“Exul patria causa libertates” with the names of the unfortunate exiles written under it—­always provided that the dial itself remains, and the rain, and snow, and sun, have not blotted out the words.  That they were there, the present chronicler knows upon good authority.  How the exiles passed their time at Winchester, and finally returned, will, some day, be embodied in authentic history.

It was many years after the quaker inroad; in fact the eighteenth century, with all its philosophical, political, and scientific “protests” everywhere, was nearly dead and gone, when another scene occurred at Bousch’s tavern, which history knows something of.  As that august muse, however, does not bury herself with personal details, we will briefly refer to this occurrence.

It was about mid-day, then, when a carriage, with travelling trunks behind it, and a white, foreign-looking driver and footman on the seat before, drew rein in front of the old hostelry we have described.

The footman descended from his perch, and approaching the door of the carriage, opened it, and respectfully assisted two gentlemen to alight.  These gentlemen were dressed with elegant simplicity.

The first had an oval face, which was full of good-humor, and in which an imaginative eye might have discerned an odd resemblance to a pear; the second, who seemed to be his brother, was more sedate, and did not smile.

The gentlemen entered the inn, and asked if dinner could be furnished.  The landlord replied that nothing could be easier, and called their attention to a noise which issued from the next room.

The elder gentleman, whose accent had indicated his foreign origin, approached the door which led into the dining-room, followed by his companion.

They looked in.

A long table, covered with a profusion of everything which the most robust appetite could desire, was filled with ploughmen, rough farmers, hunters from the neighboring hills, and a nondescript class, which were neither farmers, ploughmen, nor hunters, but made their living by conveying huge teams from town to town.  They were travelling merchants—­not wagoners simply, as might have been supposed from their garments full of straw, and the huge whips which lay beside them on the floor.  When they chewed their food, these worthies resembled horses masticating ears of corn; when they laughed, they made the windows rattle.

The good-humored traveller shook his head; over the face of his companion passed a disdainful smile, which did not escape the landlord.

As the elder turned round, he observed his servant inscribing their names in the tavern-book.  He would have stopped him, but he had already written the names.

He thereupon turned to the landlord.

Could they not have a private room?

Hum!—­it was contrary to rule.

They wanted to dine.

Could they not make up their minds to join the company?