miles away, the original of Hayslope, the home of Adam Bede, and the real home, a century ago, of Robert Evans. After the train left, the only person in sight was the station agent, who looked with some surprise at the pile of luggage.

In reply to our question, he recommended walking as the best and only way to reach Ellastone. A stroll of two miles, over an unknown and muddy road, in inky darkness, with two or three hundred pounds of luggage to carry, did not appeal to us, particularly as it was now beginning to rain. We suggested a carriage, but there was none. Hotel? Norbury boasted no such conveniences. It began to look as though we might be obliged to camp out in the rain on the station platform. But the good-natured agent, whose day’s work was now done, and who was anxious to go home to his supper, placed the ticket-office, where there was a fire, at our disposal, and a boy was found who was willing to go to Ellastone on his bicycle and learn whether the inn was open (the agent thought not), and if so, whether any one there would send a carriage for us. A long wait of an hour ensued, during which we congratulated ourselves that if we had to sleep on the floor of the ticket-office, it would at least be dryer than the platform. At last the boy returned with the news that the inn was not open, but that a carriage would be sent for us! After another seemingly interminable delay, we finally heard the welcome sound of wheels on the gravel. Our carriage had arrived! It was a butcher’s cart. When the baggage was thrown in, there was but one seat left—the one beside the driver. Small chance for two fairly good-sized passengers, but there was only one solution. I climbed in and took the only remaining seat, while my knees automatically formed another one which my companion in misery promptly appropriated, and away we went, twisting and turning through a wet and muddy lane, so dark that the only visible part of the horse was his tail, the mud flying into our faces from one direction and the rain from another, but happy in the hope and expectation that if the cart did not turn over and throw us into the hedges, we should soon find a better place for a night’s lodging than a country railway station.

In due time we reached the inn, the very one before which Mr. Casson, the landlord, stood and invited Adam Bede to “step in an’ tek somethink.” We were greeted with equal hospitality by the landlord’s wife, who ushered us into the “best parlor,” kindled a rousing fire in the grate (English fires are not usually “rousing”), and asked what we would have for supper. By the time the mud had dried in nice hard lozenges on our clothing, an excellent meal was on the table. It disappeared with such promptness as to bring tears of gratitude to the eyes of the cook—none other than the hospitable landlady herself. We then found ourselves settled for the night in a large, airy, and particularly clean bedroom, the best chamber in the house. “Oh, no, sir, the inn is not open,” explained our good Samaritan, “but we ’re always glad to make strangers comfortable.” These words indicate the spirit of the remark, which we comprehended because helped by the good lady’s eyes, her smile, and her gestures. I cannot set down the exact words for the reasons set forth by Mr. Casson, George Eliot’s landlord of the Donnithorne Arms, who said to Adam: “They ’re cur’ous talkers i’ this country; the gentry’s hard work to hunderstand ’em; I was brought hup among the gentry, sir, an’ got the turn o’ their tongue when I was a bye. Why, what do you think the folks here says for ‘hev n’t you’?—the gentry, you know, says, ‘hev n’t you’—well, the people about here says, ‘hanna yey.’ It’s what they call the dileck as is spoke hereabout, sir.”

THE BROMLEY-DAVENPORT ARMS

It was curious to note, when we explored the village the next morning, that Ellastone is even now apparently just the same little hamlet it was in the time of George Eliot’s father. I had never expected to find the real Hayslope. I supposed, of course, that it would be swallowed up by some big manufacturing town. But here it was exactly as represented—except that Adam Bede’s cottage has been enlarged and repainted and a few small houses now occupy the village green where Dinah Morris preached. The parish church, with its square stone tower and clock of orthodox style, still remains the chief landmark of the village as it was on the day in 1801 when Robert Evans married his first wife, Harriet Poynton, a servant in the Newdigate family, by whom the young man was also employed as a carpenter. Mr. Francis Newdigate, the great-grandfather of our friend at Arbury, lived in Wootton Hall and was the original of the old squire in “Adam Bede.” This fine old estate was the Donnithorne Chase of the novel, and therefore we found it worthy of a visit. We found the fine old “hoaks” there, which Mr. Casson mentioned to Adam, and with them some equally fine elms and a profusion of flowers, the latter tastefully arranged about a series of broad stone terraces, stained with age and partly covered with ivy, which gave the place the dignified aspect of some ancient palace of the nobility. Much to our regret the owner was not at home, but the gardener maintained the hitherto unbroken chain of courtesy by showing us the beauties of the place from all the best points of view.

It has not been my intention to follow in detail the events of our exploration of the country of George Eliot, nor to describe the many scenes of varied interest which were gradually unfolded to us. I have sought rather to suggest what is likely to happen to an amateur photographer in search of pictures, and how such a quest becomes a real pleasure when the people one meets manifest a genuine interest and a spirit of friendly helpfulness such as we experienced almost invariably.

II

There were some occasions upon which the chain of courtesy, to which I have previously referred, if not actually broken, received some dangerous strains, when great care had to be taken lest it snap asunder. There are surly butlers and keepers in England as elsewhere, and we encountered one of the species in the Lake District. I had called at the country residence of Captain ——, a wealthy gentleman and a member of Parliament. The place was celebrated for its wonderful gardens and is described in one of the novels of Mrs. Humphry Ward. His High-and-Mightiness, the Butler, was suffering from a severe attack of the Grouch, resulting in a stiffening of the muscles of the back and shoulders. He would do nothing except inform me that his Master was “not at ’ome.” I could only leave a message and say I would return. The next day I was greeted by the same Resplendent Person, his visage suffused with smiles and his spinal column oscillating like an inverted pendulum. “Captain —— is ex-treme-ly sorry he cawnt meet you, sir. He’s obliged to be in Lunnun to-day, sir, but he towld me to sai to you, sir, that you’re to taik everythink in the ’ouse you want, sir.” And then the Important One gave me full possession while I photographed the most interesting rooms, coming back occasionally to inquire whether I wished him to move “hany harticles of furniture,” afterward hunting up the gardener, who in turn conducted me through the sacred precincts of his own particular domain.

At another time, also in connection with Mrs.