At Stamford we patronised the ancient and historic "George Inn," that still stands where it did of yore—an inn which has entertained generations of wayfarers of various degrees from king to highwayman; and, as in the past, opens its doors to the latter-day traveller, who, however, seldom arrives by road. It was quite in keeping with the old traditions of the place that we should drive into its ancient and spacious courtyard and hand our horses over to the ostler's charge, whilst we two dust-stained travellers, having seen our baggage taken out of the dog-cart, should follow it indoors, where the landlord stood ready to welcome us, just as former landlords on the self-same spot might have welcomed former travellers posting across country. During the month of August 1645, Charles I. slept a night here on his way south from Newark; it was Scott's favourite halting-place on his many journeys to and from London—and many other notables, of whom the list is long, have feasted and slept beneath the sign of the "George" at Stamford. "Walls have ears," says the old familiar proverb: would that the walls of the "George" had tongues to tell us something of the people who have rested and feasted within its ancient chambers, to repeat for our benefit the unrecorded sayings, witticisms, stories of strange adventures on the king's highway, and aught else of interest that may have passed their lips. Marvellous men were some of those ancestors of ours, who would sit outside a coach all day, and sit up half the night consuming their three bottles
