 Chapter 7 From Cornwall to South Wales In following a five-thousand-mile motor journey through Britain there will be little to say of Penzance, a pleasant resort town, yet without anything of notable importance. A mile further down the coast is Newlyn, a fishing village which has become a noted resort for artists and has given its name to a school of modern painting. A handsome building for a gallery and art institute, and which also serves as headquarters for the artists, has recently been erected by a wealthy benefactor. We walked over to the village, hoping to learn that the Fisher fleet would be in the next morning, but were disappointed. A man of whom we inquired informed us that the fishermen would not bring in their catch until two days later. He seemed to recognize at once that we were strangers—Americans, they all know it intuitively—and left his task to show us about the immense key where the fishermen dispose of their catch at auction. He conducted us out on the granite wall, built by the government to enclose the harbour, and ensuring the safety of the Fisher fleet in fiercest storms. He had been a deep-sea fisherman himself, and told us much of the life of these sturdy fellows and the hardships they endure for little pay. The ordinary fishing boat is manned by five or six men, and makes two trips each week to the deep-sea fishing grounds, seventy-five to one hundred miles away. The craft is rude and comfortless in the extreme, and so constructed as to be nearly unsingable if kept off the rocks. The fish are taken by trawling great nets and drawing them aboard with a special tackle. The principal catch of the Newland fishermen is herring, which are pickled in the village and exported, mainly to Norway and Sweden. The value of the fish depends on the state of the market, and the price realized is often as low as a shilling per hundred weight. The majority of the population of Cornwall is engaged directly or indirectly in the fisheries, and considering the inferiority of most of the country for agriculture and the extensive coastline with its numerous harbours, it is not strange that so many of the natives should follow this life. In earlier days, smuggling and wrecking constituted the occupation of a large number of the Cornish men, but under modern conditions these gentle arts can no longer be successfully practised, and fishing furnishes about the only alternative. Just across the peninsula is St Ives, another fishing village, even more picturesque than Newland, and quite as much in favour with the artists. To reach this town we turned a few miles from the main road on the following day, but missed the fisher fleet as before. The bay on which St Ives is situated is the most beautiful on the Cornish coast, and on the day of our visit the bright stretch of water, sleeping placidly under the dune skies, and dotted with glistening sails, well maintained its reputation for surpassing loveliness. Before we entered the town, a man of whom we inquired the way advised us to leave our car, and walk down the sharp descent to the coast where the village mostly lies. The idea of the return trip was not pleasing, and we boldly started down, only to wish we had been more amenable to the friendly advice, for a steeper, narrower, crookeder street we could not find anywhere. In places it was too narrow for vehicles to pass abreast, and sharp turns on a very steep grade in streets crowded with children made the descent exceedingly trying. However, we managed to get through safely, and came to a stop directly in front of the fifteenth century church, an astonishingly imposing structure for a village which showed more evidences of poverty than of anything else. The church was built at a time when the smugglers and wreckers of Cornwall no doubt enjoyed greater prosperity, and felt perhaps more anxiety for their souls' welfare than do their fisherfolk descendants. On re-ascending the hill we stopped at the castle for our noonday luncheon, but the castle in this instance is a fine old mansion, built about a hundred years ago as a private residence, and since passed into the possession of a railway company, which has converted it into an excellent hotel. Situated as it is, in a fine park on the eminence overlooking the bay, few hostilities at which we paused seemed more inviting for a longer sojourn. Four miles from Penzance is Marisayan, and St. Michael's Mount, lying near at hand, takes its name from the similar but larger and more imposing cathedral, crowned headland off the coast of France. It is a remarkable granite rock connected with the mainland by a strip of sand, which is clear of the water only four hours of the day. The rock towers to a height of two hundred and fifty feet and is about a mile in circumference. It is not strange that in the days of castle buildings such an isolated site should have been seized upon, and on the summit is a many-towered structure built of granite, and so carefully adapted to its location as to seem almost a part of the rock itself. When we reached Marisayan, the receding tide had left the causeway dry, and as we walked leisurely the mile or so between the town and the mount, the water was already stealthily encroaching on the pathway. We found the castle more of a gentleman's residence than a fortress, and it was evidently never intended for defensive purposes. It has been the residence of the St. Orbin family since the time of Charles II, and the villagers were all agog over elaborate preparations to celebrate the Golden Wedding Anniversary of the present proprietor. The climb is a wearisome one, and we saw little of the castle being admitted only to the entrance hall and the small gothic chapel which was undergoing restoration. But the fine view from the battlements alone is worth the effort. The castle never figured in history, and is remarkable chiefly for its unique location. By the time of our return the tide had already risen several feet, and we were rode to the mainland in a boat. On our return to Truro we took the road by which we came, but on leaving there our road roughly followed the northern Cornish coast, and at intervals we caught glimpses of the ocean. For some distance we ran through a rough moorland country, although the road was comparatively level and straight. We passed Camelford, which some say is the Camelot of the Arthur legends, only five miles distant from the ruins of Tintagel Castle on the coast, and came early to Launston, where the clean, hospitable, the King Whiteheart Hotel offered strong inducements to stop for the night. A certain weariness of the flesh resulting from our run over the last long stretch of the moorland road was an equally important factor in influencing our action. Launston was one of the surprises that we frequently came across, a town that we had never heard of before, and doubtless one that an American seldom sees. Yet the massive castle whose circular keep crowns and eminence overlooking the town was one of the objects that loomed into view long before we reached the place, and its gloomy grandeur as we wandered through its ruins in the fading twilight deeply impressed us. A rude stairway led to the top of the great circular tower rising high above the summit of the hill which itself dominates the country, and the view stretching away in every direction was far-reaching and varied. The castle has been gradually falling into ruin for the last six hundred years, but in its palmy days it must have been one of the grimest and most awe-inspiring of the fortresses in the West Country. Scarcely another ruin did we see anywhere more imposing in location and more picturesque in decay. Masses of ivy clung to the crumbling walls and all around spread a beautiful park with soft velvety turf interspersed with shrubbery and bright dashes of colour from numerous well cared-for flowerbeds. What less unique is St. Stephen's Church, the like of which is not to be found elsewhere in Britain. Its walls are covered with a network of fine carving, vine and flower running riot in stone, and they told us that this was done by English stone-cutters, though nearly all such carving on the cathedrals was the work of artisans from the Continent. The Launcden Church is pointed to as an evidence that English workmen could have done quite as well had they been given the chance. Aside from this wonderful carving, which covers almost every stone of the exterior, the Church is an imposing one, and has lately been restored to its pristine magnificence. Launcden had its abbey, too, but this has long since disappeared, and all that now remains of it is the finely carved Norman doorway built into the entrance of the Whiteheart Hotel. Our next day's run was short, covering only forty-two miles between Launcden and Exeter. For about half the distance the road runs along the edge of Dartmoor, the greatest of English moorlands. A motor-trip of two or three days through the moor itself would be time well spent for it abounds in romantic scenery. The road which we followed is a good one, though broken into numerous steep hills, but a part of the way we might as well have been travelling through a tunnel so far as seeing the country was concerned. A large proportion of the fences are made of earth, piled up four or five feet high, and on the top of this ridge are planted the hedges, generally reaching three or four feet higher. There were times when we could catch only an occasional glimpse of the landscape, and if such fences were everywhere in England they would be a serious deterrent upon motoring. Fortunately they prevail in a comparatively small section, for we did not find them outside of Cornwall and Devon. This experience served to impress on us how much we lost when the English landscapes were hidden, that the vistas which flitted past us as we hurried along were among the pleasantest features of our journey. It was little short of distressing to have mud fences shut from view some of the most fascinating country through which we passed. The greatest part of the day we spent in Exeter, the Rougemont Hotel where we stopped for the night, is spacious and comfortable, and a series of stained glass windows at the head of the Great Staircase tells the story of Richard III's connection with Exeter, how, according to Shakespeare's play, the Rougemont of Exeter recalled to the king's superstitious mind an ancient prophecy of his defeat at the hands of Richmond, later Henry VII. During Exeter early we planned to reach Bath in the evening, only eighty-one miles over an almost perfect road, not a very long run so far as actual distance is concerned, but entirely too long considering the places of unusual interest that lie along the way. We passed through the little town of Wellington, noted chiefly for giving his title to the Iron Duke, and it commemorates its great namesake by a lofty column reared on one of the adjacent hills. No town in Britain has an ecclesiastical history more important than Glastonbury, whose tradition stretches back to the very beginning of Christianity in the island. Legend has it that St. Joseph of Arimathea, who begged the body of Christ and buried it, came here in the year sixty-three and was the founder of the abbey. He brought with him, tradition says, the holy grail, and a thorn-tree staff which he planted in the abbey grounds became a splendid tree revered for many centuries as the holy thorn. The original tree has vanished, though there is a circumstantial story that it was standing in the time of Cromwell, and that a Puritan, who undertook to cut it down as savouring of idolatry, had an eye put out by a flying chip, and was dangerously wounded by his axe head flying off and striking him. With its awe-inspiring traditions, for which fortunately proof was not required, it is not strange that Glastonbury, for many centuries, was the greatest and most powerful ecclesiastical establishment in the kingdom. The buildings at one time covered sixty acres, and many hundreds of monks and dignitaries exerted influence on temporal as well as ecclesiastical affairs. It is rather significant that it passed through the Norman conquest unscathed, not even the greedy conquerors dared invade the sanctity of Glastonbury abbey. The revenue at that time is said to have been about fifty thousand pounds yearly, and the value of a pound then would equal twenty-five to fifty of our American dollars. However much the Normans respected the place, its sanctity had no terrors for the rapacious Henry VIII. The rich revenues appealed too strongly, and he made a clean sweep, hanging the mitred abbot and two of his monks on the top of Tor Hill. The abbey is the traditional burial-place of King Arthur and Queen Guinevere, and four of the Saxon kings sleep in unmarked graves within its precincts. Considering its once vast extent, the remaining ruins are scanty, although enough is left to show how imposing and elaborate it must have been in its palmy days. And there are few places in the kingdom where one is so impressed with the spirit of the ancient order of things, as when surrounded by the crumbling walls of Glastonbury abbey. At Wells is the cathedral that gives the town an excuse for existence. Although one of the smallest of these great English churches, it is in many respects one of the most symmetrical and beautiful. Its glory is centred chiefly in its west front, with deep buttresses and many sculpted images of kings and saints. We had only an unsatisfactory glimpse of the interior, as services happened to be in progress. The town of Wells is a mere adjunct to the cathedral. It has no history of its own, no great family has ever lived there, and it can claim no glory as the birthplace of distinguished sons. Still, it has a distinct charm as a quiet little summer-setshire town which has preserved its antiquity and fascination. Its name is taken from the natural Wells still found in the garden of the Bishop's Palace. Though it has the most remarkable Roman relics in the kingdom, it is largely modern. It is now a city of fifty thousand, and dates its rise from the patronage of royalty a century and a half ago. It is one of the towns the tumultuous could scarcely miss if he wished, so many fine roads lead into it, and I shall not attempt a special comment on a place so well known. Yet, as in our case, it may be a revelation to many who know of it in a general way, but have no adequate idea of the real extent of the Roman baths. These date from fifty to one hundred AD, and indicate a degree of civilization which shows that the Roman inhabitants in Britain must have been industrious, intelligent, and cleanly. Excavations have been conducted with great difficulty since the Roman remains lie directly under an important part of the city covered with valuable buildings. Nearly all of the bards in the vicinity of the springs have been uncovered