farce march along with tragedy that our
chief concern in Rochester was the old inn where the ball was held.

A surly woman who sat behind the cashier's wicket fixed me with her
eye. "Might we visit the ballroom?" I inquired. Evidently not, unless
we were stopping at the house. "Madame," I said, "perhaps you are
unaware that the immortal Mr. Pickwick once sojourned beneath your
roof." There was no response. "The celebrated Mr. Pickwick, G. C. M.
P. C.," I continued, "who was the discoverer of the sources of the
Hampstead Ponds." At this--for my manner was impressive--she fumbled
through the last few pages of her register and admitted that he might
have been once a patron of the house, but that he had now paid his
bill and gone.

I was about to question her about the poet Augustus Snodgrass, who had
been with Mr. Pickwick on his travels, when a waiter, a humorous
fellow with a vision of a sixpence, offered to be our guide. We
climbed the stairs and came upon the ballroom. It was a small room.
Three quadrilles must have stuffed it to the edge--a dingy place with
bare windows on a deserted innyard. At one end was a balcony that
would hold not more than three musicians. The candles of its former
brightness have long since burned to socket. Vanished are "Sir Thomas
Clubber, Lady Clubber and the Miss Clubbers!" Gone is the Honorable
Wilmot Snipe and all the notables that once crowded it! Vanished is
the punchbowl where the amorous Tracy Tupman drank too many cups of
negus on that memorable night. I gave the dirty waiter a sixpence and
came away.

I discourage the usual literary pilgrimage. Indeed, if there is a
rumor that Milton died in a neighboring town, or a treaty of
consequence was signed close by, choose another path! Let neither
Oliver Cromwell nor the Magna Carta deflect your course! One of my
finest walks was on no better advice than the avoidance of a
celebrated shrine. I was led along the swift waters of a river,
through several pretty towns, and witnessed the building of a lofty
bridge. For lunch I had some memorable griddlecakes. Finally I rode on
top of a rattling stage with a gossip for a driver, whose long finger
pointed out the sights upon the road.

But for the liveliest truancy, keep an eye out for red-haired and
freckled lads, and make them your counselors! Lads so spotted and
colored, I have found, are of unusual enterprise in knowing the best
woodland paths and the loftiest views. A yellow-haired boy