Of course, we must now leave Chedcombe; and when we talked to Mr. Poplington about it he said there was two places the English went to for their rheumatism.  One was Bath, not far from here, and the other was Buxton, up in the north.  As soon as I heard of Bath I was on pins and needles to go there, for in all the novel-reading I’ve done, which has been getting better and better in quality since the days when I used to read dime novels on the canal-boat, up to now when I like the best there is, I could not help knowing lots about Evelina and Beau Brummel, and the Pump Room, and the fine ladies and young bucks, and it would have joyed my soul to live and move where all these people had been, and where all these things had happened, even if fictitiously.

But Mr. Poplington came down like a shower on my notions, and said that Bath was very warm, and was the place where everybody went for their rheumatism in winter; but that Buxton was the place for the summer, because it was on high land and cool.  This cast me down a good deal; for if we could have gone where I could have steeped my soul in romanticness, and at the same time Jone could have steeped himself in warm mineral water, there would not have been any time lost, and both of us would have been happier.  But Mr. Poplington stuck to it that it would ruin anybody’s constitution to go to such a hot place in August, and so I had to give it up.

So to-morrow we start for Buxton, which, from what I can make out, must be a sort of invalid picnic ground.  I always did hate diseases and ailments, even of the mildest, when they go in caravan.  I like to take people’s sicknesses separate, because then I feel I might do something to help; but when they are bunched I feel as if it was sort of mean for me to go about cheerful and singing when other people was all grunting.

But we are not going straight to Buxton.  As I have often said, Jone is a good fellow, and he told me last night if there was any bit of fancy scenery I’d like to stop on the way to the unromantic refuge he’d be glad to give me the chance, because he didn’t suppose it would matter much if he put off his hot soaks for a few days.  It didn’t take me long to name a place I’d like to stop at—­for most of my reading lately has been in the guide books, and I had crammed myself with the descriptions of places worth seeing, that would take us at least two years to look at—­so I said I would like to go to the River Wye, which is said to be the most romantic stream in England, and when that is said, enough is said for me, so Jone agreed, and we are going to do the Wye on our way north.

There is going to be an election here in a few days, and this morning Jone and me hobbled into the village—­that is, he hobbled in body, and I did in mind to think of his going along like a creaky wheelbarrow.