and found in a surprising state of perfection. In many places the tiling, with its mosaic, is intact, and parts of the system of piping laid to conduct the water still may be traced. Over the springs has been erected the modern pump house, and many of the Roman baths have been restored to nearly their original state. In the pump house is a museum with hundreds of relics discovered in course of excavation, sculpture, pottery, jewelry, coin, and many other articles that indicate a high degree of civilization. Outside of the Roman remains the most notable thing in Bath is its abbey church, which, in impressive architecture and size, will compare favorably with many of the cathedrals. In fact, it originally was a cathedral, but in an early day the bishopric was transferred to Wells. There is no ruined fortress or castle in Bath, with its regulation lot of legends, possibly in an effort to remedy the defect that has been erected on one of the hills that overlook the town, a structure which goes by the epithet of the sham castle. On leaving Bath we followed the fine London Road as far as Chippenham, a prosperous agricultural town celebrated for its wool market. To the north of this is Marmsbury, with an abbey church whose history goes back to the ninth century. A portion of the nave is still used for services, and is remarkable for its massive pillars and Norman doorway, the great arch of which has perhaps a hundred rude carvings illustrating scenes from scripture history. The strong walls of the church caused it to be used at times as a fortress, and it underwent sieges in the different wars that raged over the kingdom. The verger pointed out to us deep indentations made by Cromwell's cannon, and told us that one of the abbey's vicissitudes was its use for some years as a cloth-manufacturing establishment. From Marmsbury we followed the road through Syroncester to Cheltenham, one of the most modern-looking cities which we saw in England. Like Bath it is famous for its springs, and a large share of its population is made up of retired officers of the army and navy. The main streets are very wide, nearly straight, and bordered in many places with fine trees. However its beginnings date from only about 1700, and therefore it has little claim on the tourist whose heart is set upon ancient and historic things. Of much greater interest is its neighbour Gloucester, about twelve miles away. The two cities are almost of the same size, each having about fifty thousand people. Gloucester can boast of one of the most beautiful of the cathedrals, whether considered from its imposing gothic exterior or its interior, rich with carvings and lighted by unusually fine stained-glass windows, one of which is declared to be the largest in the world. The cathedral was begun in 1088, but the main tower was not completed until nearly five hundred years later, which gives some idea of the time covered in the construction of many of these great churches. Gloucester boasts of great antiquity, for it is known that the Britons had a fortified town here which they defended against the Roman attacks, and after having become possessed of it, the Romans greatly strengthened it as a defence against incursions from the Welsh tribes. Before the Norman conquest it was of such importance that Edward the Confessor held his court in the town for some time. Being in the west country it naturally was a storm- centre in the parliamentary struggle, during which time a great deal of the city was destroyed, but there are many of the old portions still remaining and it has numbers of beautiful half-timbered buildings. One of these was the home of Robert Rakes, known to the world as the founder of the Sunday School. Gloucester is worthy of a longer stay than we were able to make, and in arranging an itinerary one should not fail to provide for a full day in the town. From Gloucester to Ross runs an excellent highway, though rather devoid of interest. It was thronged with motorists who generally dashed along in sublime disregard of the speed limits. We passed several who were occupied with roadside troubles, and we were in for an hour or so ourselves due to a refractory vibrator. The Welsh farmers who passed joked us good-naturedly, and once said he would stick to his horse until he had money to buy a motor. Then he added he wouldn't buy it, but would live on the income of the money. We told him that he was a man after Solomon's own heart. Certainly the evil spirit left the car, and she sprang away over the beautiful road in mad haste that soon landed us in Ross. Ross is a pretty village, situated on a green hillside overlooking the Y, and the tall graceful spire of its church dominates all views of the town. Although it was growing quite late, we did not stop here, but directed our way to Monmouth, twelve miles further on, which we reached just as the long twilight was turning into night. CHAPTER VIII. THROUGH BEAUTIFUL WHALES. Of no part of our tour does a pleasanter memory linger than of the five or six hundred miles on the highways of Wales. The weather was glorious, and no section of Britain surpassed the Welsh landscapes in beauty. A succession of green hills, in places impressive enough to be styled mountains, sloping away into wooded valleys, with here and there a quaint village, a ruined castle or abbey, or an imposing country mansion breaking on the view, all combined to make our journey through Wales one of our most pleasing experiences. Historic spots are not far apart, especially on the border, where for centuries these brave people fought English invaders, and with wonderful success considering the greatly superior number of the aggressors. I have already written of Ludlow and Shrewsbury on the north, but scarcely less attractive, and quite as important in early days are the fine old towns of Hereford and Monmouth on the southern border. We were everywhere favourably impressed with the Welsh people as being thrifty and intelligent. The roadside drinking-houses were not so numerous as in England, for the Welsh are evidently more temperate in this regard than their neighbours. My observation in this particular is borne out by an English writer well qualified to judge. He says, There is of a truth very little drinking now in rural Wales. The farming classes appear to be extremely sober. Even the village parliament, which in England discusses the nation's affairs in the village public house, has no serious parallel in Wales, for the detached cottage renting labourer, who is the mainstay of such gatherings, scarcely exists, and the farmer has other interests to keep him at home. Evidently the Welsh farmer does attend to his business in an industrious manner, for he generally has a substantial and prosperous appearance. People with whom we engaged in conversation were always courteous and obliging, and almost everything inspired to heighten our good opinion of the Welsh. The fusion with England is nearly complete, and the Welsh language is comparatively little used except by the older people. King Edward has no more loyal subjects than the Welshmen, but apparently they do not greatly inclined towards admitting his claims as their spiritual head. The Church of England in Wales is greatly inferior in numbers and influence to the various non-conformist branches. This is especially true of the more rural sections. We found Monmouth an unusually interesting town on account of its antiquity and the numerous historic events which transpired within its walls. At the King's Head Hotel, which of course afforded shelter to Charles I when he was touring Britain, we were able, with difficulty to find accommodation, so crowded was the house with an incursion of English trippers. Monmouth's chief glory and distinction is that it was the birthplace of King Henry V, Shakespeare's Prince Hal, whom William Watson describes as, the roistering prince that afterward belied his madcap youth and proved a greatly simple warrior-lord, such as our warrior father's loved. The scanty ruins of the castle where the prince was born still overlook the town, thus King Henry became the patron of Monmouth, and in front of the town hall has been erected an inartistic effigy of a knight in full armour, with the inscription, Henry V, born at Monmouth, August 9th, 1387. The old bridge over the river Mono is unique, with an old castellated gateway at one end, probably intended not so much for defence as for collecting tolls. After dark we wandered about the streets until the church tower chimes warned us of the lateness of the hour, and even these church bells have their history. When King Henry sailed from a seaport in France on one occasion, the inhabitants rang the bells for joy, which so incensed the monarch that he ordered the bells removed and presented them to his native town. We saw too little of Monmouth for the next morning we were away early, taking the fine road that leads directly south to Tintern and Chepstow. The abbey builders chose their locations with unerring judgment, always in a beautiful valley near a river or lake surrounded by fertile fields and charming scenery. Of the score of ruined abbeys which we visited there was not one that did not fulfil this description, and none of them to a greater extent, possibly accepting fountains than Tintern. In the words of an enthusiastic admirer, Tintern is supremely wonderful for its situation among its scores of rivals. It lies on the very brink of the river Y in a hollow of the hills of Monmouth, sheltered from harsh winds, warmed by the breezes of the channel, a very nook in an earthly Eden. Somehow the winter seems to fall more lightly here, the spring to come earlier, the foliage to take on a deeper green, the grass a greater thickness, and the flowers a more multitudinous variety. Certainly the magnificent church, almost entire except for its fallen roof, standing in the pleasant valley surrounded by forest-clad hills on every side, well merits such enthusiastic language. It is well that this fine ruin is now in the possession of the crown, for it ensures that decay will be arrested and its beauties preserved as an inspiration to art and architecture of later times. From Tintern to Chepstow we followed an unsurpassed mountain road. For three miles our car gradually climbed to the highest point, winding along the hillside, from which the valley of the seven, with its broad river, spread out beneath us in all the freshness of June Vajur, while on the other hand, for hundreds of feet sheer above us, sloped the hill with its rich curtain of forest trees, the lighter green of the summer foliage dashed with the somber gloom of the U. Just at the summit we passed the wind-cliff, towering five hundred feet above us, from which one may behold one of the most famous prospects in the island. Then our car started down a three-mile coast over a smooth and uniform grade, until we landed at the brow of the steep hill, which drops sharply into Chepstow. A rude gloomy fortress, Chepstow Castle must have been in its day of might, and time has done little to soften its grim and forbidding aspect. Situated on a high cliff, which drops abruptly to the river, it must have been well nigh invincible in days air castle walls crumbled away before cannon shots. It is of great extent the walls enclosing an area of about four acres, divided into four separate courts. The best preserved portion is the keep, or tower, in which the caretaker makes his home, but the fine chapel and banqueting hall were complete enough to give a good idea of their old-time state. We were able to follow a pathway around the top of the broad wall, from which was afforded a widely extended view over the mouth of the seven towards the sea. This is Martin's tower, said our guide, for in the dungeon beneath it the regicide, Henry Martin, spent the last twenty years of his life and died. The man spoke the word regicide, as though he felt the stigma that it carries with it everywhere in England, even though applied to the judge who condemned to death Charles Stewart, a man who well deserved to die. And when Britain punished the regicides and restored to power the perfidious race of the stewards, she was again putting upon herself the yoke of misgovernment and storing up another day of wrath and bloodshed. From Chepstow it is only a short journey to Raglan, whose ruined castle impressed us in many ways as the most beautiful we saw in Britain. It was far different from the rude fortress at Chepstow. In its best days it combined a military stronghold with the conveniences and artistic effects of a palace. It is fortunately one of the best preserved of the castellated ruins in the kingdom, impressive indeed where the two square towers flanking its great entrance, yet their stern aspect was softened by the heavy masses of ivy that covered them almost to the top. The walls, though roofless, were still standing so that one could gain a good idea of the original plan of the castle. The fireplaces, with elaborate mantles still in place, the bits of fine carvings that clung to the walls here and there, the grand staircase, a portion of which still remains, all combined to show that this castle had been planned as a superb residence as well as a fortress. From the Gwent Tower there was an unobstructed view stretching away in every direction toward the horizon. The day was perfect without even a haze to obscure the distance and save from Ludlow Castle I saw nothing to equal the prospect which lay beneath me when standing on Raglan Tower. Raglan's active history ended with its surrender August the 15th, 1646, to the parliamentary army under General Fairfax after a severe siege of more than two months. It was the last fortress in England to hold out for the lost cause of King Charles, and a brave record did its gallant defenders make against an overwhelmingly superior force. The Marquis of Worcester, though 85 years of age, held the castle against the Cromwellians until starvation forced him to surrender. The old nobleman was granted honourable terms by his captors, but Parliament did not keep faith, and he died a year later in the Tower of London. On being told a few days before his death that his body would be buried in Windsor Chapel, he cheerfully remarked, Why, God bless us all, then I shall have a better castle when I am dead than they took from me when I was alive. After the surrender the castle was dismantled by the soldiers, and the farmers in the vicinity emulated the parliamentary destroyers in looting the fine edifice. Seventeen of the stone staircases were taken away during the interval, and the Great Hall and Chapel were seriously injured. Enough of the massive walls is left to convey a vivid idea of the old and grandeur of the castle. The motto of the time-worn arms inscribed over the entrance speaks eloquently of the past, expressing in Latin the