fight their way through the thick atmosphere. Their broad arms slash about like the swords of warriors, and, towering up as they do from the level plain, they give the landscape, in connection with the wherries that traverse the rivers, a picturesque appearance. Acle is one of the best places in the county from which to view the marshy district, and the scenery adjacent, although not rugged and imposing, is attractive and unusual. The rivers winding through the lands are very small streams, but navigable for wherries. These are a species of craft peculiar to Norfolk, and hard to describe. They vary in size from fifteen to twenty-five tons, have one mast that can be raised or lowered at will, and are usually sailed by a man and his wife, who live on board, and change their locality as business or duty requires. They sail very fast, and leap along the crooked little rivers like war-steeds, dashing the waves from their bows in sheets of foam. The sails are usually black or of a dirty brown, the hull much the same color, and the crew in character with sails and hull. They are used for conveying farm and other produce to market, and are to the rivers of the eastern counties of England, so far as carrying freight goes, what the steamboats of the West are to the mighty waters there. CHAPTER XL. A VISIT TO BLICKLING HALL, THE BIRTHPLACE OF ANNE BOLEYN. THE County of Norfolk abounds in places closely connected with many of the great historical events of England, and its baronial halls are rich in objects of interest to the stranger. There are several in the vicinity of Norwich, and others a few miles distant, among which is Blickling, the birthplace of Anne Boleyn. I had considerable curiosity to see the famous hall, and in company with two companions paid it a visit. We left the city at an early hour, and drove through one of the most picturesque sections of the country, passing on our route numerous villages and princely dwellings. The landscape did not present the rich aspect peculiar to the country in the spring, but nevertheless it looked gay, and the balmy weather sufficed in a great measure for the absence of foliage from the trees. The village churches, with their ivy-covered towers and antique walls, always riveted my attention, and the quiet parsonages looked the very abodes of earthly happiness. Clambering vines were wreathed around the oriel windows, and snowdrops and primroses modestly peeped up from the green sward around, and lent a charm to those pleasant abodes. At a distance we could see the hamlets and their sharp church spires or square towers, and the skylarks sang their matin song in the clear sky above our heads. The weather was as soft and mild as early spring with us, and I could scarcely satisfy myself that it was February in England, the atmosphere was so different from what my preconceived notions of it at this season were. We made a short stay at the town of Aylsham, the largest on our route, and as the church is the greatest attraction of the place we bent our steps towards it. The grass was brightly green on the numerous hillocks in the burial-ground, and the old church gray with age. Its tall tower commands a view of the surrounding country, and can be seen for miles in almost every direction. The sacred pile is large, and has a number of tablets on its walls to the memory of the gentry of the neighborhood, and some tombs, in the aisles, of long-forgotten families. The principal windows are of stained glass, the designs being the armorial bearings of the titled residents of the parish and adjacent country. I noticed one tomb in the ground on which there was an epitaph in itself original and worth copying. The stone is over the grave of a lawyer, and the verse as follows: "Not like Egyptian tyrants consecrate, Unmixed with others shall my dust remain, It seldom happens that the mortal remains of a limb of the law nurture roses to delight mankind, and it is a gratification to be told that the body of one of the honorable profession is useful after death, and smells more of the attar gul than of fees and parchment. A further drive of three miles along a fine road brought us to Blickling Hall, and after having our horses cared for at the inn near by, and ourselves refreshed and rested before the bright fire in the parlor, we went over to the aristocratic mansion, and were welcomed in true English style by the persons in charge of the dwelling, for the family was absent. We ascended a broad flight of oaken steps, and were ushered into a hall of great extent, the floors of which were of solid oak, white as scrubbing could make them, and after many cordial grasps of the hand and congratulations upon our arrival, we were served from the cellar with tankards of foaming homebrewed ale, and from the larder with Cheshire cheese and a cold cut of roast beef. The enlivening beverage quickened our colloquial powers, and the cheerful faces of the ladylike housekeeper and laundress, to say nothing of the bright eyes of the waiting-maids, made us for the time feel indifferent to worldly cares; and as I enjoyed the ale and the society of the hall, I could not resist calling to mind the peerless Boleyn and her countless suitors, from the gallant knight down to Royal Harry. And then the Falstaffs once occupied Blickling; and who knows but what that roaring wassailer, Sir John, of Shakspeare's masterly pen, might have revelled in the