Here they are!--warm greetings--the luggage is lifted down, and by degrees the small articles which accompany a lady’s travels were brought in, counted, and arranged. Do the number and variety of them cause me to hesitate or to reflect that in single blessedness-- “When a man’s hat is on his head His house is thatched and furnishèd”? No, not for one moment. Conversation soon becomes more connected, and, in due course, allusion is made to the object of our visit. “Now, mind you tell us _everything_ about Winchester,” said Miss Hertford, with a smiling emphasis, which showed that she intended to be obeyed. “Everything, and some other things,” I replied, submissively; “but perhaps you under-estimate the extent of the mine which is here beneath our feet. You are an enchantress, and if you wish to become the idol of antiquaries, turn Winchester upside down for a few hours.” The present “George” is not inspiring architecturally, but still possesses a fragrance beyond that of mere soups and joints. Here successive generations have been accommodated and regaled, “Have found the warmest welcome at an inn,” ever since the days of Edward IV. Had a Visitors Book been kept, what a rare collection of autographs would it have contained! In the twentieth year of Henry VIII. we read of the “In of the George” being leased by the Mayor to one Stephen Boddam, on condition that he pays the rent fixed and forty shillings towards the new making of the chimney.[1] The name of the house was taken from the patron saint of England, pork-dealer, bishop, and dragon-slayer; to whom we find a chapel in Winchester dedicated in Henry IV.’s time.[2] [Sidenote: Sufferings of a Royalist.] The stable at the back is the oldest part. It has a dingy aspect, and an unpleasant association. When Waller was here making demands upon the citizens in 1643, one Master Say, a son of a Prebendary of the Cathedral, directed his servant to conceal his horses. Betrayed and brought before Waller, he was questioned, and his answers being deemed unsatisfactory, was handed over to the Provost Marshal to extract a confession. He was forthwith taken into the “eighteen-stall stable,” a halter was placed round his neck, and, as he still refused information, he was pulled up and down to the rack until nearly strangled. All the spectators retired in disgust--they could not stand the sight. “How dreadful!” exclaimed Miss Hertford. “Did the poor man die?” “It very nearly finished him,” I returned; “but people were pretty strong in those days. However, he had, as a result, a dangerous illness.”