sentiment I scorn to change your fear. A quiet and pretentious old border town is Hereford, pleasantly located on the banks of the always-beautiful Why, the square tower of the Cathedral is the most conspicuous object when the town first comes into view, though dating in part from the 11th century, work on the Cathedral occupied the centuries until 1530, when it was practically completed as it now stands. The Vandal Wyatt, who dealt so hardly with Salisbury, had the restoration of the Cathedral in hand early in the 18th century. He destroyed many of its most artistic features, but recently his work was undone, and a second restoration was completed in about 1863. The structure as it now stands is mainly Norman in style, built of light brown stone and remarkably beautiful and imposing. Hereford Castle has entirely vanished, though a contemporary writer describes it as one of the fairest, largest and strongest castles in England. The site which it occupied is now a public garden, diversified with shrubbery and flowers. An ornamental lake indicates where once was the moat, but the outlines of the walls are shown only by grass-covered ridges. Its history was no doubt as stirring as that of others of the border castles, which more fortunately escaped annihilation. Despite its present atmosphere of peace and quietude, Hereford saw strenuous times in the fierce warfare which raged between the English and Welsh, though few relics of those days remain. The streets are unusually wide and with few exceptions the buildings are modern. Surrounding the town is a stretch of green, level meadow, upon which graze herds of the red and white cattle whose fame is wider than that of their native shire. No doubt there are many familiar with the sleek Herefords who have no idea from whence they take their name. Our hotel, The Green Dragon, had recently been refurnished and brightened throughout, and its excellent service was much better than we often found in towns the size of Hereford. Its well-planned motor-garage, just completed, showed that its proprietors recognised the growing importance of this method of touring. Our run from Hereford up the Y Valley to the sea, we agreed was one of our red-letter days. We passed through greatly varied scenery from the fertile level country around Hereford to the rough broken hills near the river's source, but the view was always picturesque in the highest degree. The road runs along the edge of the hills and the glorious valley with its brawling river spread out before us almost the entire day. At times we ran through forests, which cover the immense parks surrounding the country estates along the river. We saw many fine English country seats ranging from old castellated structures to apparently modern mansions. There are also a number of ruins along the valley, each with its romantic legends. At Hay, on the hill overlooking the town, is the castle, partly in ruins and partly in such state of repair as to be the summer home of the family that owns it. A little further, upon a knoll directly overhanging the river, are crumbling piles of stone where once stood Clifford Castle, the home of Fair Rosamond, whose melancholy story Tennyson has woven into one of his dramas. As we advanced further up the valley, the country grew wilder and more broken, and for many miles we ran through the towering hills that pass for mountains in Wales. These were covered with bright green verger to their very tops, and the flocks of sheep grazing everywhere lent an additional charm to the picture. At the foot of the hills the road follows the valleys with gentle curves and easy grades, the wide windles to the nearest brook, and some miles before we reached the coast we passed the headwaters of the river and followed a brook flowing in an opposite direction. The road over which we had travelled is not favourable for fast time, though comparatively level and with splendid surface it abounds in sharp curves and in many places runs along high embankments. The motor union has recommended that 18 miles per hour be not exceeded on this road. The distance from Hereford to Aberystwyth is only 90 miles, yet we occupied the greater part of the day in the trip, and had time permitted we would gladly have broken the journey at one of the quaint towns along the way. At many points advantage we stopped to contemplate the beauty of this scene. One would have to be a speed maniac indeed to scorch over the Y valley road. Aberystwyth is a seaside resort somewhat similar to Penzance. It is situated on the harbour at the foot of a high bluff, and its principal feature is the long row of hotels fronting on the ocean. Though mostly modern, it is by no means without history, as evidenced by its ruined castle overlooking the sea and vouching for the antiquity of the town. We left Aberystwyth next morning with considerable apprehensions. Our books and maps showed that we would encounter by odds the worst roads of our entire tour. A grade of one in five along the edge of an almost precipitous hill was not an alluring prospect, for we were little inclined toward hill-climbing demonstrations. Shortly after leaving the town we were involved in poorly kept country byways without signboards and slippery with heavy rains of the night before. After meandering among the hills and inquiring of the natives for towns the names of which they could not understand when we asked, and we could not understand when they answered, we came to Dynas Mawiddi, where there was little else than a handsome hotel. This reminded us that in our wanderings the hour for luncheon had passed. We stopped at the hotel, but found difficulty in locating anybody to minister to our wants, and so deliberate were the movements of the party who finally admitted responsibility that an hour was consumed in obtaining a very unpretentious repast. The hotelkeeper held out a discouraging prospect in regard to the hills ahead of us. He said that the majority of the motorists who attempted them were stalled and that there had been some serious accidents. We went on our way with considerable uneasiness as our car had not been working well, and later on trouble was discovered in a broken valve spring. However, we started over the mountain which showed on our road-book to be not less than three miles in length. There were many dangerous turns of the road which ran alongside an almost precipitous incline, where there was every opportunity for the car to roll a mile or more before coming to a standstill if it once should get over the edge. We crawled up the hill until within about fifty yards from the top, and right at this point there was a sharp turn on an exceedingly stiff grade. After several trials at great risk of losing control of the car, I concluded that discretion was sometimes the better part of Valor, and with great difficulty turned around and gave it up. We made a detour by way of Welshpool and Oswestry, where we came into the London and Hollyhead Road, bringing up for the night at Llangollan. We found it necessary to travel about sixty miles to get to the point which we would have reached in one fourth the distance had we succeeded in climbing the hill. It proved no hardship as we saw some of the most beautiful country in Wales, and travelled over a level road which enabled us to make very good time with the partly crippled car. Although Llangollan is a delightful town, my recollections of it are anything but pleasant. Through our failure to receive a small repair which I ordered from London, we were delayed at this place for two days, and as it usually chances in such cases, at one of the worst hotels whose hospitality we endured during our trip. It had at one time been quite pretentious, but had degenerated into a rambling dirty old inn, principally a headquarters for fishing parties and local trippers, and yet at this dilapidated old inn there were a number of guests who made great pretensions at style, women dressed for dinner in low-necked gowns with long trains, and the men attired themselves in dress suits of various degrees of antiquity. While we were marooned here, we visited Vale Cruces Abbey about a mile distant. The custodian was absent, or in any event could not be aroused by vigorously ringing the cowbell suspended above the gate, and we had to content ourselves with a very unsatisfactory view of the ruin over the stone wall that enclosed it. The environments of Glangolin are charming in a high degree. The flower-bordered lanes lead past cottages and farmhouses surrounded by low stone walls, and half hidden by brilliantly coloured creepers. Bits of woodland are interspersed with bright green sheep pastures, and high almost mountainous bluffs overhang the valley. On the very summit of one of these is perched a ruined castle whose inaccessible position discouraged nearer acquaintance. The country around Glangolin was beautiful, but the memory of the hotel leaves a blight overall. We were happy indeed when our motor started off again with the steady, powerful hum that so delights the soul of the driver, and it seemed fairly to tremble with impatience to make up for its enforced inaction. Though it was eight o'clock in the evening, it was anything to get away from Glangolin, and we left with a view of stopping for the night at Betsy Coed, about thirty miles away. With our motor-car racing like mad over the fine highway, there was no danger of police traps at that hour, we did not stop to inquire about the dog that went under the wheels in the first village we passed. However, the night set in suddenly, and a rain began to fall heavily before we had gone half the distance we proposed. We had experienced trouble enough in finding the roads in Wales during the daytime, and the prospect of doing this by night and in a heavy rain was not at all encouraging, and we per force had to put up at the first place that offered itself. A proposition to stop at one of the so-called Inns along the road was received with alarm by the good woman who attended the bar. She could not possibly care for us, and she was loud in her praises of the Saracen's Head at Kerrig Udruivian, only a little further on, which she represented as a particular haven for motorists. The appearance of our car with its rapidly vibrating engine and glaring headlights before the Saracen's Head created considerable commotion among the large family of the host and the numerous guests, who like Tom O'Shanta were snug and cosy by their inglenook while the storm was raging outside. However, the proprietor was equal to the occasion and told me that he had just come from Liverpool to take charge of the Inn, and that he hoped to have the patronage of motorists. With commendable enterprise he had fitted up a portion of his barn and had labeled it Motor Garage in huge letters. The stable man was also excited over the occasion, and I am sure that our car was the first to occupy the newly created garage, which had no doubt been cut off from the cow stable at a very recent date. The shelter of the Saracen's Head was timely and grateful nonetheless, and no one could have been kindlier or more attentive than our hostess. We had a nicely served lunch in the Hotel Parla, which was just across the hallway from the lounging-room, where the villagers assembled to indulge in such moderate drinking as Welshmen are addicted to. The public room was a fine old apartment with open-beamed ceiling, not the sham with which we decorate our modern houses, but real open beams that supported the floor, and one end of the room was occupied by a great open fireplace with old-time spits and swinging cranes. Overhead was hung a supply of hams and bacon, and on iron hooks above the door were suspended several dressed fouls on the theory that these improved with age. We were given a small but clean and neat apartment from which I suspicion the younger members of the landlord's family had been unceremoniously ousted to make room for us. The distressing feature was the abominable beds, but as these prevailed in most of the country hotels at which we stopped, we shall not lay this up too strongly against the Saracen's head. I noticed that on one of the window panes someone had scribbled with a diamond, September the 4th, 1726, which would seem to indicate that the original window was there at that time. The house itself must have been considerably older. If rates had been the sole inducement, we should undoubtedly have become permanent borders at the Saracen's head, for I think that the bill for our party was seven shillings for supper, room, and breakfast. We left Carigou Druivian next morning in a grey driving rain with drifting fogs that almost hid the road at times. A few miles brought us to the Conway River, the road closely following the stream through the picturesque scenery on its banks. It was swollen by heavy rains, and the usually insignificant river was a wild torrent dashing in rapids and waterfalls over its rocky bed. The clouds soon broke away, and for the remainder of the day the weather was as fine as could possibly be wished for. Betsy Coed is the most famous of mountain towns in Wales, and its situation is indeed romantic. It is generally reputed to be the chief Welsh honeymoon resort and a paradise for fishermen, but it has little to detain the tourist interested in historic Britain. We evidently should have fared much differently at its splendid hotel from what we did at Carigou Druivian, but we were never sorry for our enforced sojourn at the Saracens Head. The road from Betsy Coed to Canaverne is a good one, but steep in places, and it passes through some of the finest mountain scenery in Wales. It leads through the pass of Clanburys and past Snowdon, the king of the Welsh mountains, though tame indeed to one who has seen the Rockies. Snowdon, the highest in the kingdom, rises not so much as 4,000 feet above the sea level. Canaverne Castle is conceded from many points of view to be the finest ruin in the kingdom. It does not occupy an eminence, as did so many castles whose position contributed much to their defence, but it depended more on its lofty watchtowers and the stupendous strength of its outer walls. These are built of solid granite with a thickness of 10 feet or more in vital places, and it is doubtful if even the old-time artillery would have made much impression upon them. Its massive construction no doubt counts for the wonderful preservation of the outer walls, which are almost entire, and Canaverne Castle, as viewed from the outside, probably appears very much the same as it did when the builders completed the work about 1300. It was built by King Edward I as a royal residence from which to direct his operations against the Welsh, which finally resulted in the conquest of that people by the English invaders. In a little dungeon-like room, tradition declares that Edward II, first Prince of