-side, and dropped between hedges that increased in height as the road became more sheltered, till it was almost embowered beneath the wild clematis which stretched across it. In the height of summer this shaded road must have been very pleasant, and even in October it was not without its charm, though the leaves were beginning to sere, and some of them to fall; but then the charm was chiefly to be found by those who, unlike the waiter at the White Lion, did not object to its loneliness. If this quality were a charm for me, it certainly did not diminish as I proceeded; and, by the time I had walked half a mile, the liveliness of the highway, over which the White Lion so patronisingly frowned, was only recalled by a strong effort of memory—or imagination. The lane still continued to descend till it was crossed by a small brook, which then pursued a parallel track on one side, through a patch of unreclaimed common, swampy, hoof-marked, and sprinkled with rushes. After this the hedges closed in again, and the brook ran beside the footpath, ditch-like, encouraging the growth of water-cresses in their season, till, at a sudden bend of the road, it crept out of sight, leaving the wayfarer to plod on his way alone. A slight inequality of the ground followed, another dip, and then a straight piece for a couple of hundred yards. A stray pig or two came in sight, rooting near some felled timber, amongst which children were playing. A wheelwright's shop opened upon the view, and three or four thatched cottages announced the

outskirts of the village of Chilton. In point of fact, they may be said to have proclaimed the village itself; for except a very small chandler's shop, where the receipts must have been calculated on the infinitesimal scale, a blacksmith's forge, and a little inn called the Horseshoe, there were no other houses to be seen; and why a few Hampshire peasants should have become gregarious on such a spot, was 66 a question to be asked." But it did not concern me to put it. The motive which took me to Chilton was not to speculate on the building propensities of its inhabitants, but to make inquiry concerning one who had been, and still was, the owner of the several architectural contrivances which met my view-about the Lord of the Manor, in short, of whose domain the village formed an appendage, but one which, apparently, was not much cared for.

To acquire this intelligence, I looked round for somebody to speak to; the blacksmith, at work in his forge, was the only person visible, and to him I addressed myself.

"Which is the way to Chilton Hall ?" I asked.

The noisy occupation of the smith prevented him from hearing my question, and I had to repeat it. I did so before the ponderous hammer was raised, and so attracted his attention.

"This be Chilton," was the man's reply, slightly turning his head, but not altogether.

"Yes," I returned, "the village, but whereabouts is the Hall?"

The smith now faced round entirely, and seeing a stranger who was not a peasant, gave more consideration to the question than he seemed at first disposed to bestow.

"The Hall, master," said he; "why, 'tain't fur. Be you a going to the Hall?"

"When I can find where it is," was my rejoinder.

"For the matter of that," replied the village Vulcan, “the Hall's easily found; yon's the park wall, just a stone's throw past the Horseshoe; but perhaps you want to see the inside! that 'ere mayn't be quite so easy."

"Not only the inside," returned I, "but the gentleman who lives there." The blacksmith whistled a note of exclamation, and then, after looking hard at me for a few moments, spoke again.

"There ain't no gentleman as lives there-now-'cept," he added, with a chuckle, "it be the old gentleman!"

"I thought," said I, "that the place belonged to Mr. Buckhurst." "So it do-to Squire Buckhurst. But, bless you, he han't been there this many a year. He resides," continued the smith, sententiously, "he resides in forrin parts, somewheres in France or Germiny, as I've heerd say."

"So far, then," said I, "my journey has been thrown away."

But as this was a point which there was no need to discuss with the blacksmith, I pursued my inquiry respecting Chilton Hall.

"I've been told," I observed, "that the house is a very curious place."

"Curos enough,” replied the smith, "if so be as you mean old and ugly; them must be curos, too, as wants to see the inside on't. I've been

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