 Chapter 1 of British Highways and Biways from Emotokar Stratford on Avon stands first on the itinerary of nearly every American who proposes to visit the historic shrines of Old England. Its associations with Britain's immortal bard and with our own gentle Geoffrey Crayon are not unfamiliar to the various laymen, and no fewer than thirty thousand pilgrims, largely from America, visit the delightful Old Town each year, and whoever came away disappointed, who, if impervious to the charm of the place, ever dared to own it. My first visit to Stratford on Avon was in the regulation fashion, imprisoned in a dusty and comfortless first-class apartment, first-class is an irony in England when applied to railroad travel, a mere excuse for charging double. We shot around the curves, the glorious Warwickshire landscapes fleeting past in a haze or obscured at times by the drifting smoke. Our reveries were rudely interrupted by the shriek of the English locomotive, like an exaggerated toy whistle, and with a mere glimpse of town and river we were brought sharply up to the unattractive station of Stratford on Avon. We were hustled by an officious porter into an omnibus which rattled through the streets, until we landed at the sign of the Red Horse, and the manner of our departure was even the same. Just two years later, after an exhilarating drive of two or three hours over the broad, well-kept highway winding through the park-like fields, fresh from may-showers between Worcester and Stratford, our motor finally climbed a long hill, and there, stretched out before us, lay the valley of the Avon. Far away we caught the gleam of the immortal river, and rising from a group of splendid trees we beheld Trinity Church, almost unique in England for its graceful combination of massive tower and slender spire, the literary shrine of the English-speaking world, the enchanted spot where Shakespeare sleeps. About it were clustered the clean tiled roofs of the charming town, set like a gem in the Warwickshire landscape, famous as the most beautiful section of old England. Our car slowed to a stop, and only the subdued hum of the motor break the stillness, as we saw Stratford on Avon from afar, conscious of a beauty and sentiment that made our former visit seem commonplace indeed. But I am not going to write of Stratford on Avon. Thousands have done this before me, some of them of immortal fame. I shall not attempt to describe or give details concerning a town that is probably visited each year by more people than any other place of the size in the world. I am simply striving, in a few words, to give the different impressions made upon the same party who visited the town twice in a comparatively short period, the first time by railway train and the last by motor car. If I have anything to say of Stratford it will come in due sequence in my story. There are three ways in which a tourist may obtain a good idea of Britain during a summer's vacation of three or four months. He may cover most places of interest after the old manor by railway train. This will have to be supplemented by many and expensive carriage-drives if he wishes to see the most beautiful country and many of the most interesting places. As Professor Goldwin Smith says, railways in England do not follow the lines of beauty in very many cases, and the opportunity afforded of really seeing England from a railway car window is poor indeed. The tourist must keep a constant eye on the timetables, and in many of the more retired places he will have to spend a day when an hour would suffice quite as well could he get away. If he travels first class it is quite expensive, and the only advantage secured is that he generally has a compartment to himself, the difference in accommodations between first and third class on the longer distance trains being insignificant. But if he travels third class he very often finds himself crowded into a small compartment with people in whom, to say the least, he has nothing in common. One seldom gets the real sentiment and beauty of a place in approaching it by railway. I am speaking of course of the tourist who endeavours to crowd as much as he can into a comparatively short time. To the one who remains several days in a place railroad travelling is less objectionable. My remarks concerning railroad travel in England are made merely from the point of comparison with a pleasure journey by motor, and having covered the greater part of the country in both ways I am qualified to some extent to speak from experience. For a young man or party of young men who are travelling through Britain on a summer's vacation the bicycle affords an excellent and expeditious method of getting over the country, and offers nearly all the advantages of the motor-car provided the rider is vigorous and expert enough to do the wheeling without fatigue. The motorcycle is still better from this point of view, and many thousands of them are in use on English roads, while cyclists may be counted by the tens of thousands. But the bicycle is out of the question for an extended tour by a party which includes ladies. The amount of impedimenta which must be carried along, and the many long hills which are encountered on the English roads will put the cycle out of the question in such cases. In the motor-car we have the most modern and thorough means of traversing the highways and byways of Britain in the limits of a single summer, and it is my purpose in this book, with little pretensions to literary style, to show how satisfactorily this may be done by a mere layman. To the man who drives his own car, and who at the out-start knows very little about the English roads and towns, I wish to undertake to show how in a trip