Wales, was born. This is vigorously insisted upon in the local guidebook as an actual historic fact, although it is quite as vigorously disputed by numerous antiquarians, uninfluenced by Canaverne's interests. The castle is now the property of the town and is well looked after. Leaving Canaverne, our next objective was Conway, whose castle is hardly less famous and even more picturesque than that of its neighbour, though in more ruinous condition. The road we followed closely skirts the coast for a great part of the distance, running at times on the verge of the ocean. In places it reminds one of the axon stress of Lake Lucerne, being cut in the side of the cliffs overhanging the sea, with here and there great masses of rock projecting over it, and passes occasionally through a tunnel cut in the stone. A few miles north of Canaverne, we pass through Bangor, one of the most prosperous-looking towns in north Wales, and the seat of one of the few Welsh cathedrals, along Low, though not unpleasing building. The sight of this cathedral had been continuously occupied by a church since the 6th century, although the present structure dates from the 13th. An hour's run after leaving Bangor brought us in sight of the Towers of Conway Castle, nowhere in Britain does the spirit of medievalism linger as it does in the ancient town of Conway. It is still surrounded by its old wall with 21 watchtowers, and the three gateways originally leading into the town have been recently restored. The castle stands on the verge of a precipitous rock and its outer walls are continuous with those of the town. It is a perfect specimen of a 13th century military fortress, with walls of enormous thickness flanked by eight huge circular towers. It was built by Edward I in 1284. Several times it was besieged by the Welsh, and on one occasion came near falling into their hands while the king himself was in the castle. It was besieged during the parliamentary wars, but for some unaccountable reason it was not destroyed or seriously damaged when captured. Its present dilapidated state is due to the action of its owner, Lord Conway, shortly after in dismantling it to sell the lead and timber of the building, and it was permitted to fall into gradual decay. The castle with its eight towers and bridge, which matches it in general style and which was built about fifty years ago, is one of the best known objects in the whole kingdom. It has been made familiar to everybody through innumerable photographs and pictures. When we drew our car up in front of the castle, it was in Gala attire and was the scene of activity which we were at a loss to account for. We soon learned that the Wesleyans or Welsh Methodists were holding a festival in the castle, and the shilling we paid for admission included a nicely served lunch of which the Welsh strawberries were the principal feature. The occasion was enlivened by music from the local band and songs by young girls in the old Welsh costume. This led us to ask if the Welsh language were in common use among the people. We were told that while the older people can speak it, it does not find much favor among the younger generation, some of whom are almost ashamed to admit knowledge of the old tongue. English was spoken everywhere among the people at the gathering, and the only Welsh heard was in some of the songs by the girls. We wondered about the ruin and ascended the towers which afford a fine view of the town and river. There seems to have been little done in the way of restoration or repair, but so massive are the walls that they have splendidly stood the ravages of time. On leaving Conway we crossed the suspension bridge paying a goodly toll for the privilege. It was already growing late when we left the town, but the fine level road and the unusually willing spirit evinced by our motor enabled us to cover the fifty miles to Chester before night set in. Chester stands a return visit well and so does the spacious and hospitable Gravener Hotel. It was nearly dark when we reached the city and the hotel was crowded, the season now being at its height. We had neglected to wire for reservation, but our former stop at the hotel was not forgotten and this stood us in good stead in securing accommodations. So comfortably were we established that we did not take the car out of the garage the next day but spent our time in leisurely revisiting some of the places that had pleased us most. The next day we were early away for the north. I think that no other stretch of road of equal length was more positively unattractive than that we followed from Chester to Penrith. Even the roadbook whose objects of interest were in some cases doubtful to say the least could name only the battlefield of 1648 near Preston and one or two minor objects in a distance of 100 miles. I recalled the comment of the touring secretary of the Motor Union as he rapidly drew his pencil through this road as shown on the map. Bad road, rough pavement houses for thirty miles at a stretch right on each side of the street crowds of children everywhere but you cannot get away from it very well. All of which we verified by personal experience. At starting it seemed easy to reach Carlisle for the night but progress was slow and we met an unexpected delay at Warrington twenty miles north of Chester. A policeman courteously notified us that the main street of the city would be closed three hours for a Sunday school parade. We had arrived five minutes too late to get across the bridge and out of the way. We expressed our disgust at the situation and the officer made the conciliatory suggestion that we might be able to go on any way. He doubted if the city had any authority to close the main street one of the king's highways on account of such a procession. We hardly considered our rights so seriously infringed as to demand such a remedy and we turned into the stable yard of a nearby hotel to wait until the streets were clear. In the meantime we joined the crowd that watched the parade. The main procession of five or six thousand children was made up of Sunday schools of the Protestant churches the Church of England and the non-conformists. The Catholics whose relations in England with Protestants are strained to a much greater extent than in the United States did not join but formed a smaller procession in one of the side streets. The parade was brilliant with flags and with huge banners bearing portraits of the king and queen though some bore the names and emblems of the different schools. One small fellow proudly flourished the stars and stripes which was the only foreign flag among the thousands in the procession. In this connection I might remark that one sees the American flag over here far oftener than he would traveling in America. We found nothing but the kindest and most cordial feeling toward Americans everywhere and the very fact that we were Americans secured us special privileges in not a few cases. After the procession had crossed the bridge a policeman informed us that we could proceed. We gained considerable time by making a detour through side streets not an altogether easy performance and after much inquiry regained the main road leading out of the city. Warrington is a city of more than 120,000 inhabitants a manufacturing place with nothing to detain the tourist. On the main street near the river is a fine bronze statue of Oliver Cromwell one of four that I saw erected to the memory of the protector in England. Our route from Warrington led through Wigan and Preston manufacturing cities of nearly 100,000 each and the suburbs of the three are almost continuous. Tram cars were numerous and children played everywhere with utter unconcern for the vehicles which crowded the streets. When we came to Lancaster we were glad to stop although our day's journey had only covered 60 miles. We knew very little of Lancaster and resorted to the guidebooks for something of its antecedents only to learn the discouraging fact that here as everywhere the Romans had been ahead of us. The town has a history reaching back to the Roman occupation but its landmarks have been largely obliterated in the manufacturing centre which it has become. Charles Dickens was a guest at Lancaster and in recording his impressions he declared it a pleasant place dropped in the midst of a charming landscape a place with a fine ancient fragment of a castle a place of lovely walks and possessing many staid old houses richly fitted with Honduras mahogany and followed with other reflections not so complementary concerning the industrial slavery which prevailed in the city a generation or two ago. The fine ancient fragment of a castle has been built into the modern structure which now serves as the seat of the county court. The square tower of the Norman Keep is included in the building. This in general style and architecture conforms to the old castle which accepting the fragment mentioned by Dickens has long since vanished. Near at hand is St. Mary's Church rivalling in size and dignity many of the cathedrals and its massive buttressed walls and tall graceful spire do justice to its magnificent site. From the eminence occupied by the church the Irish Sea is plainly visible and in the distance the almost tropical Isle of Man rises abruptly out of the blue waters. The monotony of our previous days travel was forgotten in lively anticipation as we proceeded at what seemed a snail's pace over the fine road leading from Penrith to Carlisle. We had been warned at Penrith not against the bold highwaymen the border moss troopers or the ranting highlandmen of song and story but against a plain 20th century police trap which was being worked very successfully along this road. Such was our approach in these degenerate days to Mary Carlisle which figured so largely in the endless border warfare between the Scotch and English. But why the town should have been famed as Mary Carlisle would be hard to say unless more than a thousand years of turmoil, bloodshed and almost ceaseless warfare through which it passed earned it the cheerful appellation. The trouble between the English and the Welsh ended early but it has been only a century and a half ago since the closing scene of the long and bitter conflict between the North and South was enacted at Carlisle. Its grim old castle was the scene of the imprisonment and execution of the last devoted followers of Prince Charlie and according to Scotch Waverly the dashing but sadly deluded young chieftain Fergus McIver was one of those who suffered a shameful death. In this connection one remembers that Scotch's marriage to Miss Carpentia took place in Carlisle an event that would naturally accentuate our interest in the final border city. As we had previously visited Carlisle our stay was a short one but its remarkable history its connection with the stories of Walter Scott its atmosphere of romance and legend and the numerous points of interest within easy reach all combined to make it a centre where one might spend several days. The Romans had been here also and they too had struggled with the wild tribes on the North and from that time down to the execution of the last adherence of the stewards in 1759 the town was hardly at any time in a state of quietude. As described by an observant writer every man became a soldier and every house that was not a mere peasants hut was a fortress. A local poet of the 17th century summed it up in a terse if not elegant couplet as his unqualified opinion that who so then in the border did dwell lived little happier than those in hell. But Carlisle is peaceful and quiet enough at the present time a place of considerable size and with a thriving commerce its castle a plain and unimpressive structure still almost intact has been converted into military barracks and its cathedral which according to an old chronicle in 1634 impressed three observant strangers as a great wild country church has not been greatly altered in appearance since that period. It suffered severely at the hands of the parliamentary soldiers who tore down a portion of the nave to use the materials in strengthening the defenses of the town. But the story of Carlisle could not be told in many volumes if the mere hint of its great interest which I have given here can induce any fellow tourist to tarry a little longer at Mary Carlisle it will be enough. Leaving Carlisle we crossed Solway Tide and found ourselves in the land of Bluebells and Heather the Bonnie Scotland of Robert Burns. Shortly after crossing the river a signboard pointed the way to Gretna Green that old time haven of eloping lovers who used to cross the Solway just as the tide began to rise and before it subsided there was little for the paternal ancestors to do but forgive and make the best of it. But we missed the village for it was a mile or two off the road to Dumfries which we hoped to reach for the night and unexpected difficulty with the car nearly put this out of the range of possibility but by grace of the long scotch twilight we came into Dumfries about ten o'clock without finding it necessary to light our lamps. Our day's journey had been a tiresome one and we counted ourselves fortunate on being directed to the station hotel which was as comfortable and well managed as any we found. The average railway hotel in America is anything but an attractive proposition but in Scotland and in England conditions are almost reversed. The station hotels under the control of the different railway companies being generally the best. We had been attracted to Dumfries chiefly because of its association with Robert Burns who spent the last years of his life in the town or in its immediate vicinity. Our first pilgrimage was to the poet's tomb in St. Michael's Churchyard. A splendid memorial marks the place but a visit to the small dingy house a few yards distant in which he died painfully reminded us of his last years of distress and absolute want. Within easy reach of Dumfries lie many points of interest but as our time permitted us to visit only one of these we selected Kea Lavrock Castle the Ellen Gowan of Scots guy manoring lying about 10 miles to the south. In location and style of construction it is one of the most remarkable of the Scotch ruins. It stands in an almost level country near the coast and must have depended for defense on its enormously thick walls and the great double moat which surrounded it rather than the strength of its position. The castle is built of dark brown stone and the walls rising directly from the waters of the moat and covered with masses of ivy are picturesque though in a sad state of disrepair. Bits of artistic carving and beautiful windows showed that it was a palace as well as a fortress though it seemed strange that the builder should select such a site. In common with most British castles it was finally destroyed by Cromwell and