The tourist next observes on the extortion of the innkeeper, who, reckoning by the number of his guests rather than the goodness of his provision, charged them seven shillings and sixpence for bread and beer; but, after a kindly caution to the publican to forbear such cozenage upon Divines in future, lest they should be suspected of drinking as freely as he charges them, turns from a subject so unworthy of his Pegasus in disgust, and inquires if this be not the burial-place of Richard the Third; and, finding that there is no memorial for him, moralizes upon the neglected state in which he lies, as the eventual fate of all greatness: then from Richard proceeds to Wolsey, who was also buried at Leicester, and produces similar reflections; and from Wolsey, to William the ostler of the inn, who outdoes the company in years as well as drink, and calls them to horse as imperiously as if he had a warrant from the earl of Nottingham.
The earl of Nottingham here glanced at was Charles lord Howard of Effingham, lord high admiral of England under queen Elizabeth and king James the First. He died in 1624.
From Leicester to Nottingham (twenty-five miles) the travellers pass without noticing any thing on their way, until approaching the latter place they cross the Trent, pray to St. Andrew as they ride up hill, into the town, and observe that the people burrow, like conies, in caverns, from whence the smoke ascends at the feet of the woman who stands on the surface watching, down the chimney, the cooking of her dinner. The part of the town at which they enter is described as the Rocky Parish, higher than the rest; and the church of St. Mary, as embracing her Baby in her arms. From hence they proceed to the Castle, which is described as a ruin, with two statues of giants at the gates, whom the tourist severely censures for their negligence in permitting their charge to come to ruin, and reproaches them with the fidelity of the giants at Guildhall and Holmeby, who had carefully kept the buildings committed to their charge when the founders were dead. The poet might still compliment the giants at Guildhall; but of Holmeby (Holdenby House, Northamptonshire, built by queen Elizabeth’s lord chancellor, sir Christopher Hatton,) not one stone remains upon another: nay, the very memory of the giants might have perished but for the Iter Boreale.