e King's Head, was the prototype of the Maypole
in "Barnaby Rudge," and here we were delighted to stop for our belated
luncheon. The inn fronts directly on the street and, like all English
hostelries, its main rooms are given over to the bar, which at this time
was crowded with Sunday loafers, the atmosphere reeking with tobacco
smoke and the odor of liquors. The garden at the rear was bright with a
profusion of spring flowers and sheltered with ornamental trees and
vines. The garden side of the old house was covered with a mantle of
ivy, and, altogether, the surroundings were such as to make ample amends
for the rather unprepossessing conditions within. One will not fully
appreciate Chigwell and its inn unless he has read Dickens' story. You
may still see the panelled room upstairs where Mr. Chester met Geoffry
Haredale. This room has a splendid mantel-piece, great carved open beams
and beautiful leaded windows. The bar-room, no doubt, is still much the
same as on the stormy night which Dickens chose for the opening of his
story. Just across the road from the inn is the church which also
figures in the tale, and a dark avenue of ancient yew trees leads from
the gateway to the door. One can easily imagine the situation which
Dickens describes when the old sexton crossed the street and rang the
church bells on the night of the murder at Haredale Hall.

Aside from Dickens' connection with Chigwell, the village has a place of
peculiar interest to Americans in the old grammar school where William
Penn received his early education. The building still stands, with but
little alteration, much as it was in the day when the great Quaker sat
at the rude desks and conned the lessons of the old-time English
schoolboy.

When we invited friends whom we met in London to accompany us on a
Sunday afternoon trip, we could think of no road more likely to please
them than the one I have just been trying to describe. We reversed our
journey this time, going out of London on the way to Chigwell.
Returning, we left the Epping road shortly after passing through that
town, and followed a narrow, forest-bordered byway with a few steep
hills until we came to Waltham Abbey, a small Essex market town with an
important history. The stately abbey church, a portion of which is still
standing and now used for services, was founded by the Saxon king,
Harold, in 1060. Six years later he was defeated and slain at Hastings
by William the Conqueror, and tr