the custodian showed us a pile of cannon balls which he had gathered in the vicinity. On one of the stones of the inner wall where the initials are B and the date 1776 which our guide assured us were cut by Robert Burns and there are certain peculiarities about the monogram which leave little doubt that it was the work of the poet. From the battlements of the castle the old man pointed to a distant hill where he told us the home of the Carlyles had been for many years and where Thomas Carlyle who was born at Echelfetchen lies buried. Within a few miles of Dempfries is Ellisland Farm where Robert Burns was a tenant for several years and many of his most famous poems were written during that period and besides there were old abbeys and castles galore within easy reach and glad indeed we should have been had we been able to make the station hotel our headquarters for a week and devote our time to exploring but we were already behind schedule and the afternoon found us on the road to Eyre. A little more than half the distance from Dempfries to Eyre the road runs through the Nith Valley with river and forest scenery so charming as to remind us of the why. The highway is a splendid one with fine surface and easy grades it passes through an historic country and the journey would consume a long time if one should pause at every point that might well repay a visit. A mile on the way is Lynn Cluden Abbey in whose seclusion Burns wrote many of his poems the most famous of which the vision of liberty begins with a reference to the ruin as I stood by Yon Rufeless Tower where wall flowers sent the dewey air where the Owlet Lone in her Ivy Bower tells to the midnight moon her care. Ellisland farm is only a few miles further on the road never to be forgotten as the spot where Tammo Shanta was written the farm home was built by Burns himself during what was probably the happiest period of his life and he wrote many verses that indicated his joyful anticipation of life at Ellisland farm. But alas the best lay plans are mice and men gang off the clay and the personal experience of few men has more strikingly proven the truth of the now famous lines than of Robert Burns himself. Many old castles and magnificent mansions crown the heights overlooking the river but we caught only glimpses of some of them surrounded as they were by immense parks close to the public. Every one of the older places underwent many and strange vicissitudes in the long years of border warfare and of them all Drumlanre Castle founded in 1689 is perhaps the most imposing. For ten years it's builder the first Earl of Queensbury laboured on the structure only to pass a single night in the completed building never to revisit it and ending his days grieving over the fortune he had squandered on this many-towered pile of grey stone. We may not loiter along the Nithdale Road rich as it is in traditions and relics of the past are progressed through such a beautiful country had been slow at the best and a circular signboard bearing the admonition ten miles per hour posted at each of the numerous villages on the way was another deterrent upon undue haste. The impression that lingers with us of these small scotch villages is not a pleasant one. Rows of low grey stone slate-roofed cottages straggling along a single street generally narrow and crooked and extending for distances depending on the size of the place made up the average village utterly unrelieved by the artistic touches of the English cottages and without the bright dashes of colour from flowers and vines with square harsh lines and drab colouring everywhere these scotch villages seemed bleak and comfortless. Many of them we passed through on this road among them Sandcar with its castle once a strong and laudely fortress but now in a deplorable state of neglect and decay and Morshleen where Burns farmed and sang before he removed to Dumfries. It was like passing into another country when we entered air which despite its age and the horary traditions which cluster around it is an up-to-date appearing sea-port of about 30,000 people. It is a thriving business town with an unusually good electric streetcar system fine hotels and not to be forgotten by motorists excellent garages and repair shops. Air is one of the objective points of nearly every tourist who enters Scotland its associations with Burns his birthplace Kirk Allaway his monument the Tois Briggs the Brigadoon and the numerous other places connected with his memory and air and its vicinity need not be dwelt on here. An endless array of guidebooks and other volumes will give more information than the tourist can absorb and his motorcar will enable him to rapidly visit such places as he may choose. It will be of little incumbrance to him for he may leave the car standing at the side of the street while he makes a tour of the haunts of Burns at Allaway or elsewhere. It was a gloomy day when we left air over the fine highway leading to Glasgow but before we had gone very far it began to rain steadily. We passed through Kilmarnock the largest city in Ayrshire here a splendid memorial to Burns has been erected and connected with it is a museum of relics associated with the poet as well as copies of various editions of his works. This reminds one that the first volume of poems by Burns was published at Kilmarnock and in the cottage at air we saw one of the three existing copies which had been purchased for the collection at an even thousand pounds. We threaded our way carefully through Glasgow for the rain which was coming down heavily made the streets very slippery and our car showed more or less tendency to the dangerous skid. Owing to former visits to the city we did not pause in Glasgow though the fact is that no other large city in Britain has less to interest the tourist. It is a great commercial city having gained in the last one hundred years three quarters of a million inhabitants. Its public buildings, churches and other showplaces accepting the cathedral lack the charm of antiquity. After striking the Dumbarton road exit from the city was easy and for a considerable distance we passed near the Clyde shipyards the greatest in the world where many of the largest merchant and war vessels have been constructed. Just as we entered Dumbarton whose castle loomed high on a rocky island opposite the town the rain ceased and the sky cleared with that changeful rapidity we noticed so often in Britain. Certainly we were fortunate in having fine weather for the remainder of the day during which we passed perhaps as varied and picturesque scenery as we found on our journey. For the next thirty miles the road closely followed the west shore of Loch Lomond and for the larger part of the way we had a magnificent panorama of the lake and the numberless green islands that rose out of its silvery waters. Our view in places was cut off by the fine country estates that lay immediately on the shores of the lake but the grounds rich with shrubbery and bright with flowers were hardly less pleasing than the lake itself. These prevailed at the southern portion of the lake only and for at least twenty miles the road closely followed the shore leading around short turns on the very edges of steep embankments or over an occasional sharp hill conditions that made careful driving necessary. Just across the lake which gradually grew narrower as we went north lay the low Scotch Mountains their green outlines subdued by a soft blue haze but forming a striking background to the ever varying scenery of the lake and opposite shore. Near the northern end on the farther side is the entrance to the Trossacks made famous by Scotch's Lady of the Lake. The roads to this region are closed to motors the only instance that I remember where public highways were thus interdicted. The lake finally dwindled to a brawling mountain stream which we followed for several miles to Cree and Larratt a rude little village nestling at the foot of the rugged hills. From here we ran due west to Oben and for twenty miles of the distance the road was the worst we saw in Scotland being rough and covered with loose sharp stones that were ruinous to tires. It ran through a bleak unattractive country almost devoid of habitations and with little sign of life accepting the flocks of sheep grazing on the short grasses that covered the steep stony hillsides. The latter half of the distance the surroundings are widely different and excellent though winding and narrow road leading us through some of the finest scenes of the Highlands. Especially pleasing was the ten-mile jaunt along the north shore of Loch Orr with the glimpses of Kilken Castle which we caught through occasional openings in the thickly clustered trees on the shore. View ruins are more charmingly situated than Kilken standing as it does on a small island rising out of the clear waters the crumbling walls overgrown with ivy and wallflowers. The last fifteen miles were covered in record time for us for it was growing exceedingly chilly as the night began to fall and the Scotch July day was as fresh and sharp as in America in October. Oben is one of the most charming of the north of Scotland resort towns and is becoming one of the most popular. It's situated on a little land-locked bay generally white in summertime with the sails of pleasure vessels. Directly fronting the town just across the harbour are several ranges of hills fading away into the blue mists of the distance and forming, together with the varying moods of sky and water, a delightful picture. Overhanging the town from the east is the scanty ruin of Dunnolly Castle little more than a shapeless pile of stone covered over with masses of ivy. Viewed from the harbour the town presents a striking picture and the most remarkable feature is the great Coliseum on the hill. This is known as McCague's Tower and was built by an eccentric citizen some years ago merely to give employment to his fellow townsmen. One cannot get an adequate idea of the real magnitude of that structure without climbing the steep hill and viewing it from the inside. It is a circular tower pierced by two rows of windows and it is not less than three hundred feet in diameter the wall ranging in height from thirty to seventy-five feet from the ground. It lends a most striking and unusual appearance to the town but among the natives it goes by the name of McCague's Folly. From Oban as a centre numberless excursions may be made to old castles, lakes of surpassing beauty and places of ancient and curious history. None of the latter are more famous than the island of Iona lying about thirty-five miles distant and accessible by steamer two or three days of each week in summertime. We never regretted that we abandoned the car a day for the trip to this quaint spot and its small sister island Staffa, famed for Fingol's Cave and the curious natural columns formed by volcanic action. The round trip covers a distance of about seventy-five miles and occupies eight or ten hours. Iona is a very small island with a population of no more than fifty, but it was a place of importance in the early religious history of Scotland and its odd little cathedral which is now in ruins except the nave but recently restored was originally built in the eleventh century. Weird and strange indeed is the array of memorials rudely cut from Scotch granite that mark the resting places of the chiefs of many forgotten clans while a much higher degree of art is shown in the regular and even delicate designs traced on the numerous old crosses still standing. In olden days Iona was counted sacred ground after the landing of St Columba in 563 and its fame even extended to Sweden and Denmark whose kings at one time were brought here for internment. We were fortunate in having a fine day the sky being clear and the sea perfectly smooth. We were thus enabled to make landing at both isles a thing that is often impossible on accounts of the weather. This circular trip for the returners made by the sound of Mull is a remarkably beautiful one the steamer winding in and out through the straits among the islands and between shores wild and broken they're always picturesque and often impressive. Many of the hills are crowned with ruined fortresses and occasionally an imposing modern summer residences to be seen. Competent judges declare that provided the weather is fine no more delightful short excursion by steamer can be made on the British coast than the one just described. Three miles from Oben lies done Staffnish Castle a royal residence of the Pictish Kings bearing the marks of extreme antiquity. It occupies a commanding position on a point of land extending far into the sea and almost surrounded by water at high tide. We visited it in the fading twilight and a lonelier more ghostly place it would be hard to imagine. From this old castle was taken the Stone of Destiny upon which the Pictish Kings were crowned but which is now the support of the coronation chair in Westminster Abbey. A place so rich in romantic legend could not be expected to escape the knowledge of the Wizard of the North and Scott made more than one visit to this solitary ruin. As a result the story of done Staffnish has been woven into the legend of Montrose as Ardenvore and the description may be easily recognised by anyone who visits the old castle. Oben is modern a place of many and excellent hotels fronting on the bay. So far only a small percent of its visitors are Americans and the indifferent roads leading to the town to scourge the motorist. Had we adhered to the route outlined for us by the motor union secretary we should have missed it altogether. We had made a stop in the town two years before and yet there are few places in Britain that we would rather visit a third time than Oben. The North of Scotland is rapidly becoming little more than a pleasure ground for the people of the kingdom and its attractions are yearly drawing a larger number of Americans. There are practically no European visitors but that is largely true of the entire kingdom. The people of the continent consider Britain a chilly unattractive land. Its historic and literary traditions so dear to the average American who holds a common language do not appeal to those who think their own country is superior to any other in these particulars. It is only a natural consequence that Scotland outside of the three or four larger cities is becoming like Switzerland a nation of hotel keepers and very excellent ones they are. The scotch hotels average as good as any in the world one finds them everywhere in the Highlands every lake every ruin frequented by tourists has its hotel many of them find structures of native granite substantially built and splendidly furnished. We left Oban over the route by which we came since no other was recommended to motorists. Our original plan to follow the Caledonian canal