Here the murmurous twilight course of the Peddar’s Way through the avenue of pine-trees known as Dale Row marks the boundaries of the parishes of Roudham and East Wretham. By the elder among the peasantry it is still spoken of as “the Scutes”—i.e., the Skirts; but it is quite certain they are ignorant why they so call it. It is interesting to recall the fact that feminine skirts are pronounced “skutes” in New York and other towns of the New England States of America, doubtless in a survival of the old East Anglian speech taken overseas in the early settlement of the North American colonies.

This East Wretham is the parish of that William Cratfield, “Rector of Wrotham, in Norfolk,” who, as “a common and notorious thief and lurker on the roads, and murderer and slayer,” in unholy alliance with one “Thomas Tapyrtone, farryer,” had in 1416 plied the trade of highwayman on Newmarket Heath, and being charged with robbing a Londoner of £12, was, with his concubine, flung into Newgate, where he died. What became of his improper companion, or even of Tapperton, is unknown.

But the clergy around Thetford in times of old included several queer characters. There was Lowe, the curate of Rockland, who on January 12th, 1608, aided by the rector’s wife, murdered the Rev. Mr. James, the rector of that place. Lowe was hanged at Thetford and Mrs. James burnt at the stake. Again, in 1635, the rector of Santon Downham was charged with being “an alehouse haunter and swearer, being distempered with liquor, keeping malignant company, and calling the Puritans hypocrites.”

Nay, not merely the clergy of this district, but of broad Norfolk, might be made to figure in a chronique scandaleuse; and if we had a mind to it, we could end in modern times with that thirsty clerk who was found, very drunken, beside the river at Stratton Strawless, declaring he would drink that up before he left. He must have been like to that wondrous toper created by one of the loveliest slips ever made by a reporter; who would strain at a gnat and swallow a canal; which we must allow to be a more heroic feat than swallowing the more usual camel.

Roudham Heath owes its name to the parish and village of Roudham. The village stood less than half a mile to the right of the road, but has in these latter days wholly disappeared, save for fewer than half a dozen cottages and the gaunt ruins of the great church. Roudham church owes its ruinated condition to the fire that burnt it in 1736, a disaster caused by carelessness on the part of plumbers at work on the leads of the tower. Tradition says funds were collected for the repair of the building, but the treasurer made off with them. Roudham’s local industry was that of malting; but the place is a scene of desolation, punctuated and italicised by the two inhabited cottages that neighbour the ruins and look on to the almost impassable road. The place has now no church, no chapel, no charities, no shop, no pub, no anything; but it was formerly a large and populous village, with two inns—the “Dolphin” and “Three Hoops.” Foundations of vanished buildings are still visible in some of the fields