very room in which I now sat, surrounded by some of England's matchless girls, with "bright blue eyes and brown hair lightly curling?" Away with conjecture! When in Blickling, I was in a congenial spot, and for the first time realized my idea of an English hall and good old English cheer. There were the high ceilings, the oaken floors *and wainscoting, the antique upright chairs, the ladylike domestics, the tapestried rooms, the pictured walls, the roaring fireplace, the gentlemanly butler, the well-stored vaults, the massive plate, the savory odors of viands, and the very air of baronial dignity and rural aristocratic comfort. The long galleries and numerous rooms, the spacious library, stored with thousands of volumes, the halls, the bedchambers, the drawing-rooms, the parlors, the grounds, the parks, all were visited by us, and were enjoyed as far as seeing went. The pictures are nothing to boast of, and the only one worth naming is a portrait of Charles the First by Vandyke, and a good picture it is too, but its authenticity may be questioned. Every loyal English gentleman in the realm, that can afford it, has a portrait of the martyred monarch, by Vandyke; and, at a moderate estimate, there must be a hundred of such pictures by the Flemish artist in England, if we believe all we are told. But I do not credit all that is said of pictures, and take for granted that these original Vandykes are mostly imitations of the great painter. It would have taken him a lifetime to paint one moiety of what is attributed to him, and then they could not be good. His style is easily copied, and his Charles the First has been imitated so well that but few can tell the originals from the copies. Go where you will, where there is a picture-gallery, and lo! "Charles the First, by Vandyke," meets your startled vision, and you begin to marvel at the amazing industry of the artist who has left so many fac-similes of the beheaded king. He must have worked night and day to have completed one-half of those accredited to him; and, as he painted other pictures besides portraits of Charles, it is no more than fair to acquit him of having painted all the Charleses attributed to him at this day. But I must away from the pictures, and speak of something of more interest, if I can find a more interesting subject to speak about. The grand staircase is very imposing, and although not so richly ornamented as that of Northumberland House in London, is much more effective. The stairs are broad, the platforms wide, and the banisters carved and gilt in gorgeous style, with posts rising at intervals, above the top rail, on which are figures of men in armor in various attitudes of defence. The niches on either side of the stairs are occupied by statues-one of Anne Boleyn, the other of her daughter, Queen Elizabeth. The exterior of the hall is in keeping with the interior, and is aristocratic in every point of view. What was once a moat still surrounds the building, and the drawbridge remains as in olden time. The house is quadrangular, with towers at each angle, and one immediately over the entrance-gate, and has two courtyards. It stands a few hundred yards from the high road, and is approached through grounds inclosed on either side by rows of small yew-trees, so trimmed and arranged as to form an avenue of fadeless green of great beauty. The parks are very extensive, containing full a thousand acres. There is a large lake on the estate, and groves of noble oaks, elms, and chestnuts, and numerous deer. The walks are many, some of them being overhung with the broad arms of massive trees, which afford shelter from the sun and rain, and have a truly Arcadian appearance. Here and there are flower-gardens, and even at the season of which I write, midwinter, roses bloom in the open air in those homes of Flora. The primrose and snowdrop decked the mead, and the crocus modestly peeped up from the earth as if over-anxious for the breath of spring. If the grounds of Blickling are always thus gay in winter, they must be a garden of Paradise in the time of flowers. The building occupies a beautiful site, and is imposing. There is a room near one of the towers in which, tradition says, the spirit of the father of the unfortunate queen, Anne Boleyn, was confined for over two hundred years. The story goes that he was imprisoned there for giving his consent to his daughter's union with the brutal Harry; and that he escaped from confinement only a few years ago, when the roof was raised for purposes of repair, at which time he took flight in a cloud of brimstone smoke, amid peals of thunder. The legend is popular among the rustics of the neigh. borhood, and is told by them with evident pleasure; not that they believe the story, but because there is a dash of romance in it that throws a charm over the hall, and makes it an object of greater interest to the curious than if no such tale were connected with its history. The tradition is cherished by the peasantry for the sake of their fathers; and as nearly every old mansion in the realm has some such harmless fable connected with it, it is meet that the stories be handed down from father to son, because of the pleasure their repetition begets for the stranger and the lover of the marvellous. Superstition is at the foundation of such narratives, but the day is past when harm will result from their repetition; twing at the frid of his day |