to Inverness was abandoned on account of difficult roads and numerous ferries with poor and infrequent service. After waiting three hours to get an accumulator which had been turned over to a local repairman 36 hours before with instructions to have it charged and returned promptly we finally succeeded in getting off. This delay is an example of those which we encountered again and again from failure to get prompt service especially when we were making an effort to get away before 10 or 11 in the morning. It was no hardship to follow more leisurely than before the road past Loch Orr whose sheet of limpid water lay like a mirror around Kilkern castle under the cloudless noonday sky. A little further on at Dalmally we paused at a pleasant old country hotel where the delicious scotch strawberries was served fresh from the garden. It was a quaint, clean quiet place and the landlord told us that aside from the old castles and fine scenery in the vicinity its chief attraction to guests was trout fishing in neighbouring streams. We were two days in passing through the heart of the Highlands from Oben to Inverness over about 200 miles of excellent road running through wild and often beautiful scenery but there were few historic spots as compared with the coast country. The road usually followed the edge of the hills often with a lake or mountain stream on one hand. From Crane Larich we followed the sparkling doka until we reached the shore of Loch Tay about 20 miles distant. From the mountain side we had an unobstructed view of this narrow but lovely lake lying for a distance of 20 miles between ridges of sharply rising hills. White, low hung clouds half hid the mountains on the opposite side of the lock giving the delightful effect of light and shadow for which the Scotch Highlands are famous and which the pictures of Watson, Graham, and Fakuharsen have made familiar to nearly everyone. At the northern end of the lake we caught distant glimpses of the battle-minted towers of Taymouth Castle home of the Marquess of Breedlebane which, though modern, is one of the most imposing of the Scotch country seats. If the castle itself is imposing what shall we say of the estate extending as it does westward to the sound of Mull a distance of 100 miles a striking example of the inequalities of the feudal system. Just before we crossed the bridge over the Tay River near the outlet of the lake we noticed a grey old mansion with many gothic towers and gables Grand Tully Castle made famous by Scott as the Tully Veerland of Waverly. Nearby is Kinniad House where Robert Louis Stevenson wrote Treasure Island. A few miles further on we came to Pitt Lockery a surprisingly well-built resort with excellent hotels and a mammoth hydropathic that dominates the place from a high hill. The town is situated in the very centre of the Highlands surrounded by hills that supply the grey granite used in its construction and here we broke our journey for the night. Our way to Inverness was through a sparsely inhabited wildly broken country with half a dozen mean-looking villages at considerable distances from each other and an occasional hut or wayside in between. Although it was July and quite warm for the north of Scotland the snow still lingered on many of the low mountains and in some places it seemed that we might reach it by a few minutes walk. There was little along the road to remind one of the staring times or the plated and kilted Highlander that Scott has led us to associate with this country. We saw one old man the keeper of a little solitary inn in the very heart of the hills arrayed in the full glory of the old time garb plaid, tartan, sporen and skeindew all set off by the plumed glengarry cap a picturesque old fellow indeed. And we met further on the way a dirty looking youth with his bagpipes slung over his shoulder in dilapidated modern garb he was anything but a fit descendant of the minstrels whose fame has come down to us in song and story. Still he was glad to play for us and despite his general resemblance to an everyday American tramp it was something to have heard the skull of the bagpipe in the pass of Killy Cranky. And after all the hills, the veils, and the locks were there and everywhere on the low green mountains grazed endless flocks of sheep. They lay leisurely in the roadway or often trotted unconsernedly in front of the car occasioning at times a speed limit even more unsatisfactory than that imposed in the more popular centers by the police traps. Incidentally we learned that the finest sheep in the world and vast numbers of them are produced in Great Britain. When we compare them with the class of animals raised in America it's easy to see why our wool and mutton average so greatly inferior. A clean quiet charming city is Inverness the capital of the Highlands as the guidebooks have it. It is situated on both shores of its broad sparkling river so shallow that the small boys with turned up pantaloons wade across it in summertime while an arm of the sea defines the boundary on the northeast. Though tradition has it that Macbeth built a castle on the site of the present structure it disappeared centuries ago and there is now little evidence of antiquity to be found in the town. The modern castle is a massive rambling brown stone building less than a hundred years old now serving as a county court. The cathedral is recent having been completed in the last quarter of a century. It is an imposing church of redstone the great entrance being flanked by low square top towers. As a center for tourists Inverness is increasingly popular and motorcars are very common. The roads of the surrounding country are generally excellent and a trip of two hundred miles will take one to John O'Groats the extreme northern point of Scotland. The country around has many spots of interest Cordeaux Castle where tradition says Macbeth murdered Duncan is on the Nairn Road and on the way to this one may also visit Culloden Moor a grim, shelterless waste where the adherents of Prince Charlie were defeated April 16th 1746. This was the last battle fought on British soil and the site is marked by a rude round tower built from stones gathered from the battlefield. From Inverness an unsurpassed highway leads to Aberdeen a distance of a little over one hundred miles. It passes through a beautiful country the northeastern Scottish lowlands which looked as prosperous and productive as any section we saw. The smaller towns appeared much better than the average we had so far seen in Scotland Nairn, Huntley, Forests, Keith and Elgin more resembling the better English towns of similar size than Scotch towns which we had previously passed through. At Elgin are the ruins of its once splendid cathedral which in its best day easily ranked as the largest and most imposing church in Scotland. Time has dealt hardly with it and the shattered fragments which remain are only enough to confirm the story of its magnificence. Fire and vandals who tore the lead from the roof for loot having done their worst the cathedrals served the unsentimental scots of the vicinity as a stone quarry until recent years but it is now owned by the crown and every precaution taken to arrest further decay. The skies were lowering when we left in Venice and the latter half of the journey was made in the hardest rainstorm we encountered on our tour. We could not see ten yards ahead of us and the water poured down the hills in torrents yet our car ran smoothly on the fine Macadam road being little affected by the deluge. The heavy rain ceased by the time we reached Inverruy a grey bleak looking little town closely following a winding street but the view from the high bridge which we crossed just on leaving the place made full amends for the general ugliness of the village. It would be hard to find anywhere a more beautiful city than Aberdeen with her clean massively built structures of native grey granite thickly sprinkled with mica facets that make it fairly glitter in the sunlight. Everything seems to have been planned by the architect to produce the most pleasing effect and careful note must have been taken of surroundings and location in fitting many of the public buildings into their niches. We saw few more imposing structures in Britain than the new post office at Aberdeen and it was typical of the solidity and architectural magnificence of the Queen City of the North. But Aberdeen will be on the route of any tourist who goes to Northern Scotland so I will not write of it here. It is a great motoring centre with finely built and well equipped garages. As originally planned we were to go southward from Aberdeen by the way of Braymar and Balmoral in the very heart of the Highland country the route usually followed by British motorists. It passes through wild scenery but the country has few historic attractions. The motor union representative had remarked that we should probably want to spend several days at Braymar, famous for its scenic surroundings, the wild and picturesque dales, lakes and hills near at hand. But to Americans, from the country of the Yellowstone and Yosemite, the scenery of Scotland can be only an incident in a tour. From this consideration we prefer to take the coast road southward which, though it passes through a comparatively tame looking country, is thickly strewn with places replete with stirring and romantic incidents of Scottish history. Nor had we any cause to regret our choice. Fifteen miles south of Aberdeen we came in sight of Denota Castle lying about two miles from the highway. We left the car by the roadside and followed the footpath through the fields. The ruin stands on a high precipitous headland projecting far out into the ocean and cut off from the land side by a deep irregular ravine and the descent and ascent of the almost perpendicular sides was anything but an easy task. A single winding footpath leads to the grim old gateway and we rang the bell many times before the custodian admitted us. Inside the gate the steep ascent continues through a rude tunnel-like passageway. It sides for a distance of one hundred feet or more pierced with many an embrasure for archers or musketeers. Emerging from this we came into the castle court the centre of the small plateau on the summit of the rock. Around us rose the broken straggling walls bare and bleak without a shred of ivy or wallflower to hide their grim nakedness. The place was typical of a rude semi-barbarous age an age of rapine, murder and ferocious cruelty and its story is as terrific as one would anticipate from its forbidding aspect. Here it was the one to rob a barons to retire with their prisoners and loot and later on account of the inaccessibility state and political prisoners were confined here from time to time. In the frightful Wiggs Vault a semi-subterranean dungeon one hundred and sixty covenanters men and women were for several months confined by orders of the infamous clava house. A single tiny window looking out on the desolate ocean furnished the sole light and air for the great cavern and the story of the suffering of the captives is too dreadful to tell here. The vault was ankle deep in mire and so crowded were the prisoners that no one could sit without leaning upon another. In desperation and at great risk a few attempted to escape from the window once they clambered down the precipitous rock but most of them were retaken and after frightful torches were thrown into a second dungeon underneath the first where light and air were almost wholly excluded. Such was Scotland in the reign of Charles Stuart II and such a story seemed in keeping with the vast dismal old fortress. But Dunotir secluded and lonely as it was did not escape the far-reaching arm of the Lord Protector and in 1562 his cannon planted on the height opposite the headland soon brought the garrison to terms. It was known that the Scottish regalia the crown believed to be the identical one worn by Bruce at his coronation the jeweled scepter and the sword of state presented to James IV by the Pope had been taken for safety to Dunotir held in repute as the most impregnable stronghold in the North. The English maintained a close blockade by sea and land and were in strong hopes of securing the coveted relics. The story is that Mrs. Granger the wife of a minister of a nearby village who had been allowed by the English to visit the castle on her departure carried the relics with her concealed about her clothing. She passed through the English lines without interference and the precious articles were safely disposed of by her husband who buried them under the flagstones in his church at Kinef where they remained until the restoration of 1660. The English were intensely disappointed at the loss. The minister and his wife did not escape suspicion and were even subjected to torture but they bravely refused to give information as to the whereabouts of the regalia. We wondered about following our rheumatic old guide who pointed out the different apartments to us and in Scotch so broad that we had to follow him very closely told us the story of the fortress. From the windows everywhere was the placid, shimmering summer sea, its surface broken into silvery ripples by the fresh morning wind but it was left to the imagination to conceive the awful desolation of Danota Castle on a gray and stormy day. The old man conducted us to the keep and I looked over a year's record in the visitor's book without finding a single American registered and was more than ever impressed as to the manner in which the motor-car will often bring the tourist from the states into a comparatively undiscovered country. The high tower of the keep, several hundred feet above the sea afforded scope for a most magnificent outlook. One could get a full sweep of the bleak and sterile country through which we had passed, lying between Aberdeen and Stonehaven and which Scotch celebrated as the Muir of Drum Thwackett. It was with a feeling of relief that we passed out of the forbidding portals into the fresh air of the pleasant July day leaving the old custodian richer by a few shillings to wonder that the American invasion had reached this secluded old fortress on the wild headland washed by the German ocean. From Stonehaven we passed without special incident to Montrose following an excellent but rather uninteresting road though an occasional fishing village and frequent view of the ocean broke the monotony of the flying miles. Montrose is an ancient town delightfully situated between the ocean and a great basin connected with the sea by a broad strait over which a suspension bridge five hundred feet long carried us southward. I recall that it was at Montrose where an obliging garage man loaned me an accumulator my batteries had been giving trouble scouting the idea of a deposit and I gave him no more than my agreement to return his