of five thousand miles occupying about fifty days actual travelling time I covered much of the most beautiful country in England and Scotland, and visited a large proportion of the most interesting and historic places in the kingdom. I think it can be clearly demonstrated that this method of touring will give opportunities for enjoyment, and for gaining actual knowledge of the people and country that can hardly be attained in any other way. The motor-car affords expeditious and reasonably sure means of getting over the country, always ready when you are ready, subservient to your whim to visit some inaccessible old ruin, flying over the broad main highways, or winding more cautiously in the unfrequented country byways, and is with all a method of locomotion to which the English people have become tolerant, if not positively friendly. Further, I am sure it will be welcome news to many that the expense of such a trip under ordinary conditions is not at all exorbitant or out of the reach of the average world-to-do citizen. Those who have travelled for long distances on American roads can have no conception whatever of the delights of motor travelling on the British highways. I think there are more bad roads in the average county, taking the states throughout, than there are in all of the United Kingdom, and the number of defective bridges in any county outside of the immediate precincts of a few cities would undoubtedly be many times greater than in the whole of Great Britain. I am speaking, of course, of the more travelled highways and country byways. There are roads leading into the hilly sections that would not be practicable for motors at all, but fortunately these are the very roads over which no one would care to go. While the gradients are generally easier than in the states, there are in many places sharp hills where the car must be kept well under control, but the beauty of it is that in Britain one has the means of being thoroughly warned in advance of the road conditions which he must encounter. The maps are perfect to the smallest detail and drawn to a large scale, showing the relative importance of all the roads, and upon them are plainly marked the hills that are styled dangerous. These maps were prepared for cyclists, and many of the hills seem insignificant to a powerful motor. However, the warning is none the less valuable, for often other conditions requiring caution prevail, such as a dangerous turn on a hill or a sharp descent into a village street. Then there is a set of books, four in number, published by an Edinburgh house and illustrated by profile plans covering about thirty thousand miles of road in England and Scotland. These show the exact gradients and supply information in regard to the surface of the roads and their general characteristics. Beside this, the objects of interest scattered along any particular piece of road are given in brief, information at once so desirable and complete as to be a revelation to an American. There are signboards at nearly every crossing, only in some of the more retired districts did we find the crossroads unmarked. With such advantages as these it is easily seen that a tour of Britain by a comparative stranger is not difficult, that a chauffeur or a guide posted on the roads is not at all necessary. The average tourist, with the exercise of ordinary intelligence and a little patience, can get about any part of the country without difficulty. One of the greatest troubles we found was to strike the right road in leaving a town of considerable size, but this was overcome by the extreme willingness of any policeman or native to give complete information, often so much in detail as to be rather embarrassing. The hundreds of people from whom we sought assistance in regard to the roads were without exception most cheerful and willing compliance, and in many places people who appeared to be substantial citizens volunteered information when they saw a stop at the town crossing to consult our maps. In getting about the country little difficulty or confusion will be experienced. Generally speaking the hotel accommodations in the provincial towns throughout England and Scotland are surprisingly good. Of course there is a spice of adventure in stopping occasionally at one of the small wayside inns, or at one of the old hostelries more famous for its associations than for comfort, but to one who demands first class service and accommodations a little of this will go a long way. Generally it can be so planned that towns with strictly good hotel accommodations can be reached for the night. Occasionally an unusually comfortable and well ordered hotel will tempt the motorist to tarry a day or two and possibly to make excursions in the vicinity. Such hotels we found at Chester and York for instance. The country hotel keeper in Britain is waking up to the importance of motor travel. Already most of the hotels were prepared to take care of this class of tourists, and in many others improvements were underway. It is safe to say that in the course of two or three years at the furthest there will be little to be desired in the direction of good accommodations in the better towns. Rates at these hotels are not low by any means, at least for the motorist. It is generally assumed that a man who is in possession of an automobile is able to pay his bills, and charges and fees are exacted in accordance with this idea. There is, of course, a wide variation in this particular, and taking it right through, the rates at the best hotels would not be called exorbitant. The Motor Club of Great Britain and Ireland have many especially designated hotels where the members of this association are given a discount. These are not