A Wayfarer's Wells by Alan C. Tarbat

THE medieval pilgrim to Somerset found much to delight his soul. The Valley of Avalon gave him Glastonbury Abbey and all the generous hospitality which its mitred lordings bestowed. And, six miles onward, the plain beneath Mendip gave him Wells, a very jewel that sparkled in the sun in a galaxy of colours.

THE modern traveller, too, may approach across Avalon. He arrives in a pleasant train at a rather comic station. Or another jolly vehicle (Diesel, if he is lucky) may snort or pipe him through Mendip, from the North, or up from Westbury. Any route is a pleasure. Wells, truly regal, avoids all partiality by planting each of her stations at equal distance from her core. Geometricians will find a neat little isosceles triangle.

THE Somerset and Dorset Railway (from Glastonbury and Temple-combe) lands one at Priory Road, a useful thoroughfare of trees which serves the convenient purpose of absorbing such mundanities as garages and cinemas. Of the latter there are two. Both supply excellent, up-to-date programmes.

OF the Priory (dedicated to Saint John the Baptist), which gives the road its name, remains are of the slenderest. It occupied the site of the Central Elementary Schools. Traces, however, may still be seen in a picturesque house called "The Priory" in S. John Street (sharp right). The ancient reredos is preserved in Wells Museum.

SAINT John Street leads into the district known as Southover, which is hardly likely to attract the tourist, though it has a personality of its own and offers some fine views of the Cathedral. Once the main road to Glastonbury and Bridgwater passed through it; and a pre-Reformation chapelry existed here.

THE Great Western Railway (from Bristol and Westbury) has Tucker Street--home of the mediaeval wool workers—for its station. This route, via S. Cuthbert's Street, is the more agreeable way to the city, and in its course we traverse the "first village.” (Wells has two, in addition to its civic self). The splendid tower in front gives us clear reminder that we are in Somerset.

As we reach the church, we find that the “village” has been left behind. Here is the Mother of the City of Wells, the spiritual home of its Borough. Before the Cathedral was built, Saint Cuthbert was honoured on this site. To meet this venerable saint of Durham and Lindisfarne in our soft West-country is unique. But legend has a delightful tale. Alfred, depressed by Danish successes (he, a fugitive, had only just mis-handled cakes at Athelney), lay gloomily in his tent while the foreign foe prepared to do battle. In a vision there came to him Cuthbert, traditional healer of body and mind, who bade him trust, promising all should be well. The result was the victory of Ethandune.

IT is the misfortune of a city church to be overshadowed by its greater neighbour; and often a visitor to such a feast as Wells provides is too satiated with its central features to desire more. That is a pity, especially when the lesser luminary has the distinction of being the largest parish church in Somerset.

S. Cuthbert's is a grand old building, hacked about by "Reformers" though it has been. The array of loose stones within bears witness to its martyrdom. But the glory of the former house has not entirely departed; and evidence of present worship and loving care is everywhere apparent. Careful note should be made of the pulpit, of oak and panelled with Old Testament scenes. It dates from 1636. The tower, strong and masculine (cp. the femininity of Glastonbury), is one of the county's very finest.

LIFE is a matter of "roundabouts and swings," and it cannot be said that the sister-building has always stolen the limelight. At one time it was not uncommon for visitors (usually feminine) emerging from Tucker Street, whose zeal outran their intelligence, to pause before Saint Cuthbert's as pilgrims who have reached their Mecca. (If there was a teeny, weeny twinge of disappointment, they were oh! so careful not to show it). Sometimes they discovered their mistake, sometimes not. In the latter case they returned stationwards. At last a fairy-godmother took pity, and a golden signboard was erected to put stumbling feet on the path of truth.

A few seconds brings us to the Queen Street (right) turning; and, at the further corner, notice should be taken of the massive walled "City Arms," on the site of the city "bridewell," or gaol.

WAYFARERS from their respective stations (N.B. - Priory Road has become Broad Street) meet at Messrs. W. H. Smith's. But they will have no interest, even do their trains coincide, which is unlikely, in each other. For, beyond the kindly roofs of High Street, rises a vision lovely as that given to the weary Evangelist at Patmos. Splendid above the ancient city the towers of the Cathedral reveal themselves, springing up in all their pristine youth. At first the vision seems too celestial for truth, a kind of Lyonesse that will resolve itself into clouds of air but the towers remain, their line and hue varied infinitely from hour to passing hour.

