The stir of the population is soon evident. Persons
are moving to and fro on the side path of the road. Horsemen and carts
seem returning from market; women with empty baskets, and then the rare
vision of a stage-coach. The postilion spurs his horses, cracks his
whip, and dashes at full gallop into the town of Montacute, the capital
of the forest.
It is the prettiest little town in the world, built entirely of hewn
stone, the well-paved and well-lighted streets as neat as a Dutch
village. There are two churches: one of great antiquity, the other
raised by the present duke, but in the best style of Christian
architecture. The bridge that spans the little but rapid river Belle,
is perhaps a trifle too vast and Roman for its site; but it was built
by the first duke of the second dynasty, who was always afraid of
underbuilding his position. The town was also indebted to him for their
hall, a Palladian palace. Montacute is a corporate town, and, under
the old system, returned two members to Parliament. The amount of
its population, according to the rule generally observed, might have
preserved it from disfranchisement, but, as every house belonged to
the duke, and as he was what, in the confused phraseology of the
revolutionary war, was called a Tory, the Whigs took care to put
Montacute in Schedule A.
Pages:
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45