in every case the best in the town, and we generally found Baydeckers Handbook the most reliable guide as to the relative merits of the hotels. It is a poorly appointed hotel that does not now have a garage of some sort, and in many cases necessary supplies are available. Some even go so far as to charge the storage batteries, or accumulators, as they are always called in Britain, and to afford facilities for the motorist to make repairs. It goes without saying that a motor tour should be planned in advance as carefully as possible. If one starts out in a haphazard way, it takes him a long time to find his bearings, and much valuable time is lost. Before crossing the water it would be well to become posted as thoroughly as possible on what one desires to see, and to gain a general idea of the road from the maps. Another valuable adjunct will be a membership in the ACA or a letter from the American Motor Associations, with an introduction to the Secretary of the Motor Union of Great Britain and Ireland. In this manner can be secured much valuable information as to the main travelled routes, but after all, if the tourist is going to get the most out of his trip, he will have to come down to a careful study of the country, and depend partly on the guidebooks, but more upon his own knowledge of the historical and literary landmarks throughout the kingdom. End of Chapter 1 London occurs to the average tourist as the centre from which his travels in the kingdom will radiate, and this idea, from many points of view, is logically correct. Around the city cluster, innumerable literary and historic associations, and the points of special interest lying within easy reach, will outnumber those in any section of similar extent in the entire country. If one purposes to make the tour by rail, London is preeminently the centre from which to start, and to which one will return at various times in his travels. All the principal railways lead to the metropolis. The number of trains arriving and departing each day greatly exceeds that of any other city in the world, and the longest through journey in the island may be compassed between sunrise and sunset. The motorist, however, finds a different problem confronting him in making London his centre. I had in mind the plan of visiting the famous places of the city and immediate suburbs with the aid of my car, but it was speedily abandoned when I found myself confronted by the actual conditions. One attempt at carrying out this plan settled the matter for me. The trip which I undertook would probably be one of the first to occur to almost anybody, the drive to Hampton Court Palace, about twelve or fifteen miles from the central part of the city. It looked easy to start about two or three o'clock, spend a couple of hours at Hampton Court, and get back to our hotel by six. After trying out my car, which had reached London some time ahead of me, a few times in localities where traffic was not the heaviest, I essayed the trip without any further knowledge of the streets than I had gained from the maps. I was accompanied by a nervous friend from Iowa who confessed that he had been in an automobile but once before. He had ridden with a relative through a retired section of his native state, traversed for the first time by an automobile, and he had quit trying to remember how many runaways and smash-ups were caused by the fractious horses they met on the short journey. Visions of damaged suits haunted him for months thereafter. In army-andering through the London streets, the fears for the other fellow which had harassed him during his former experience were speedily transferred to himself. To his excited imagination, we time and again escaped complete wreck and annihilation by a mere hair's breadth. The route which we had taken, I learned afterwards, was one of the worst for motoring in all London. The streets were narrow and crooked and were packed with traffic of all kinds. Tram cars often ran along the middle of the street, with barely room for a vehicle to pass on either side. The huge motor buses came tearing towards us in a manner most trying to novices, and it seemed time after time that the dexterity of the drivers of these big machines was all that saved our car from being wrecked. We obtained only the merest glimpse of Hampton Palace, and the time which we had consumed made it apparent that if we expected to reach our hotel that night we must immediately retrace our way through the wild confusion we had just passed. It began to rain and added to the numerous other dangers that seemed to confront us was that of skidding on the slippery streets. When we finally reached our garage, I found that in covering less than twenty-five miles we had consumed about four hours and we had been moving all the time. The nervous strain was a severe one, and I forthwith abandoned any plan that I had of attempting to do London by motor car. With more knowledge and experience I would have done better, but a local motorist, thoroughly acquainted with London, told me that he wouldn't care to undertake the Hampton Court Trip by the route which we had travelled. On Saturday afternoons and Sundays the motorist may practically have freedom of the city. He will find the streets deserted everywhere. The heavy traffic has all ceased and the number of cabs and motor buses is only a fraction of what it would be on business days. He will meet comparatively few motors in the city on Sunday, even though the day be fine, such as would throng the streets of Chicago or New York with cars. The Englishman who goes for a drive is attracted from the city by the many fine roads which lead in every direction to pleasure resorts. One of the most popular runs