UNFORTUNATELY, the world, in its cruder sense, is ever with us; and the beauty of the picture is undoubtedly marred by "that Leviathan"—i.e., the name-board which the directors of Messrs. Hepworth appear to think necessary in order to advertise their hosiery and underwear.

IF, as the traveller walks down High Street, he is not too engrossed with what is before him, he will notice a turning (right, just beyond Woolworth's) called Guard House Lane. The square, forbidding building (50 yards right), from which the street gets its name, housed prisoners during the Napoleonic wars.

WELLS High Street is a graceful and infinitely satisfying curve. Down its gutters, as at Cambridge, a miniature water-splash sings, and woe betide the unwary new-comer who steps off the pavement to dodge a passing perambulator! Most of the houses are Georgian, and pleasing they are, too, with their mellow roofs and solid frontages. The shop-keepers, it would seem, take their cue from their surroundings, for in no provincial town do I know better goods and kindlier service.

THE only remains of an older street are found in the cobbles which flank the roadway at one point. In the middle of the fattest part of High Street a row of houses used to stand. Three-quarters down (left) is the "Star," a picturesque hostelry with a yard that tells stories of coaching days. Once a "Shambles," or collection of butchers' shops (cp. York) marked the Sadler Street corner, now unfortunately distinguished by an experiment into neo-Mary-Queen-of-Scots'-chateau.

BUT the "experiment" becomes positively beautiful as a "decanter-stopper" bank blares balefully at one from across the road. Luckily, the traveller can soon forget this in the delights of the shops that he finds beyond. These are nothing other than the "New Works" of Bishop Bekynton, prelate and noblest of citizens when poor Henry VI. was on the throne. The farthest building, suitably named after that good man, is an excellent café; its top storey is a miracle of beams.

OF course, we are now in the Market Square; and it is best to retrace the few steps to Sadler Street and then cross. For we shall have seen, opposite, the "Crown" inn, which has close association with William Penn. Here, and from a window of the "Royal Oak" (now Messrs. Phillips' shop) the great Quaker and pioneer preached to a vast concourse of people. The Mayor, most unreasonably, objected and arrested Penn, putting him in gaol. But the Bishop (Kidder) remonstrated, having issued a licence; and the Quaker was soon released.

ALL this time, however, it is hard for the traveller to keep his eyes off the Vision Splendid, which finally reveals itself as a trinity of towers. Lincoln alone can make any claim to rivalry.

AT one time the Market Square was far more filled up than it is now. A handsome Butter Cross graced the foot of Sadler Street, and attached to it was Bekynton's Conduit which fed the streets and made the city so unusually hygienic. The present larger Conduit replaced it. Further along, between the present Town Hall (commodious, with interesting relics) and the "New Works," stood a Market House, described as "a right sumptuous piece of work." But a tradesman thought this impediment to his view was bad for business. So monstrous a state of affairs could, obviously, not be tolerated; and the excellent civic authorities removed the offending object, lock, stock and barrel!

No market is held now, but the old Square comes to life again in its Saint Andrew and May Fairs, when city and countryside commingle in holiday and joyous merry-making.

THE Square is a terminus, the main road discreetly winding its way up Sadler Street. But two richly-wrought gateways beckon the pedestrian to Cathedral and Bishop's Palace respectively. The former (in angle next to Bekynton Café) is known as Penniless Porch; and in its shelter beggars of every age have sought the munificence of passers-by. Over the gateway is seen the punning "rebus" of Bishop Bekynton, the "beacon" and the "tun," or barrel.

THE exquisite Bishop's Eye is an interesting piece of symbolism. In ancient times the north side of a sacred building was considered ground accursed, i.e., the nearest point of contact accessible to the powers of darkness. (Hence it became the burial place for suicides when the gruesome cross-road ritual ceased). But the Dean of a Cathedral was regarded as a disciplinarian. So he was given an Eye, on the north, to ward off the phalanxes of Satan. Then, his work done, the Bishop, fatherly and pastoral, was enabled from his Eye, on the south, to invite the Holy Spirit in. Mathematicians at Wells must not be over precise!

I shall now trisect my party (a bevy has collected) and take them on three short pilgrimages. Their ways will converge at certain strategic points. Or, by judicious cheating, they can quite often link up and detach themselves unofficially. The geography of Wells is not difficult. My parties are A, B and C.

