We can only wish for the good C.F.B. as happy an evening as we spent (with our eccentric friend Mifflin McGill) bicycling from the Newhaven Inn in a July twilight.  The Newhaven Inn, which is only a vile kind of meagre roadhouse at a lonely fork in the way (where one arm of the signpost carries the romantic legend “To Haddon Hall"), lies between Ashbourne and Buxton.  But it is marked on all the maps, so perhaps it has an honourable history.  The sun was dying in red embers over the Derbyshire hills as we pedalled along.  Life, liquor, and literature lay all before us; certes, we had no thought of ever writing a daily column!  And finally, after our small lanterns were lit and cast their little fans of brightness along the flowing road, we ascended a rise and saw Buxton in the valley below, twinkling with lights—­

“And when even dies, the million-tinted,
And the night has come, and planets glinted
Lo, the valley hollow
Lamp-bestarred!”

Nor were all these ancient inns (to which our heart wistfully returns) on British soil.  There was the Hotel de la Tour, in Montjoie, a quaint small town somewhere in that hilly region of the Ardennes along the border between Luxemburg and Belgium.  Our memory is rather vague as to Montjoie, for we got there late one evening, after more than seventy up-and-down miles on a bicycle, hypnotic with weariness and the smell of pine trees and a great warm wind that had buffeted us all day.  But we have a dim, comfortable remembrance of a large clean bedroom, unlighted, in which we duskily groped and found no less than three huge beds among which we had to choose; and we can see also a dining room brilliantly papered in scarlet, with good old prints on the walls and great wooden beams overhead.  Two bottles of ice-cold beer linger in our thought:  and there was some excellent work done on a large pancake, one of those durable fleshy German Pfannkuchen.  For the odd part of it was (unless our memory is wholly amiss) Montjoie was then (1912) supposed to be part of Germany, and they pronounced it Mon-yowey.  But the Reich must have felt that this was not permanent, for they had not Germanized either the name of the town or of the hostelry.

And let us add, in this affectionate summary, The Lion—­(Hotel zum Loewen)—­at Sigmaringen, that delicious little haunt on the upper Danube, where the castle sits on a stony jut overlooking the river.  Algernon Blackwood, in one of his superb tales of fantasy (in the volume called “The Listener”) has told a fascinating gruesome story of the Danube, describing a sedgy, sandy, desolate region below the Hungarian border where malevolent inhuman forces were apparent and resented mortal intrusion.  But we cannot testify to anything sinister in the bright water of the Danube in the flow of its lovely youth, above Sigmaringen.  And if there were any evil influences, surely at Sigmaringen (the ancient