My old friend the antiquarian would have me drive him to Coventry on my way thither, as he was particularly anxious that I should not miss visiting the shop at which he had made such discoveries of ancient parchments--parchments which, but for his discovery, would have gone, sooner or later, to form the heads of children’s toy drums. I cannot refrain from mentioning one little incident which took place before we parted. My friend, in showing me the lions of Coventry, took me into the Public Hall, where we found the old fellow in charge busy cleaning the windows. We asked permission to look round, and in speaking to the old custodian who was on the ladder I had some difficulty in making myself understood. I said, “My friend, I am afraid, although this is a fine hall, that its acoustics are very bad.” To my surprise he gave a lengthy sniff and replied, “I don’t know about that, sir, I’ve never had a complaint before, _I can’t smell anything_!” I did not smile, but passed out quickly, for fear of an attack of apoplexy. In travelling from place to place I come across some strange incidents, some of which are merely the outcome of simplicity or kindness of heart. Thus at one village I visited, I happened to mention to the landlord of the inn I was staying at that I had omitted to pack a tooth-brush with my other impedimenta. “Oh, I’ll soon set that right,” he replied, and darting from the room quickly returned with a face beaming with pleasure. “Here’s one, sir,” and he held out a tooth-brush; “you’ll find it’s a very good one, for _I’ve only used it a few times_!” Simplicity of manner frequently runs hand in hand with simplicity of speech; as an illustration of the latter I may give a few words I once heard delivered from the pulpit of a Primitive Methodist chapel, by a good-natured, but somewhat illiterate preacher. He said-- “My dear frinds, coming to worshup this mornin’, I had a curious idea come inter my head. I likened this chapel to a gret iron biler, and you, my frinds, I likened to the dumplin’s a-being biled, while I was the long wooden spune a-stirring on yer up! There, my dear frinds, them were my thoughts when I was a-walking here this werry mornin’.” What could be more graphic than such a charming and flattering discourse? There could be no comparison between Cicero and this village Hampden! VII. INTRODUCTION TO “ECCLES OLD TOWER.” You must know, gentle reader, that at Eccles, a village of about a score inhabitants, on the Norfolk coast, midway between Yarmouth and Cromer, stands an old church tower. It is quite upon the beach, so that at spring tides the “send” of the waves comes round the base of the old flint tower, which must at some day, not far distant,[D] fall with a mighty crash, a prey to the undermining and gnawing of the hungry sea, which in its insatiable encroachment annually devours hundreds of tons of the soft clay cliff, which at no point reaches a very formidable height.