Close by are the schools. Looking upon them the more than usually sentimental pilgrim, with, it may be, some ancient tender passages of his own, stored up in the inviolate strong-box of his memory, to be unlocked and drawn forth at odd times, may think he identifies that window whence Sue, safely out of reach, spoke with Jude, standing down on the footpath, and said, “Oh, my poor friend and comrade, you’ll suffer yet!”
WIMBORNE MINSTER TO HORTON AND MONMOUTH ASH
IT is by the direct road to Cranborne, and past the Gate Inn at Clapgate, that one reaches Horton, where, at the intersection of the two broad main roads from Wimborne to Cranborne, and from Shaftesbury to Ringwood, stands Horton Inn, a fine, substantial old house, once depending upon a great coaching and posting traffic, and even now that only an occasional cyclist stays the night, dispensing good, old-fashioned, solid comforts in its cosy and comfortable rooms. When Horton Inn was built, let us say somewhere about the time of Queen Anne (who, poor soul! is dead), those who designed it, disregarding any temptations to be picturesque, devoted their energies to good, honest workmanship, with the result that nowadays one sees a building certainly lacking in imagination, with windows equidistant and each the counterpart of its fellow, but disclosing in every quoin and keystone, and in each well and truly laid course of brickwork, the justness and thoroughness of its design and execution. Within doors it is the same: unobtrusive but excellent workmanship characterises panelling and window-sashes, doors and handrails, with the result that in its old age Horton Inn has an air of distinction and dignity strongly marked to those who take an interest in technical details, and attracting the notice of even the least observant, who from its superior air generally conceive it to be an old mansion converted to its present use. It is the subject of an allusion in the tale of _Barbara of the House of Grebe_: the “Lornton Inn” whence Barbara eloped with the handsome Willowes, and where she was to meet her disfigured husband, posting along the road from Southampton, on his return from foreign parts.
The village of Horton, down the road, at some little distance from the inn, has an oddly German-looking tower to its church, containing the monument of “Squire Hastings” of Woodlands, who died, aged 99 years, in 1650.