with Londoners is the Fifty Miles to Brighton, directly southward, and the number of motors passing over this highway on fine Sundays is astonishing. I noted a report in the papers that on a certain Sunday afternoon, no less than two hundred cars passed a police trap, and of these thirty-five were summoned before the magistrates for breaking the speed limit. To the average American this run to Brighton would not be at all attractive compared with the many other roads leading out of London, on which one would scarcely meet a motor car during the day, and would be in no danger from the machinations of the police. Of course the places frequented by tourists are often closed on Sunday, or at least partially so, as in the case of Windsor Castle, where one is admitted to the grounds and courts, but the State departments, etc., are not shown. Even the churches are closed to Sunday visitors, except during the regular services. Within a radius of thirty miles of London, and outside its immediate boundaries, there are numerous places well worth a visit, most of them open either daily or at stated times. A few of such places are Harrow on the Hill, with its famous school, Keston with Holwood House, the home of William Pitt, Chigwell, the scene of Dickens's Barnaby Rudge, Waltham Abbey Church, founded in 1060, the home of Charles Darwin at Down, Epping Forest, Hampton Court, Rye House at Brocksbourne, Hatfield House, the estate of the Marquess of Salisbury, Rennie Mead, where the Magna Carta was signed, St Albans, with its ancient cathedral church, Stoke Poges Church of Grey's Elegy fame, Windsor Castle, Knoll House, with its magnificent galleries and furniture, Pennhurst Place, the home of the Sydney's, John Milton's Cottage at Chalfont St Giles, the ancient town of Guilford in Surrey, Gads Hill, Dickens' home near Rochester, the vicarage where Thackeray's grandfather lived, and the old church where he preached at Monk and Hadley, and Whitchurch, with Handel's original organ, is also near the last named village. These are only a few of the places that no one should miss. The motor car affords an unequalled means of reaching these and other points in this vicinity, since many are at some distance from railway stations, to go by train would consume more time than the average tourist has at his disposal. While we visited all the places which I have just mentioned, and many others close to London, we made only three or four short trips out of the city, returning the same or the following day. We managed to reach the majority of such points by going and returning over different highways on our longer tours. In this way we avoided the difficulty we should have experienced in making many daily trips from London, since a large part of each day would have been consumed merely in getting in and out of the city. Our first trip into the country was made on the Sunday after our arrival, although we started out at random, our route proved a fortunate one, and gave us every reason to believe that our tour of the kingdom would be all we had anticipated. During the summer we had occasion to travel three times over this same route, and we are still of the opinion that there are few more delightful bits of road in England. We left London by the main highway, running for several miles through Epping Forest, which is really a great suburban park. It was a good day for cyclists, for the main road to the town of Epping was crowded with thousands of them. So great was the number, and so completely did they occupy the highway, that it was necessary to drive slowly and with the greatest care. Even then we narrowly avoided a serious accident. One of the cyclists, evidently to show his dexterity, undertook to cut around us by running across the tramway tracks. These were wet and slippery, and the wheels shot from under the rider, pitching him headlong to the ground not two feet in front of our car, which was then going at a pretty good rate. If the cyclist did not exhibit skill in managing his wheel, he certainly gave a wonderful display of agility in getting out of our way. He did not seem to touch the ground at all, and by turning two or three handsprings he avoided being run over by the narrowest margin. His wheel was considerably damaged, and his impedimenta scattered over the road. It was with rather a crest fallen air that he gathered up his belongings, and we went on, shuddering to think how close we had come to a serious accident at the very beginning of our pilgrimage. A policeman witnessed the accident, but he clearly placed the blame on the careless wheelman. Passing through the forest, we came to Epping, and from there into a stretch of open country that gave little suggestion of proximity to the world's metropolis. Several miles through a narrow but beautifully kept byway brought us to the village of Chipping Ongar, a place of considerable antiquity, and judging from the extensive sight of its ancient castle, at one time of some military importance. At Ongar we began our return trip to London over the road which we agreed was the most beautiful leading out of the city, for the suburbs do not extend far in this direction, and one is comparatively soon in the country. The perfectly surfaced road, with only gentle slopes and curves, runs through the park-like fields, here over a picturesque stone bridge spanning a clear stream there between rows of magnificent trees, occasionally dropping into quiet villages, of which Chigwell was easily the most delightful. Chigwell became known to fame through the writings of Charles Dickens, who was greatly enamoured of the place, and who made it the scene of much of his story of Barnaby Rudge, but Dickens with his eye for the beautiful, and