property when I reached Edinburgh. At our broth are the ruins of the most extensive of the Scotch Abbey's scanty indeed but still enough to show its state and importance in the days of faith. Here once reigned the Good Abbot celebrated by Southy in his ballad of Ralph the Rover familiar to every schoolboy. Ten miles off the coast is the reef where the Abbot of Aberbroathock had placed a bell on the inch cape rock like a boy in the storm it floated and swung and over the waves its warning rung and where the pirate out of pure malice to vex the Abbot of Aberbroathock cut the bell from its boy only to be lost himself on the reef a year later. The Abbey was founded by William the Lion in 1178 but war, fire and fanaticism have left it sadly fragmentary. Now it is the charge of the town but the elements continue to war upon it and the brittle red sandstone of which it is built shows deeply the wear of the sea wind. Dundee no longer the Bonnie Dundee of the old ballad is a great straggling manufacturing city whose ancient landmarks have been almost swept away. Its church is a modern its one remaining gateway of doubtful antiquity and there is little in the city itself to detain the tourist. If its points of interest are too few to warrant to stay its hotels should the one given in the guidebook and also locally reputed to be the best really merit this distinction will hardly prove an attraction. It is a large six-story building fairly good looking from the outside but inside dirty and dilapidated with ill-furnished and uncomfortable rooms. When we inquired of the manageress as to what might be of a special interest in Dundee she considered a while and finally suggested the cemetery. From our hotel window we had a fine view of the broad estuary of the Tay with its great bridge said to be the longest in the world. It recalled the previous Tay bridge which fell in a storm in 1879 carrying down a train from which not a single one of the seventy or more passengers escaped. Around Dundee is crowded much of historic Scotland and many excursions worth the while may be made from the city by those whose time permits. From Dundee an excellent road leads to Sterling by the way of Perth. There is no more beautiful section in Scotland than this though its beauty is not the rugged scenery of the Highlands. Low hills rising above the wooded valleys with clear streams winding through them and usually prosperous looking farmhouses and frequent historic ruins and places all combined to make the forty or fifty miles a delightful drive. We did not pause at Perth, a city with a long line of traditions nor at Dunblane with its severely plain cathedral founded in eleven hundred but recently restored. Sterling, the ancient capital with its famous castle, its memories of early kings of Wallace, Bruce and of Mary Stuart and with its wonderfully beautiful and historic surroundings is perhaps the most interesting town of Scotland. No one who pretends to see Scotland will miss it and no motor tour worthy of the name could be planned that would not lead through the quaint old streets. From afar one catches a glimpse of the castle perched like that of Edinburgh on a mighty rock rising almost sheer from a delightfully diversified plain. It is a many-towered structure piercing the blue sky and surrounded by an air of sullen inaccessibility while the Red Cross flag flying above it proclaims it a station of the King's army. It is not by any means the castle of the days of Bruce and Wallace having been rebuilt and adapted to the purpose of military barracks. True, many of the ancient portions remain but the long laborious climb to the summit of the rock and the battlements of the castle will, if the day be fine, be better repaid by the magnificent prospect than by anything else. If the barrack castle is a little disappointing, the wide sweep of country fading away into the blue mountains on the west, Ben Venue, Ben Lede and Ben Lomond of the Lady of the Lake, eastward the rich lowlands running for miles and miles down the fertile valley of the fourth, dotted with many towns and villages, the wooded hills to the north with the massive tower of the Wallace Monument and the dim outlines of the ruins of Canberra-Skeneth Abbey, or near at hand the old town under your very eye and the historic field of Bannockburn, just adjoining, will make ample amends. The story of the Lady of the Lake pictures sterling in its palmiest days and no one who visits the castle will forget the brilliant closing scene of the poem. Here, too, the Rose of Stuart's line has left the fragrance of her name. For Mary was hurried for safety to the castle a few days after her birth at Linlithgow Palace and, as a mere baby, was crowned Queen of Scotland in the chapel. The parish church was also the scene of many coronations, and in the case of James VI, later James I of England, John Knox preached the sermon. One cannot go far in Scotland without crossing the path of Prince Charlie or standing in the shadow of some ancient building associated with the melancholy memory of Queen Mary, and despite the unquestioned loyalty of the Scottish people to the present government, there seems to linger everywhere a spirit of regret over the failure of the Chevalier day to regain the throne of his father's. Perhaps it is scarcely expressed, only some were dropped in casual conversation, some flash of pride as you are pointed to the spots where Prince Charlie's triumphs were won, or some thinly veiled sentiment in local guidebooks, will make it clear to you that Scotland still cherishes the memory of the Prince for whom her father's suffered so much. Passing Falkirk, now a large manufacturing town, dingy with the smoke from its great furnaces, we were reminded that near here, in 1746, the Prince gained one of his most decisive victories, the precursor of the capture of Edinburgh by his army. A few miles further on is Lynn Lithgow, with its famous palace, the birthplace of the Queen of Scots. This more accords with our idea of a royal residence than the fortified castles, for it evidently was never intended as a defensive fortress. It stands on the margin of a lovely lake, and considering its delightful situation and its comparative comfort, it is not strange that it was a favourite residence of the Scottish kings. It owes its dismantled condition to the wanton spite of the English dragoons, who, when they retreated from Lynn Lithgow in face of the Highland army in 1746, left the palace in flames. From Lynn Lithgow the broad highway led us directly into Edinburgh by the way of Princess Street. End of Chapter 10 Chapter 11 of British Highways and Byways from a Motor Car by Thomas Dowler Murphy This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Christine Blashford Chapter 11 From Edinburgh to Yorkshire Two men, above all others and everything else, are responsible for their romantic fame, which the bleak and largely barren land of Scots enjoys the English speaking world over. If Robert Burns and Walter Scott had never told the tales and sung the songs of their native land, no endless streams of pilgrims would pour to its shrines, and its history and traditions would be vastly second in interest to those of England and Wales. But the Wizard of the North touched Scotiers' rough hills with the rosy hues of his romance. He threw the glamour of his story around its crumbling ruins. Through the magic of his facile pen, its petty chiefs, and marauding nobles, assumed heroic mould and its kings and queens, rulers over a mere handful of turbulent people, were awakened into a majestic reality. Who would care ought for Prince Charlie or his horde of beggarly Highlanders, were it not for the song of Burns and the story of Scots? Nor would the melancholy fate of Queen Mary have been brought so vividly before the world, but wherefore multiply instances to illustrate an admitted fact. In Edinburgh we were near the centre from which Scots vast influences radiated, the traditions of Burns overshadowed south-western Scotland, and the memories of Scots seemed to be identified with the cities, the villages, the solitary ruins, the hills and veils of the eastern coast. We note as we pass along Princess Street, one of the finest thoroughfares in Britain, the magnificent monument to the great author, the most majestic tribute ever erected to a literary man, a graceful gothic-spire towering two hundred feet into the sky. The city is full of his memories. Here are many of the places he celebrated in his stories, his haunts for years, and the house where he retired after financial disaster to face a self-chosen battle with a gigantic debt which he might easily have evaded by a mere figment of the law. However, one can hardly afford to take from a motetour the time which should rightly be given to Edinburgh, for the many attractions of the Athens of the North might well occupy a solid week. Fortunately, a previous visit by rail two years before had solved the problem for us, and we were fairly familiar with the more salient features of the city. There is one side-trip that no one should miss, and though we had once journeyed by railway trained to Melrose Abbey and Abbotsford House, we could not forego a second visit to these famous shrines, and to Driver Abbey which we had missed before. Thus again we had the opportunity of contrasting the motor-car and the railway train. I remembered distinctly our former trip to Melrose by rail. It was on a Saturday afternoon holiday when crowds of trippers were leaving the city, packed in the uncomfortable compartments like sardines in a box, not one in a dozen having a chance to sit. We were driven from Melrose to Abbotsford House at a snail's pace, consuming so much time that a trip to Driver Abbey was out of the question, though we had left Edinburgh about noon. By motor we were out of the city about three o'clock, and though we covered more than eighty miles, we were back before lamp-lighting time. The road to Driver Abbey runs nearly due south from Edinburgh, and the country through which we passed was hardly so prosperous-looking as the north-eastern section of Scotland, much of it rather rough-looking country, adapted only for sheep grazing, and appearing as if it might be reclaimed moorland. The tomb of Walter Scott is in Driver Abbey, and with the possible exception of Melrose it probably has more visitors than any other point in Scotland outside of Edinburgh. The tourist season had hardly begun, yet the caretaker told us that more than seventy people had been there during the day, and most of them were Americans. The Abbey lies on the margin of the River Tweed, the silver stream so beloved of Scott, and though sadly fragmentary, is most religiously cared for, and the decay of time and weather held in check by constant repairs and restoration. There are many thousands of admission fees every year, no doubt form a fund which will keep this good work going indefinitely. The weather-beaten walls and arches were overgrown with masses of ivy and the thick, green grass of the newly mown lawns spread beneath like a velvet carpet. We had reached the ruin so late that it was quite deserted, and we felt the spirit of the place all the more as we wandered about in the evening silence. Scott's tomb, that of his wife and their eldest son, are in one of the chapels whose vaulted roof still remains in position. Tall iron gates between the arches enclose the graves which are marked with massive sarcophagi of Scotch granite. The Abbey was at one time the property of the Scott family, which accounts for its use as their burial ground. It has passed into other hands, but interments are still made on rare occasions. The spot was one which always interested and delighted Scott, and it was his expressed wish that he be buried there. We had been warned that the byways leading to the Abbey from the north of the Tweed were not very practicable for motors, and we therefore approached it from the other side. This made it necessary to cross the river on a flimsy suspension bridge for foot passengers only, and a notice at each end peremptorily forbade that more than half a dozen people pass over the bridge at one time. After crossing the river it was a walk of more than a mile to the Abbey, and as we were tempted to linger rather long it was well after six o'clock when we recrossed the river and resumed our journey. Melrose is twelve miles further on, and the road crosses a series of rather sharp hills. We paused for a second glimpse of Melrose Abbey, which has frequently been styled the most perfect and beautiful ecclesiastical ruin in Britain. We were of the opinion, however, that we had seen at least three or four others more extensive and of greater architectural merit. Undoubtedly the high praise given Melrose is due to the fame which it acquired from the poems and stories of Scott. The thousands of pilgrims who come every year are attracted by this alone since the Abbey had no extraordinary history and no tomb of king or hero is to be found in its precincts. Were it not for the weird interest which the lay of the last minstrel has thrown around Melrose its fame would probably be no greater than that of the Abbeys of Jedbur and Kelso in the same neighbourhood. Abbotsford House is only three miles from Melrose, but it is closed to visitors after five o'clock, and we missed a second visit, which we should have liked very much. Upon such things the motorist must fully inform himself, or he is liable to many disappointments by reaching his objective point at the wrong time. We return to Edinburgh by the way of Galashiels, a manufacturing town of considerable size that lay in a deep valley far below the road which we were following along the edges of the wooded hills. This road abounded in dangerous turns, and caution was necessary when rounding sharp curves that, in places, almost described a circle. We had a clear right of way, however, and reached Edinburgh before nine o'clock. A delightful feature of summer touring in Britain is the long evening, which is often the pleasantest time for travelling. The highways are usually quite deserted, and the mellow effect of the sunsets and the long twilight often lend an additional charm to the landscapes. In the months of July and August in Scotland, daylight does not begin to fade away until from nine to ten, and in northern sections the dawn begins as early as two or three o'clock. During our entire tour we found it necessary to light our lamps only two or three times, although we were often on the road after nine o'clock. Though Edinburgh has unusually broad and well-paved streets, it is a trying place for a motorist. The people make little effort to keep to the sidewalk, but let the fellow who is driving the car do the looking out for them. In no city through which we pass did I find greater care necessary. Despite all this, accidents