I shall say nothing of the fare of the “New Inn,” except that it is of the best a typically Devonian farm could produce, and what better would you or could you, than that? Both houses, old and new--the old, with its snug little old-fashioned bar-parlour, as tiny and as full of corners and cupboards as a ship’s cabin, and the new, with its large dining-room--are full to overflowing with the most amazing collection of china, old brass candlesticks, kettles, pestles and mortars, and all sorts of old-fashioned domestic utensils, accumulated in the course of many years at auction or private sales. You sit down to table in that dining-room as though you were dining in a china-shop. Some of the china is old and valuable, and a good deal is neither the one nor the other. By the odd decoration of the ceiling, representing the British “Union Jack” and the U. S. “Old Glory” in amity, you might suspect--if you did not already know it by the accents of fellow-guests--that the bulk of those who seek the hospitality of the “New Inn” are citizens of the United States; but that is no reason why a Briton should be guilty of such abject sentiments as those inscribed between the two flags--not “something proud and vain,” as the foremost modern novelist of the servants’-hall might say, but something mean and cringing, to the effect that it is hoped the United States will always remain friendly and not attack the Mother Country. To how many citizens of the United States is England the Mother Country? This is an age when Americans of British descent are in a minority among a huge population of cosmopolitan European immigrants, largely consisting of Russian and German Jews, Hungarians, and Italians. The people of Clovelly, it may be supposed, naturally seeing only those of British descent, are ignorant of that fact. And, as for being the object of attack, if that happened, could we not hold our own? Meanwhile, the citizens of that Republic who find their way here are delightful, inasmuch as they themselves are so frankly delighted. England is such a new experience to most of them, and, whether it be a New England schoolmarm from Pottsville, or a pork-packing multi-millionaire from Chicago, you can clearly see that he and she are as pleased as children. Some of them, too, are naïvely ignorant of quite the most commonplace things. It was on North Hill, and an old fisherman was talking to me and hoeing his garden the while. A very charming girl came along and, looking over the garden wall, said, in the American language, “My! what curious flowers those are. What are they?” “Them’s tetties, miss,” replied the old man. She looked puzzled. “Potatoes,” I translated. And so they were; potatoes in flower. And it was from America that Raleigh introduced the vegetable, over three hundred years ago!