I came, with my wife and daughter, upon an inn of this description.  We were all enraptured with the exquisite beauty of its situation, and were so imprudent as to express, in the presence of the landlady, our wish to live and die there.  ’Well, indeed, sir,’ she said, ’I am delighted to see you, but I hope you are not going to stay very long.’  ‘My dear madam,’ I remonstrated, aghast at this remark, ’are we, then, such very objectionable-looking persons?’ ’Bless your heart, no, sir, it isn’t that; but the fact is, we have only room for three, and if parties come and come, and always find us full (through your being here, you know), they will think it is no use coming, and we shall lose our custom.’  We did stay on, however, a pretty long time—­it was a place of ineffable beauty, such as one parts from almost with tears—­and when on our departure I asked for my bill, the landlady said, ’Dear me, sir, would you kindly tell me what day you come upon, for I ha’ lost my account of it?’ The life we led at that inn was purely pastoral; the clotted cream was of that consistency that it was meat and drink in one; but although the fare was homely, it was good of its kind, and admirably cooked.  There was fresh fish every day—­for we were too far from railways for that Gargantuan ogre, ’the London market,’ to deprive us of it—­and tender fowls, and jams of all kinds such as no money could buy.

The landlady had a genius for making what she called ‘conserves,’ and every cupboard in the queer little house was filled with them.  In the sitting-room was a quantity of old china and knick-knacks, brought by the sailors of the place from foreign lands; the linen was white as snow, and smelt of lavender.  Outside the inn was a sea that stretched to Newfoundland, and cliffs that caught the sunset—­such scenery as is not surpassed by that of the Tyrol (though, of course, in a very different line), and be sure I was afraid of no comparison between our ‘Travellers’ Rest’ and any Tyrolean inn.  It is noteworthy that this hostelry of ours was so peculiarly and picturesquely placed that it could only be approached on foot, which reminds me of another place of entertainment for man, but not for beast.

In appearance, ‘The Strangers’ Welcome’ (as I will take leave to term it) is more ambitious than ‘The Rest,’ but it is of the same simple type.  In some respects it is even more primitive; no sign hangs over its door, nor is any other symbol of its vocation visible, ‘Liberty,’ not ‘License,’ as one may say without much metaphor, being its motto.  It is on an island, so insignificant in extent that horse exercise is impossible on it.  What it lacks in superficial area is more than made up, however, in its stupendous height.  From the ‘Welcome,’ though it lies in a dell, one looks down perhaps a hundred sheer feet upon the ocean.  Its solemn murmur, even in calm, always reaches the place, and when in storm, its spray.  As one watches it from the lawn among the fuchsias, one scarcely knows which mood