A. THROUGH the Bishop's Eye, and one is immediately transported. Is there another spot in Europe where one emerges straight from town centre to country? Ahead is the glorious Palace of the Bishops of Bath and Wells, complete with moat and drawbridge. The latter are admittedly nothing but swank (for who would want to besiege a diocesan prelate?), but what a superb piece of conceit! On the moat swim the famous swans that, when hungry or greedy, ring the bell by the porter's lodge. Around them quack their humbler cousins, the ducks, anxious to share any floury spoils from the generous hands of visitors. Leftwards, one may reach the Cathedral by means of the cloister gate.

THE Palace is entirely magnificent in conception. Most of it is the handiwork of the great thirteenth century bishop, Joceline. The Chapel and Banqueting Hall (note the tremendous windows) are very slightly later. The Hall has suffered shameful mutilation, and only a glorious shell remains. Men said it was under a curse, since within its walls had taken place the mock-trial of Richard Whiting, last Abbot of Glastonbury. The Palace contains a famous picture gallery showing generations of bishops, amongst whom is to be seen Cardinal Wolsey who found Bath and Wells such a sinecure that he never bothered once to visit it! Of happier memory is Thomas Ken, author of the Morning and Evening Hymns. Every Sunday this true pastor entertained a dozen of the poorest folk of the city at his own table. During Somerset's calvary, the Monmouth Rebellion, he appealed in vain to the King for mercy on mere lads who had taken up arms, they scarcely knew for whom Jeffreys did his worst at Wells. When, however, the infamous James II. fled, Ken was compelled to give up the bishopric, for he could not square his conscience to swear allegiance to Dutch William. His successor, Kidder (who gave Penn his preaching licence) was not welcomed, and few mourned when he and his wife were killed in bed from a falling chimney.

A meander round the two possible sides of the Moat is exceedingly pleasant. The trees, at all times, are glorious pageants of colour or grand silhouettes. On the right one soon spots the fine Wells Recreation Ground, across which can be seen the ancient Bishop's Barn, or granary. Beyond, on opposite side of road, is the picturesque Palace Farm. Where the moat bends, a wicket gate opens on to the Bishop's Park, across which a delightful stroll may be taken to Dulcote, visible beneath its impressive hill (400 ft.). In this park, once much larger, Bishop Joceline is said to have slain, in the Saint George style, a mighty "worm," or monster. The incident still survives in the name "Worminster," a tiny, but historic, hamlet beyond Dulcote. The south outer wall of the Palace is seen to support countless delicious fruits. The bastions at the south-west and north-west corners of the moat were once dungeons, for laymen and clergy under discipline respectively.

ROUND about the Palace are the several wells which give the city its name. The gardens, large and lovely, are watered by one, Saint Andrew's well, which overflows into the moat. So here, good A folk, I will leave you to dream; unless already you care to go straight ahead and wait for B and C where your path joins the road to Shepton Mallet.

B. UP Sadler Street. Here we meet some of the city's most ancient houses, far more venerable than those in High Street. Soon (left) we see the "Priory Café," most exquisitely restored—note the lovely mouldings over the doorway—and, not without justification, claiming to be the oldest house in Wells. Just beyond is the "Swan" hotel, (deservedly famous on both sides of the Atlantic) and, opposite, I will allow you to take one anticipatory glance at the West Front of the Cathedral, with its twin towers and myriad stone figures, comparable only to Amiens. Slightly further, and we have (right) the "Ancient Gatehouse," a veritable period cocktail, a walk inside which is a tour through Wells history. Next to it is the Dean's Eye, or Brown's Gate, alluded to before. Unfortunately—Wells is really shocking on her corners —the join beyond suggests nothing so much as one of A. J. Cronin's surgeons. However, one may console oneself with a cup of tea or coffee at "Goody's" (opposite), another establishment of great aesthetic charm.

I spoke just now of Wells shops. Now a passing mention must be made of its cafés. No other place, I am convinced, can hold a candle to them. Whether the surroundings are old or modern, efficiency of service and succulence of diet are the universal keynote.

FROM Sadler Street branches (left) Chamberin Street. This long "Harley Street" of Wells is pleasantly residential and has some good houses. It runs parallel to High Street, with which it is connected by Union Street, once more picturesquely "Grope Lane." On the left we soon see the pretty little Roman Catholic church of S. Joseph and S. Teresa, attached to a convent. Slightly further (other side) are the Almshouses of Archibald Harper, Mayor in 1702, for "5 poor men old decayed Wooll-combers of this City of Wells." Opposite Priest Row (leading to S. Cuthbert's) begins the wall of Farm House, following which past a pointed gateway we reach what must surely be the most picturesque playhouse in the country. This Byre Theatre, home of the Mendip Players, has been made out of the ancient cow byres.

