has been well said by Irving that the English, from the great
prevalence of rural habits throughout every class of society, have been
extremely fond of those festivals and holidays which agreeably interrupt
the stillness of country life. True, the days have gone when burlesque
pageant and splendid procession made even villages magnificent. Harp and
tabor and viol are no longer heard in every inn when people would be
merry, and men have forgotten how to give themselves up to headlong
roaring revelry. The last of this tremendous frolicking in Europe died
out with the last yearly _kermess_ in Amsterdam, and it was indeed
wonderful to see with what utter _abandon_ the usually stolid Dutch flung
themselves into a rushing tide of frantic gayety. Here and there in
England a spark of the old fire, lit in mediaeval times, still flickers,
or perhaps flames, as at Dorking in the annual foot-ball play, which is
carried on with such vigor that two or three thousand people run wild in
it, while all the windows and street lamps are carefully screened for
protection. But notwithstanding the gradually advancing republicanism of
the age, which is dressing all men alike, bodily and mentally, the
rollicking democracy of these old-fashioned festivals, in which the
peasant bonneted the peer without ceremony, and rustic maids ran races
_en chemise_ for a pound of tea, is entirely too leveling for culture.
There are still, however, numbers of village fairs, quietly conducted, in
which there is much that is pleasant and picturesque, and this at Cobham
was as pretty a bit of its kind as I ever saw. These are old-fashioned
and gay in their little retired nooks, and there the plain people show
themselves as they really are. The better class of the neighborhood,
having no sympathy with such sports or scenes, do not visit village
fairs. It is, indeed, a most exceptional thing to see any man who is a
"gentleman," according to the society standard, in any fair except
Mayfair in London.

Cobham is well built for dramatic display. Its White Lion Inn is of the
old coaching days, and the lion on its front is a very impressive
monster, one of the few relics of the days when signs were signs in
spirit and in truth. In this respect the tavern keeper of to-day is a
poor snob, that he thinks a sign painted or carven is degenerate and low,
and therefore announces, in a line of letters, that his establishment is
the Pig and Whistle, just as his remote