We were now in “King Alfred’s country,” for he was born at Wantage in 849, but his palace, if ever he had one, and the thorn tree were things of the past, and what traces there were of him in the town were very scant.  There were King Arthur’s Well and King Arthur’s Bath; the most substantial building bearing his name was the “King Alfred’s Head Inn,” where we called for light refreshments, and where in former years the stage-coaches plying between Oxford and London stopped to change horses.  Wantage must have been a place of some importance in ancient times, as a Witenagemote was held there in the year 990 in the time of Ethelred, at which the tolls were fixed for boats sailing along the Thames for Billingsgate Market in London.

[Illustration:  WANTAGE MARKET-PLACE.]

There were several old inns in the town, and many of the streets were paved with cobble-stones.  Tanning at one time had been the staple industry, a curious relic of which was left in the shape of a small pavement composed of knuckle-bones.  Early in the century the town had an evil reputation as the abode of coiners, and when a man was “wanted” by the police in London, the Bow Street runners always came to search for him at Wantage.

We had now to climb to the top of the downs, and after about two miles, nearly all uphill, reached the fine old Roman camp of Segsbury, where we crossed the Icknield Way, known locally as the Rudge or the Ridge-way—­possibly because it followed the ridge or summit of the downs.  It had every appearance of having been a military road from one camp to another, for it continued straight from Segsbury Camp to the Roman camp on the White Horse Hill, about six miles distant.  The “Rudge” was now covered with turf, and would have been a pleasant road to walk along; but our way lay in another direction along a very lonely road, where we saw very few people and still fewer houses.

It was quite dark when we crossed the small River Lambourn at the village of West Shefford, and after a further walk of about six miles we arrived at the town of Hungerford, where we stayed the night.  What a strange effect these lonely walks had upon us when they extended from one centre of population to another!  We could remember the persons and places at either end, but the intervening space seemed like a dream or as if we had been out of the world for the time being, and only recovered consciousness when we arrived at our destination and again heard the sounds of human voices other than our own.

The origin of the name Hungerford appeared to have been lost in obscurity.  According to one gentleman, whose interesting record we afterwards saw, it “has been an etymological puzzle to the topographer and local antiquarian, who have left the matter in the same uncertainty in which they found it”; but if he had accompanied us in our walk that day across those desolate downs, and felt the pangs of hunger as we did, mile after mile in the dark, he would have sought for no other derivation of the name Hungerford, and could have found ample corroboration by following us into the coffee-room of the “Bear Hotel” that night.  We were very hungry.