Among the verdant mountains of the Peak
  There lies a quiet hamlet, where the slope
  Of pleasant uplands wards the north winds bleak: 
  Below, wild dells romantic pathways ope: 
  Around, above it, spreads a shadowy cope
  Of forest trees:  flower, foliage and clear rill
  Wave from the cliffs, or down ravines elope: 
  It seems a place charmed from the power of ill
  By sainted words of old:—­so lovely, lone and still.

William Wood wrote the Plague Chronicle, and on his gravestone was inscribed: 

  Men like visions are;
  Time all doth claim;
  He lives who dies and leaves
  A lasting name.

We had often read the wonderful epitaphs on the tombs of the nobility, but we had been warned that in former times these were often written by professional men who were well paid for their services, and the greater the number of heavenly virtues attributed to the deceased, the greater of course the fee; but those written by the poetical curate of Eyam were beyond suspicion if we may judge from the couplet he wrote to be placed on the gravestone of a parishioner: 

  Since life is short and death is always nigh,
  On many years to come do not rely.

We were now passing through Little John’s country, and we heard more about him in this neighbourhood than of his master, Robin Hood, for Little John’s Well was not far away, and Hathersage, our next stage, was where he was buried.  We were very much interested in Robin Hood and Little John, as my name was Robert, and my brother’s name was John.  He always said that Little John was his greatest ancestor, for in the old story-books his name appeared as John Nailer.  But whether we could claim much credit or no from the relationship was doubtful, as the stanza in the old ballad ran: 

  Robin Hood did little good
  And Little John did less.

In later times the name had been altered to Naylor, in order, we supposed, to hide its humble though honourable origin; for there was no doubt that it was a Nailer who fastened the boards on Noah’s Ark, and legend stated that when he came to nail the door on, he nailed it from the inside!

The stanza, he explained, might have been written by the Bishop of Hereford or one of Robin Hood’s other clients, whom he and Little John had relieved of his belongings; but the name Naylor was a common one in South Yorkshire, and, although our branch of the family were natives of South Lancashire, their characteristics showed they were of the same stock, since, like Little John, they were credited with having good appetites and with being able to eat and retain any kind of food and in almost any quantity.  On one occasion we happened to meet with a gentleman named Taylor, and, after remarking there was only one letter different between his name and ours, my brother said, “But we are much the older family,” and then named the Noah’s Ark incident; when the gentleman quietly remarked, “I can beat you.”  “Surely not,” said my brother.  “Yes, I can,” replied Mr. Taylor, “for my ancestor made the tails for Adam’s coat!  He was a Tailer.”  My brother collapsed!