The “Angel,” in the best days of posting, became the principal house at Stilton, and the little public-house of that name next door to the commanding brick building which is now a private residence was only the tap of the hotel. But the “Bell,” that has seen the beginning and the end of the “Angel,” still survives, with memories of the days when the delicacy which renders the name of Stilton world-famous had its origin. Allusion is hereby made—need one explain it?—to “Stilton” cheese. They say those old stagers who knew it when its local reputation first began to be dispersed throughout the country—that Stilton cheese is not what it was. What is? The “English Parmesan,” they called it then, when their palates first became acquainted with it, but it deserved better of them than that. It was a species of itself, and not justly comparable with aught else. But Stilton cheese is not, nor ever was, made at Stilton, or anywhere near it. It originated with Mrs. Paulet of Wymondham, near Melton Mowbray, who first supplied it to Cooper Thornhill, the once celebrated landlord of the “Bell,” for the use of the table provided for the coach passengers and other travellers who dined there. Mrs. Paulet’s cheeses immediately struck connoisseurs as a revelation, and they came into demand, not only on Thornhill’s table, but were eagerly purchased for themselves or friends by those who travelled this way. Thornhill was too business-like a man to give away the secret of the make, and he did very well for himself, charging as he did half-a-crown a pound. Then the almost equally famous Miss Worthington, of the “Angel,” began to supply “Stilton” cheeses, so that scarce any one came through the place but was asked to buy one. Nor did travellers usually wait to be asked. If it happened that they did not want any for themselves, they were usually charged by friends with commissions to purchase as they passed through. Smiling waiters and maidservants, Miss Worthington herself, rosy, plump, benevolent-looking, asked travellers if they would not like to take away with them a real Stilton cheese. Miss Worthington, the kindly, whose lavender-scented beds were famed along the whole length of the Great North Road—there she stood, declaring that they were real Stilton cheeses! Nor were travellers for a long while any the wiser. Stilton folks kept the secret well. But it gradually leaked out. A native of those parts, too, was the traitor. “Pray, sir, would you like a nice Stilton cheese to take away with you?” asked the unsuspecting landlady, as the coach on whose outside he was seated drew up. [Picture: The Bell, Stilton] “Do you say they are made at Stilton?” he asked in reply. “Oh, yes,” said she.