In Holdsworth’s time, the vehicles and passengers were in perfect keeping with the venerable and faded but dignified aspect of the old street. The townspeople still lingered behind the transition-epoch of that bygone day, and held for the most part tenaciously to the costumes and the indolence of their fathers. The town was about an hour’s walk from Southbourne. After quitting the handful of houses which formed the village, Hanwitch came upon you as a metropolis. To describe it in homely guide-book fashion:--It had two good churches, and a public square full of evergreens, rock-work, and stone images; several snug inns, one wide street and a quantity of narrow ones; a town-hall, a market-place, a prison, and a town-crier; a large number of old ladies and fat poodles, invalids, sedan-chairs, and camp-stools. In olden times--and now I am talking of the eighteenth century--it had held some sort of position as a third-rate inland watering-place; but what had become of the springs which had brought the gout, the vapours, and the spleen from places as distant as London to drink, the oldest inhabitant never could remember. But one thing was certain: there was no lack of water in the place. A river ran close to it, and from this river meandered some crystal streamlets which ran right into the town. And where the river was, the scenery was exquisite in summer--cool, deep, and leafy, with a bridge at each end of the town, a little landing-stage, a punt or two, and midway between the bridges, a cluster of trees on either bank, with huge gnarled trunks and roots which ran naked for many feet along the ground, whilst, high above, their branches mingled and formed a tunnel for the water to flow under. Here the trout would leap; here the water-rat would sneak from its earthy chamber and break the tide into thin ripples as it noiselessly made for the opposite shore; here the sunshine would fall in threads through the leaves and gild the black long-legged insects on the surface of the water. Ten o’clock was striking when Holdsworth was driven into Hanwitch by the landlord of the Southbourne inn, who was rich enough to own a horse and gig. The drive had been a very short one, and in the landlord’s opinion seven-and-sixpence had never been more easily earned. The gig was stopped at the door of the “Hanwitch Arms,” and Holdsworth got out. Then came a porter, who nodded pleasantly to the owner of the gig, and hoisted the portmanteau on his shoulder. “My respecks to the governor, Joe. How is he?” “Pretty middlin’! How’s yourself?” “Why, I can’t say as I’m quite the thing. The weather’s been rayther agin my rheumatiz.--Wish you good mornin’, sir.” And with this farewell to Holdsworth, the landlord drove himself away.