Leaving the old village, retired enough now, we reach four cross roads, the scene of many a tale in legendary lore, — roads which were dreaded by travellers in the days when highwaymen were frequent, — and, in the hazy distance, the three towers of Lincoln minster are just discernible. Closer and closer, as we approach the city, the farmers' wagons and carriers' carts, laden with fat pigs and poultry, become thicker, and the roadside inns, at which it is an unpardonable offence not to call either going or returning, better patronized. The farmer scorns the man who refuses to drink his "yaale" at the public inn quite as heartily as he does an infidel; he has a strange fondness for the "beer and Bible" theory, imagining that reverence for the latter condones all the shortcomings arising from the former.

At shorter intervals now we leave village after village behind, and begin to overtake the fat beeves and sheep driven to market, — for it is yet early. Occasionally a shepherd, or a farmer in a small way, is to be seen in the curious old-fashioned smock frock of honey-combed pattern now almost out of date, which has to he lifted over the girths before the wearer can get at his watch or his old leathern purse, both probably heirlooms deeply cherished. This style of dress was considered an element of safety against pickpockets and sharpers in the public fairs half a century ago.

One or two more mileposts to pass, the cathedral all the xvhile growing larger and more distinct, and we drive under the Newport Arch, through which the Roman legions entered the city nineteen centuries ago, and which then formed its northern gateway. Part of the old wall which then encircled the capital still remains, in a pasture close by, a hoary