Down this narrow, winding street, across the open
place where Lord Palmerston stands stonily in the moonlight, and I am
at the White Horse Inn again.
At nine o'clock next morning there is a rap at the door of my room.
The door being opened a man-servant is discovered, who touches his
forehead (having no hat to touch) and says, "The ladies would like to
'ave you breakfast with them, sir."
He is so very respectful in his manner of saying this that he is
inaudible, and being asked what he said, repeats the touching his
forehead and then repeats his words.
There are no muffins at breakfast--a fact which I record merely
because this is the first time since we have been in England that this
peculiarly English dish has been omitted at breakfast. It appears on
inquiry that muffins are a luxury of large towns. In villages they
are rarely obtainable at less than about a week's notice. In fact, you
can't get anything to eat, of any sort, without pretty liberal notice.
After breakfast we go to see the old abbey. It is an imposing and
well-preserved pile. It was founded by Ethelwold, a thane--one of
those righting, praying, thieving old rascals who lived in the tenth
century, and made things lively for any one who went past their houses
with money on his person.
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