WALK IN RURAL ENGLAND. 7 



across the road challenges the way leading 

 to the mansion. Gamekeepers in velveteens 

 carrying stuffed birds in glass cases pass you 

 along the road. Grooms and chauffeurs throw 

 you a supercilious look as they note your 

 dusty boots and trousers and the Rucksack on 

 your back. Young women in cottages, who 

 bear the unquestionable stamp of those who 

 have served as ladies' maids, answer your 

 questions with the meticulous languor of 

 duchesses. Oppressive as all this is, there is 

 yet an element of Comedy in it. There is, at 

 any rate, the pageantry of Life. But here at 

 Coombe, where I next halted, lying in the 

 cup of the lonely hills at the foot of Ink])en 

 Beacon, you meet Tragedy only, grim and 

 unrelieved. 



As you walk across a field where the 

 withered unharvested grasses and the tall 

 seed -bearing wild parsley and thistles are 

 shoulder high, rabbits scurry away at almost 

 every step you take, while pheasants and 

 partridges fill the air with the whirr of wings. 

 The first cottage you stumble across is literally 

 falling down. The thatch has long disapjieared, 

 leaving the rafters and beams as bare as bones 

 to the open skies. Then, as you enter the 