BUT, in following this wall, we must be careful not to miss (left) Bishop Bubwith's famous fifteenth century almshouses, within which is the ancient city Guildhall, containing a money chest a hundred years older still. This hall is a noble specimen of architecture. The large red building at the end of the street is the Boys' Secondary School, an old "Bluecoat " foundation, built on the site of one of Monmouth's camps. Over a back entrance and the first window, as we approach, appears the inscription "SOHO," that having been the password to the camp. Chamberlain Street empties itself into Portway, the main road to Burnham and Weston-super-Mare. A left and sharp right will bring us to Tucker Street station.

BACK to patchwork corner again, and up the hill to the road fork. By the junction (left) is the Girls' High School. The road ahead is the main road to Bristol and is called New-Street, though its "novelty" is as hoary as that of New College, Oxford. We must proceed along it for at least a couple of hundred yards, for New Street is, in its way, as perfect as the Cathedral or Vicars' Close, a dream of domestic architecture lovingly caressed by trees. A large house (left) in its own grounds is the Judge's Lodging, when he comes to Wells Assizes. New Street was once the abode of Mendip miners during their respite from the hills.

THE right fork from the High School takes us into the North Liberty. ("Liberty" was the name given to the precincts surrounding a cathedral, which were once free from civil law). In this and the East Liberty are the houses of the canons of Wells, delicious, mellow places with enchanting gardens. In May, lilac, chestnut and laburnum hold universal sway. On the south side of the road there runs a noble and interesting wall, of great height. Half-way along the North Liberty are some of the Cathedral School buildings, in the laboratory of which (once the Canons' Barn) exist several pillars of great interest, the origin of which is shrouded in mystery. Some say they are Norman, some Early English. In 1730 a performance of the Beggar's Opera (that phenomenal success of London in the nineteen-twenties) was performed here by a company from Bath.

THE pretty house next door, covered with wistaria, was once the Wells Charity School, now incorporated in the Blue School. Over the doorway notice Saint Andrew, Patron of the Cathedral, carrying his cross. Just beyond (right), where motorists are very properly warned to avoid pedestrians, we meet that Apostle again. This is Vicars' Close into which a small descent of steps leads. Visitors may take a surreptitious peep while my back is turned. The splendid "Queen Anne" house, known locally as "The Cedars," from the fine trees opposite, belongs to the Tudway family and is now the principal boarding house of the Cathedral School. It possesses the unusual feature of a country property (there is a fine park behind) fronting on a city street, doubly surprising when the street is exclusively ecclesiastical.

THE East Liberty (at right-angles, right) houses more canons, the organist and two more droves of schoolboys. And here it is fitting to make further mention of the Cathedral School, the foundation of which goes back into the very womb of English history. A "Song School" must have been all but contemporaneous with the Cathedral. It was flourishing, we know, by 1140. Seventy-three years later a "poor clerk," or usher, was suspended for laying violent hands on his pupils, but restored to favour at the special intervention of the Pope. Bishop Bekynton took much interest in his "queristers" and framed various rules for them. They were forbidden, for instance, when at table, to "clean their teeth with their knives." At night they slept three in a bed. The master was expected to be "sober, prudent and truthful" and also—the predecessor being possibly remembered—"moderate in chastisement."

I shall have, for reasons which will be plain, to ask you to scurry round the next corner also. But a few leftward steps will bring you to Sealey's Bakery, a fascinating fourteenth century house once occupied by the Cathedral masons. Wait there, please, for Party C. The environment is pleasant if one uses ocular discretion.

