After a few seasons in town, and having
run the usual curriculum of operas, balls, parties, concerts, visiting,
and even presentation at court, the sameness and artificiality of such
an existence palled upon these two artless and ingenuous lovers of
nature, so the house in town was at length given up, and our artist
retired into the country, where he gave up his time more thoroughly to
the study of his art, working ever with increased ardour through the
kind encouragement and sympathy of his loving wife. Nor was Mrs. Vandyke McGuilp forgetful of her old friends. She fondly
cherished the memory of her dear Mr. Oldstone, her friend and adviser,
and it grieved her that she had not been able to be near him and attend
upon him during his last moments on earth. She had also made the
acquaintance of Mr. Rustcoin, who frequently called upon them. Had even
been to their "at homes" when they lived in London. This gentleman had
become quite reconciled to the idea of his friend Vandyke McGuilp's
marriage with the daughter of a country innkeeper, and agreed with his
friend Oldstone that this was quite an exceptional case. He had even
been heard to declare before a company of friends that the most charming
woman he had ever met for intelligence, natural grace, sound sense, good
heartedness, tact, and _savoir faire_, was the wife of his friend Mr.
Vandyke McGuilp. A few years later, when it fell to Mr. Rustcoin's turn to pay the debt
of nature, this gentleman recollecting how fondly the memory of his
friend Oldstone was cherished by those two charming people, the
McGuilps, having presented his large collection of antiquities to his
native city of York, bequeathed to our friends both the bust and the oil
picture of his brother antiquary, which latter, our readers will
remember, was painted by the hand of our artist himself. Our friend Rustcoin has now long gone to his rest, and both bust and
portrait of Mr. Oldstone adorn the country mansion of the McGuilps. Among other cherished relics of their friend is a bound and illustrated
work conspicuously placed in their library, entitled: "Tales of the
Wonder Club," by Dryasdust, out of which volume little Jack McGuilp
often pesters his mother to read a story to him. CONCLUSION. In conclusion, let me beg the reader to accompany me in imagination to
the site of the once far-famed old Elizabethan hostelry, "The Headless
Lady" and what do we see? Alas! not even the old blackened ruin is there
to mark the spot. All, _all_, has been swept away by the ruthless hand
of modern civilisation. "She cries, a thousand types are gone,
  I care for nothing, all shall go." TENNYSON. How is the whole face of the country changed! The stately elms and
beeches, with the rooks' nests lodging in their branches, have been cut
down to satisfy the greed of this utilitarian age. The land has been
bought up in our time by a railway company, and crowded trains, with
their screeching railway whistle, rush over the very site of this
ancient hostelry, whose walls once resounded with the songs and applause
of our friends of the "Wonder Club." Not even the picturesque old church
of Littleborough has been spared. Being pronounced unsafe, it was pulled
down, and on its site erected a modern Baptist chapel, in all that
unsightly ugliness of style so cherished by dissenters. How strange that
religious bodies should have such execrable taste. Telegraph lines cross
and recross each other in every direction, and railway bridges, tunnels
and aqueducts abound on all hands. [Illustration: THE QUAKER]

The town of Muddleton-upon-Slush, once little more than a village, has
swelled to the proportions of a prosperous factory town, with its smoky
chimneys, its gasometers, its rows upon rows of jerry-built houses, its
new town hall, its salvation army barracks, its police station, its
chapels of every conceivable denomination, to say nothing of its
numerous public-houses, young men's Christian association, its baths and
wash-houses, its low theatre, where questionable pieces are represented
by indifferent actors to pander to the modern taste. Then its placards
and pictorial advertisements, who shall tell? But, enough. As for the
old fashioned honest English rustic of the past, with his sturdiness of
character and devout unquestioning faith in matters of religion, _his_
genus is quite extinct; you may possibly stumble upon his fossil in a
stratum of London blue clay. He has been superseded by quite a distinct
species--the modern blackguard, with his blatant scepticism and
blasphemous irreligion. It might have been some forty years ago since the author, who was
travelling on a matter of urgent business on this line, was roused in
the midst of a reverie by the guard calling out, "Muddleton-upon-Slush! Any passengers for Muddleton?" As this was my destination I descended,
and was about to cross the railway bridge when I observed an aged and
reverend looking individual, whose low crowned hat with its broad brim,
and the severe cut of whose sad coloured clothes proclaimed him a member
of the "Society of Friends," a genuine quaker of the true old fashioned
stamp, long since extinct. He was in earnest discourse with the porter,
and as I passed him I caught these words, uttered in tones deliberate
and slow, as one who has the whole day before him, and sees no necessity
for hurry, and which contrasted strangely with the bustle and confusion
going on around him. "Prithee, friend, canst thou direct me to the ancient hostel of the
'Headless Lady'?" "The _what_? The ''Eadless Lady.' No, sir. There ain't no public 'ouse
about 'ere of that name," was the porter's curt reply. "But if it's a
glass of _h_ale you want, sir, there's the '_H_angel and the _H_eagle,'
the '_H_elephant and Castle,' and the----"

"Doubtless, friend," interrupted the reverend individual, "there are
enough and to spare of those abominations, those dens of iniquity that
the lost sheep of the house of Israel denominate public houses; but
know, friend, that it is not ale I seek, seeing that I am a follower of
one Rechab, who, as doubtless thou wilt have read in Holy Writ, indulged
neither in wine nor strong drink." The porter's face throughout this sententious speech was a study. His
eyes and mouth gradually opened till they reached their utmost limit. Then suddenly recollecting that his manner might appear rude, he broke
in with:

"Well, sir, if you should prefer a good rump steak and a cup of tea, I
could recommend----"

"Verily, friend," again interrupted the quaker, "thou comprehendest me
not, for neither doth my soul hanker after the fleshpots of Egypt, but
having a taste for antiquarian lore, I would fain revisit that spot of
historic interest once seen in my youth, but of which I have now no
clear recollection, namely the hostel of the 'Headless Lady.'" "''Eadless Lady'! ''_Eadless Lady_'! Why, God bless my soul, sir, where
_h_ever do you 'ail from?