Cranford

do not saunter. My friend the shopwoman told us she had a beautiful
garden at the back of her ‘old ancient place’; all the houses in
Knutsford have gardens, with parterres beautifully kept, and flowers in
abundance. It was autumn, but everything was swept and tidy. Straggling
branches, plants overgrown and run to seed do not seem to be known in
Knutsford amidst its heathy open spaces. There is something so spirited
and fresh and methodical in the place that I can understand how even the
flower-beds have a certain self-respect, and grow trim and straight,
instead of straggling about in lazy abandon, as mine do at home.

As we entered the Royal George Hotel out of the dark street, we came
upon a delightful broadside of shining oak staircase and panelled
wainscot; old oak settles and cupboards stood upon the landings. On the
walls hung pictures, one was of Lord Beaconsfield, one was a fine print
of George IV., and others again of that denuded classic school of art
which seems to have taken a last refuge in old English Inns. There were
Chippendale cabinets, old bits of china, and above all there were the
beautiful oak bannisters to admire. But these handsome staircases, the