C. THROUGH Penniless Porch. We are now in the Cathedral Green, one of the most agreeable places imaginable—only beware of your umbrellas when there is a wind. Once this was the burial ground of the lay folk of Wells. To one's right, as one enters, one may observe (better from a short way on) a gable over a wall, the solitary remnant of the old "Queristers' School." On the south side (left) of the Green pleasant tree-shaded houses stand back to back with Bekynton's "New Works." West is Sadler Street, with the Dean's Eye at the north-west corner. The heavily buttressed house on the north (opposite) is the Deanery, chock full of interesting associations. Henry VII. visited here on his way to crush Perkin Warbeck: and later, during the Civil War, the house saw the murder of Dean Walter Raleigh, by his cobbler-gaoler. The exquisite "chamber over the gate" may evoke memories of David and his heartbroken lament over the worthless Absalom. Moving east-wards, we come to the Wells Museum: and I defy any other city in England to produce a curator equal to Mr. H. E. Balch, whose knowledge of Mendip, based on his personal excavations, is unrivalled. In addition to possessing many interesting exhibits, the museum is often the scene of lectures on all manner of subjects. The next building, under the northern shadow of the Cathedral, houses the library and lecture rooms of the Theological College, on the site of the old Archdeaconry. This was lost to the Church (and subsequently became a brewery) by a wretched Italian, Polydore Vercril, who became archdeacon in Henry VIII's. reign and fancied himself as a historian. On this gentleman must be placed the opprobrium of "losing" the only "key" statues on the west front of the Cathedral.

To discourse on the Cathedral is outside the scope of this little book. But (unless you are a mere clock-worshipper, in which case push on quickly to Cheddar and be hanged to you!) you have one of the greatest privileges of your life as you enter the west door. Unique among our national shrines, the walls of Wells are bare and unadorned, and how glorious they are in their pristine chastity! Pause, and look awhile at the perfect coloured figures (not a line or tint too much or too little) of the Rood poised high over that brilliant engineering device, the inverted arches. I hope you will, at least once in a lifetime, visit Wells in autumn or winter so as to see the low horizontal sun-rays pouring through the south clerestory windows on to the pillars of the northern aisle. Many books have been written on the Cathedral—there is a good one by the Dean—and the vergers are paragons of their race and ready to help in every way. Be sure not to overlook, in your interest at meeting Bekynton’s jester and the gentleman with the toothache, the exquisite waist and lovely surprise of the little Virgin on the Calixtus Chapel tomb, comparable alone with the “Censing Angel" of Westminster. Nor must you let the glories of the Golden, or Jesse, window cause you to overlook the baby angels in the first south windowlets of the Choir. The Chapter House stairway should be regarded most definitely as one of the wonders of the world. And, lastly, I defy any of you, on visiting the Vicars’ burial ground (as distinct from the Canons' in the Palm Churchyard) not to make at least a mometary resolution to seek, by fair means or foul, a musical audition of the powers that be, take up a post however honorary, and, having done so, expire on the spot!

LEAVING the ex-Archdeaconry, one notices (half-left) a gem of an oriel window projecting. This is a herald of Vicars' Close and belongs to No. 27. But this is apt to be swallowed up in the greater glory of the Chain Gate, surely, with its delicate bend, our country's noblest bridge as it sweeps across the road to link up Close and Cathedral. In bygone days the vicars, whose existence was almost cloistral, were compelled by statute to use this passage-way: and, doubtless, they were only too delighted to be able to escape the missiles and cat-calls of "Turkey," as the rough-and-tumble district of east Wells was nicknamed. Don't, as you approach the gate itself (for the small and the great are ever blood-brethren) miss the little hole in the wall (left) through which the vicars once threw their slops. At the Chain Gate begins S. Andrew's Street: but, before we seek further, we must turn abrupt left through the big archway to find ourselves in—Vicars' Close.

SOMEBODY once remarked that, if there was anything on earth more beautiful than looking down Vicars' Close from the top, it could only be looking up Vicars' Close from the bottom. This fourteenth century handiwork of Bishop Ralph of Shrewsbury constitutes the oldest complete street in England: it will be seen to taper as it mounts the slight ries, thereby giving an illusion of length. Originally the houses (fifty then) were only half their present depth. Each contained but two rooms: and there were no kitchen facilities, the vicars all being bachelors and feeding in community.

BISHOP Ralph's street consisted of cobble-stones, with a grass verge on either side, the houses abutting on to it. Later, the excellent Bekynton gave the vicars gardens. His executors (Sugar, Swan and Pope) have, in strict rotation, set their arms on the chimneys, each beneath those of either the Bishop or the See. No. 22 (left), restored to its original proportions, will show us what each house looked like when they had finished. The only original gateway belongs to No. 5 (right): this has, facing the house, a Latin inscription from the Vulgate, proving its pre-Reformation date. Nos. 27, 18 and 14 (left), in addition to the wonderful 22, all possess unusual features, as well as No. 13 (top right). But every house, the barbarous 16 alone excepted, will repay a study of its walls.