are rare owing to the fact that drivers of motorcars in Great Britain have had the lesson of carefulness impressed upon them by strict and prompt enforcement of police regulations. We left Edinburgh the next four noon, with a view of making barricade tweed our stopping place for the evening, not a long distance in miles, but a considerable one measured in spots of historical importance. The road much of the way skirts the ocean and is a magnificent highway leading through a number of quaint towns famous in Scotch song and story. Numerous battlefields are scattered along the way, but we found it difficult to locate a battlefield when we passed it and generally quit trying. In fact, in the days of border warfare the whole south of Scotland was the scene of almost continuous strife, and battles of greater or less importance were fought everywhere with the English in the centuries of fierce hatred which existed between the two nations. The Scots held their own wonderfully well, considering their greatly inferior numbers and the general poverty of their country. The Union, after all, was brought about not by conquest but by a Scotch king going to London to assume the crown of the two kingdoms. The famous old town of Berwick on tweed bore the brunt of the incursions from both sides on the eastern coast, as did Carlyle on the west. The town of Dunbar, situated on the coast about midway between Edinburgh and Berwick, was of great importance in border history. It had an extensive and strongly fortified castle, situated on the margin of a cliff overhanging the ocean, and which was for a time the residence of Queen Mary after her marriage with Darnley. Nothing now remains of this great structure save a few crumbling walls of red sandstone which are carefully propped up and kept in the best possible repair by the citizens, who have at last come to realize the cash value of such a ruin. If such a realization had only come a hundred years ago, a great service would have been done the historian and the antiquarian. But this is no less true of a thousand other towns than of Dunbar. No queen to edifice did we see in all Britain than Dunbar's 15th century town hall. It seemed more characteristic of an old German town than of Scotland. This odd old building is still the seat of the city government. Our route from Dunbar ran for a long way between the hills of Lammemore and the ocean, and abounded in delightful and striking scenery. We were forcibly reminded of Scott's mournful story, The Bride of Lammemore, as we passed among the familiar scenes mentioned in the book, and it was the influence of this romantic tale that led us from the main road into narrow byways and sleepy little coast towns, innocent of modern progress, and undisturbed by the rattle of railway trains. No great distance from Berwick and directly on the ocean stands Fast Castle, said to be the prototype of the wolf's crag of Lammemore. This wild story has always interested me in my boyhood days, and for years I had dreamed of the possibility of sometimes seeing the supposed retreat of the melancholy master of Ravenswood. We had great difficulty in locating the castle, none of the people seeming to know anything about it, and we wandered many miles among the hills through narrow, unmarked byways, with little idea of where we were really going. At last, after dint of inquiry, we came upon a group of houses which we were informed were the headquarters of a large farm of about two thousand acres, and practically all the people who worked on the farm lived with their families in these houses. The superintendent knew of Fast Castle, which he said was in a lonely and inaccessible spot, situated on a high, broken headland overlooking the ocean. It was two or three miles distant, and the road would hardly admit of taking the car any further. He did not think the ruin was worth going to see anyhow, it had been cared for by no one, and within his memory the walls had fallen in and crumbled away. Either his remarks or the few miles walk discouraged me, and after having travelled fully thirty miles to find this castle, I turned about and went on without going to the place at all, and of course I now regretted as much as anything I failed to do on our whole tour. I shall have to go to Fast Castle yet, by motor-car. After regaining the main road, it was only a short run along the edge of the ocean to barricon tweed, which we reached early in the evening. I recall no more delightful day during our tour. It had been fresh and cool, and the sky was perfectly clear. For a great part of the way, the road had passed within view of the ocean, whose deep, unruffled blue, entirely unobscured by the mists, which so often hang over the northern seas, stretched away until it was lost in the pale sapphire hues of the skies. The country itself was fresh and bright after abundant rains, and as haymaking was in progress in many places along the road, the air was laden with the scent of the newly mown grasses. Altogether it was a day long to be remembered. Barricon tweed lies partly in England and partly in Scotland, the river which runs through it forming the boundary line. An odd bridge, built by James I, connects the two parts of the town, the highest point of its archway being nearest the Scottish shore, and giving the effect of having its middle at one end, as some scotch wit has expressed it. The town was once strongly fortified, especially on the Scottish side, and a castle was built on a hill commanding the place. Traces of the wall surrounding the older part of the city still remain. It is easy to follow it throughout its entire course. When the long years of border warfare ended, a century and a half ago, the town inside of the wall must have appeared much the same as it does today. It is a town of crooked streets and quaint buildings set down without the slightest reference to the points of the compass. The site of the castle is occupied by the railway station, though a few crumbling walls of the former structure still remain. The station itself is now called the Castle, and reproduces on a smaller scale some of the architectural features of the ancient fortress. We started southward from Barric the following morning over the fine road leading through Northumberland. About ten miles off this road, and reached by narrow byways, is the pleasant little sea-coast village of Bambra, and the fame of its castle tempted us to visit it. I had often wondered why some of the old-time castles were not restored to their pristine magnificence. What we should have if Kenilworth or Raglan were rebuilt, and to their ancient glory there were added all the modern conveniences for comfort. I found in Bambra Castle a case exactly to the point. Lord Armstrong, the millionaire shipbuilder, had purchased this castle, almost a complete ruin, and when he began restoration, only the Norman Tower of the Keep was intact, and besides this there was little except the foundation walls. Lord Armstrong entirely rebuilt the castle following the original plan and designs, and the result is one of the most striking and pleasing of the palatial residences in England. The situation, on a high headland extending into the ocean, commands a view in every direction, and completely dominates the sleepy little village lying just beneath. The castle is of great antiquity, the record showing that a fortress had been built on this side in the fifth century by Ida, King of Northumberland, though the present building largely reproduces the features of the one founded in the time of the Conqueror. Lord Armstrong died the year before the work on the castle was completed, and it passed into the hands of his nephew. It is open to visitors only one day in the week, and it happened, as usual, that we had arrived on the wrong day. Fortunately the family were absent, and our plea that we were Americans, who had come a long distance to see the place was quite as effective here as in other cases. The housekeeper showed us the palace in detail that we could hardly have hoped for under other circumstances. The interior is fitted in the richest and most magnificent style, and I have never seen the natural beauties of woodwork brought out with better effect. How closely the old-time construction was followed in the restoration is shown by the fact that the great open roof of the Banqueting Hall is put together with wooden pins, no nail having been used. The castle has every modern convenience, even hot water heating, a rare thing in England being installed. When we saw what an excellent result had been attained in the restoration, we could not but wonder that such a thing has not often been done. In the village churchyard is the massive grey granite monument erected to the memory of Grace Darling, who lived and died in Bambra, and a brass tablet in the ancient church is inscribed with the record of her heroism. The lighthouse, which was kept by her father, is just off Bambra Head, and it was from this, in the face of a raging storm that she launched her frail boat and saved several people from a foundering ship. Only four years later she succumbed to consumption, but her unparalleled bravery has made the name of this young girl a household word wherever the English language is spoken. On leaving Bambra, we came as nearly getting lost in the narrow, winding byways, as at any time during our tour, a bridge under repair on the direct route to the main road compelled us to resort to byways which were unmarked by signboards, and in as ill condition as many American roads, nor could the people of whom we inquired give us intelligent direction. We finally reached the road again after a loss of an hour or more. A short time afterwards we came to Olmwick, whose castle is one of the most extensive and complete specimens of medieval architecture in England. In the last century it has been largely restored, following out the original design of the exterior at least, and is now the residence of the Duke of Northumberland. Usually it is open to visitors, but in the confusion that followed the visit of the King the day before, the castle and its great park had been closed until the next week. We had seen the interior of so many similar places that this was not so much of a disappointment, especially as we had a splendid view of the old fortress from the outside and also from the courtyard. On the battlements of this castle are numerous stone figures of men in the act of hurling down missiles on the heads of foes who might besiege it. This was quite common in early days, and feudal barons perhaps thought to make up for their shortage of real men by placing these effigies on the walls of their fortresses. But Olmwick is the only castle on which the figures still remain. The town itself was still in holiday attire in honour of its royal guest of the preceding day. The buildings were covered with the national colours, and many decorations and illuminations had been planned to celebrate the occasion. Olmwick is one of the most typical of the English feudal towns. It is owned largely by the Duke of Northumberland, who appears to be popular with his tenantry, the latter having erected, in honour of their noble landlord, a lofty column surmounted by the figure of a lion. Every view from the distance for miles around is dominated by the battle-minted and many towered walls of the castle, which surmounts a hill overlooking the town. The story of Olmwick and its castle would be long to tell, for they bore the brunt of many scotching kersians, and suffered much at the hands of the fierce marauders from the north. Our afternoon's run led us from Olmwick to Durham, passing through Newcastle on Tyne. Newcastle is a large commercial city, famous for its mining and shipbuilding industries, and has but little to engage the attention of the tourists. Our pause was a short one, and we reached Durham in good time after a run of over one hundred miles, broken by several lengthy stops on the way. The main street of Durham in many places is barely wide enough for two vehicles to pass. It winds and twists through the town in such a way that one seems to be almost moving in a circle at times, and constant inquiry is necessary to keep from being lost on the main street of a city of fifteen or twenty thousand. The town is almost as much of a jumble as if its red tile-roof buildings had been promiscuously thrown to their places from Cathedral Hill. Durham is strictly an ecclesiastical centre. There is little except the Cathedral, which, in addition to being one of the most imposing, occupies perhaps the finest site of any of the great English churches. Together with Durham Castle, it monopolises the summit of a hill which at its base is three quarters surrounded by the river. The greater part of the Cathedral dates back seven or eight hundred years, but additions have been made from time to time so that nearly all styles of architecture are represented. Tradition has it that it was founded by St. Cuthbert, whose chief characteristic is declared to have been his antipathy toward women of all degrees. A curious relic of this peculiarity of the St. remains in a granite cross set in the centre of the floor of the knave, beyond which, in the earlier days, no woman was ever allowed to pass. The interior of the church is mainly in the massive and imposing Norman style. The carved stone screen is one of the most elaborate and perfect in Britain, and dates back from the thirteenth century. The verger told us of the extreme care which must be taken to preserve this relic. He said that the stone of the screen is rather soft and brittle, and that in cleaning it was never touched, the dust being blown away with bellows. Durham, in common with most of the cathedrals, suffered severely at the hands of the parliamentarians and a Cromwell. It was used as a prison for a part of the Scotch army captured at the Battle of Dunbar, and as these Presbyterians had almost as much contempt for images as the Cromwellians themselves, many of the beautiful monuments in the cathedral were broken up. Durham, like Canterbury, is a town that is much favoured by the artists, and deservedly so. The old buildings lining the winding river and canal form in many places delightful vistas, in soft colours almost as picturesque as bits of Venice itself. The hotels, however, are far from first class, and one would probably be more comfortable at Newcastle. Speaking of hotels, we did not at any time engage accommodations in advance, and Durham was the only town where we found the principal hotel with all rooms taken. With the rapid increase of motoring, however, it will probably become necessary to telegraph for accommodations at the best hotels, and telegraphing is an exceedingly easy thing in England. A message can be sent from any post office at a cost of six pence for the first ten words.