CHAPTER V

WITCHWOOD PRIORY

WITCHWOOD Priory is well adapted for expeditions of a romantic order, being a spacious ivy-grown ruin, whose crypts, and corridors, and pillars have been rescued by the present generation from the vandalism of the last, and converted from a damp, deserted, nettle-grown rubbish corner, into a picturesque architectural exhibition, situated in the midst of ground-sweeping trees, interspersed with grottoes, and labyrinths, and every convenience for losing oneself. It is a nice easy distance from the Rocks—say, a cabman’s five miles, or a Christian’s four, over undulating downs, whose sound elastic turf gives spirits to the rider, and sprightliness to the steed. Nor are the creature comforts of life altogether unknown at the far end, for as soon as

“Smiling spring her earliest visit pays,”

John Baccoman of the “Cat and Compasses” licensed eating-house, in Shell Street, packs up his beverages, while his wife clutches the tea-caddy, and away they go with their portable emigrant’s house, which they pitch beneath the beautiful remains of the large gothic window on the east of the ruin, and momentarily dispel the poetry of the place by the exhibition of baskets, and buns, and labels, announcing bitter beer, cigars, and hot water for tea. Still this eye-sore is somewhat redeemed by the presence of a veritable gipsy—one of the real dark-skinned, black-eyed, black-ringletted race, who goes fluttering about in her red shawl, russet gown, and ankle boots, dispensing titles, and honours, and fortunes to all who will listen to her. And a rare business she had done during this our Comet year; for if half the titles she had promised were to come true, Sir Bernard Burke might publish a new edition of his Peerage immediately. Though we all profess to laugh at the creatures, it is wonderful how many of us like to have our fortunes told on the sly. Baccoman too had done pretty well in his line, charging a shilling for a glass of ale, ninepence for a cigar, and sixpence for a penny bun; but then, as John says, summer does last such a werry short time with them, and they maun make hay while the sun shines. And though he predicted that each fine day would be the last, and always pointed out indications of the coming storm, still the sun set with undiminished splendour, and rose with unalloyed brightness; and still John’s Union Jack ascended the staff on the ivy-grown flag-tower, and still the white kicking pony came lilting and tilting over the downs, with a spring-cart load of comestibles; and still the gipsy’s cry, as regarded the visitors, was, “They come ! they come ! I see them galloping ! I see them galloping !” up to the very day on which our particular party assembled.