So to the glorious Close Chapel at the top, now used by the Theological College. Ralph's original building was of one storey only: Bekynton’s executors erected the upper as a library. As one "about turns" to descend the Close, one has the incredibly marvellous vista that B surreptitiously stole previously. The wayfarer must now make a bee-line for the little ruddy-flecked tower, dominated by the Chapter House beyond. This is the approach to the Vicars' Hall.

THE pilgrim feels not unlike the Queen of Sheba as he visits the Hall of the Vicars' Choral of Wells. There is no more spirit left in him. It is impossible to say what course in this rich banquet will delight him most. Anyhow, to each his own taste and an a-la-carte menu to all. One may have a penchant for fourteenth century bread bins and cooking pots—and, when inspecting the latter, please note the "invisible mending" of the period: another may like perfect linen-fold woodwork and old pewter: to a third specimens of the finest old glass in the kingdom may make special appeal. Youth will be delighted by the mighty spit, built to roast an entire sheep (cost 4s. 6d.). No business man can but be thrilled by the fourteenth century filing cabinet, no drawer of which will fit into niche other than its own. A "lavatorium" and wooden roof (Muniment Room) show what were once a feature of every house in Vicars' Close. How you will chuckle, too, at the discomfiture of Cromwell (Thomas) who was absolutely bamboozled by the movable floor and secret panel that gave access to the strong room! And, as you leave, fail not to offer prayer for the souls of Ralph of Shrewsbury and Thomas Bekynton that they may rest in peace; for their works do follow them.

LEAVING the Close and proceeding left again, note the oriel window of No. 1, opening on to S. Andrew's Street. This street once gave birth to Joceline, who slew the "worm" and was one of the promoters of Magna Carta, and his brother Hugh, successor but one to the great S. Hugh of Avalon to the See of Lincoln. On our right is a house known as the Principal's House, the garden of which leads to the Palace and wells. On the left, standing back, is a house with a tower, from which the master builder of the Cathedral could conveniently watch his work-men without leaving home. S. Andrew's Street runs a short distance past its confluence with East Liberty and joins S. Thomas' Street at the bakery, outside which party B is patiently waiting.

S. Thomas' Street is the "second village"—have you, by now, forgotten the first?—and very pleasing it is to the eye as it climbs the eastern hills to its presiding mother. This church, with its spire is a most agreeable example of mid-century work, far above the average for that period. Just beyond is the well-equipped Cottage Hospital. This street is the main road, via Radstock, to Bath.

OPPOSITE Sealey's Bakery is Tor Street (main road to Shepton Mallet). Once this possessed its "Torregate." We soon meet (right), through an iron gate, the loveliest little garden imaginable, a gift to the older folk of Wells. Behind it the Cathedral watches (how amazingly different it is from every angle!) as a hen gathered about her chickens. Further up the short street note (left) the old doorway. of No 18. Then picking up A, where the Moat path (right) joins us, we see, almost opposite, a turning into Tor Wood, most happily the property of the National Trust: and our footsteps are carefully directed to the famous "Cathedral View" seat, which no abundance of picture-postcards can rob of its beauty. The visitor will need to linger here: if reinforced by a doughnut or a sausage-roll, I implore him not to leave his paper about to irritate better citizens. From the lower slopes there was once the most delectable picture (of the type that Turner delighted to paint) of the mellow roofs of S. Thomas' Street, lovely in their tiles of Somerset russet. But the view has been quite spoilt by two alien houses in the foreground, built by one from whom better things were expected.

SATISFIED, we return citywards, traversing the moat once more and thinking on all we have seen. Once more we enjoy the ducks, the swans, the fruit-trees. But, Visitor, as we approach the Bishop's Eye, ere a sorrowful leave-taking, do you on your part resolve to enlarge on this meagre voyage and sail in more spacious oceans. Begin by purchasing the Official Guide to Wells, packed with information and handsomely illustrated, and published by Messrs. Clare, proprietors of the enterprising Wells Journal. And be sure later to order or filch a copy of "A City of Bells," by Elizabeth Goudge, which gives a lovely picture of a bygone (though not very far bygone) "Torminster." Only "Torminster" is—well, I leave you to guess! Lastly, praise what you have enjoyed: and, if there has been ought to jar, do not mind disparaging. For so exquisite is the jewel that any falsity in the setting makes a crime. What tragedy indeed it were should Wells ever become, in this twentieth century, of no beauty that men should desire her, a thing of shreds and patches!