places, this one who would not have distinction thrust upon him found his place taken by a dashing fellow who, a few miles down the road, landed them all into a ditch and most of them into hospital. [Illustration: THE “BELL INN,” THETFORD, AND ST. PETER’S CHURCH.] But to return to the youthful Keppel. “At the ‘Bell,’” he says, “I used to sit down to a most sumptuous breakfast of eggs, buttered toast, fried ham, etc., and all for love, and not money. I was a prime favourite with the landlady, Betty Radcliffe, so much so that for the many years that, as man and boy, I frequented her hostelry, she would never accept a sixpence from me. Betty wore a high cap, like that in which Mrs. Gamp is seen in Dickens’s novel, and a flaxen wig which she appeared to have outgrown, for it ill-concealed her grey hairs. Being the sole proprietress of post-horses into Norfolk, she assumed an independent demeanour and language, to which every one was compelled to submit.” Betty Radcliffe is still a Thetford legend, and the tale is yet told how, when the Duke of York was paying for his post-horses, on one of his visits to a neighbouring squire, she jingled the coins in her hand with a humorous air of satisfaction, and said, “I may as well take a little of your money, for I have been paying your father’s taxes for many a long day.” The church of St. Peter, adjoining the “Bell,” is locally known as the “Black Church,” from the more than usually dark colour of the flints of which its tower is built. It is not so old a tower as it looks, for it was built so lately as 1789, in imitation of the then almost forgotten Gothic style. The imitation, making due allowances, is not so bad. The footpath here is so narrow that a projecting buttress has been cut back to give room to pass. The older one grows, and the nearer to occupancy of the churchyard, the less does one care to frequent such places; and besides, those of Thetford are of no great interest. But the historian’s duty compels a search for the farcical rhymed epitaph stated, in many collections, to be “at Thetford.” It is—but read it for yourself:— My grandfather was buried here, My cousin Jane, and two uncles dear; My father perished with a mortification in his thighs, My sister dropped down dead in the Minories. But the reason why I am here, according to my thinking, Is owing to my good living and hard drinking; Therefore, good Christians, if you’d wish to live long, Beware of drinking brandy, gin, or anything strong. Many a pilgrim in search of such mortuary extravagances has sought this; all of them sent on a fool’s errand by the original wag who invented it, and by the copyists of other people’s collections who have performed the easy task of copying without verifying. Thetfordians disclaim it altogether.