with his marvellous intuition for interesting situations, was drawn to the village by its unusual charm. Few other places can boast of such endorsement as he gave in a letter to his friend, Forster, when he wrote, Chigwell, my dear fellow, is the greatest place in the world. Name your day for going, such a delicious old in, facing the church, such a lovely ride, such glorious scenery, such an out-of-the-way rural place, such a sexton, I say again, name your day. After such a recommendation, one will surely desire to visit the place, and it is pleasant to know that the delicious old in is still standing, and that the village is as rural and pretty as when Dickens wrote over sixty years since. The in referred to, the king's head, was the prototype of the maypole in Barnaby Rudge, and here we were delighted to stop for our belated luncheon. The in fronts directly on the street, and like all English hostelries, its main rooms are given over to the bar, which at this time was crowded with Sunday loafers, the atmosphere reeking with tobacco-smokers, and the odor of liquors. The garden at the rear was bright with the profusion of spring flowers, and sheltered with ornamental trees and vines. The garden side of the old house was covered with a mantle of ivy, and altogether the surroundings were such as to make ample amends for the rather unprepossessing conditions within. One will not fully appreciate Chigwell, and its in, unless he has read Dickens's story. You may still see the panelled room upstairs where Mr. Chester met Geoffrey Herdale. This room has a splendid mantle-piece, great carved open beams, and beautiful leaded windows. The bar room, no doubt, is still much the same as on the stormy night which Dickens chose for the opening of his story. Just across the road from the inn is the church which also figures in the tale, and a dark avenue of ancient yew trees leads from the gateway to the door. One can easily imagine the situation which Dickens describes when the old Sexton crossed the street and rang the church bells on the night of the murder at Herdale Hall. Aside from Dickens's connection with Chigwell, the village has a place of peculiar interest to Americans in the old grammar school where William Penn received his early education. The building still stands with but little alteration much as it was in the day when the great Quaker sat at the rude desks and conned the lessons of the old-time English schoolboy. When we invited friends whom we met in London to accompany us on a Sunday afternoon trip, we could think of no road more likely to please them than the one I have just been trying to describe. We reversed our journey this time going out of London on the way to Chigwell, returning we left the Epping Road shortly after passing through that town and followed a narrow forest-bordered byway with a few steep hills until we came to Waltham Abbey, a small Essex market town with an important history. The stately Abbey church, a portion of which is still standing and now used for services, was founded by the Saxon King Harold in 1060. Six years later he was defeated and slain at Hastings by William the Conqueror and tradition has it that his mother buried his body a short distance to the east of Waltham Church. The Abbey gate still stands as a massive archway at one end of the river bridge. Near the town is one of the many crosses erected by Edward I in memory of his wife Eleanor of Castile wherever her body rested on the way from Lincoln to Westminster. A little to the left of this cross now a gateway to Theobald Park stands Temple Bar stone for stone intact as it was in the days when traitors' heads were raised above it in Fleet Street although the original wooden gates are missing. Waltham Abbey is situated on the river Lee near the point where King Alfred defeated the Danes in one of his battles. They had penetrated far up the river when King Alfred diverted the waters from beneath their vessels and left them stranded in a wilderness of marsh and forest. Another pleasant afternoon trip was to Monk and Hadley twenty-five miles out on the Great North Road. Hadley Church is intimately associated with a number of distinguished literary men among them Thackery whose grandfather preached there and is buried in the churchyard. The sexton was soon found and he was delighted to point out the interesting objects in the church in vicinity. The church stands at the entrance of a royal park which is leased to private parties and is one of the quaintest and most picturesque of the country churches we had seen. Over the doors some old-fashioned figures which we had to have translated indicated that the building had been erected in 1494. It has a huge ivy-covered tower and its interior gives every evidence of the age-lasting solidity of the English churches. Hadley Church has a duplicate in the United States one having been built in some New York town precisely like the older structure. We noticed that one of the stained-gas windows had been replaced by a modern one and were informed that the original had been presented to the newer church in America occur to see that an American congregation would hardly think of and be still less likely to carry out. An odd silver communion service which had been in use from three to five hundred years was carefully taken out of a fire-proof safe and shown us. Hadley Church is a delight from every point of view and it is a pity that such lines of architecture are not often are followed in America. Our churches as a rule are shoddy and inharmonious affairs compared with those in England. It is not always the matter of cost that makes them so, since more artistic structures along the pleasing and substantial lines of architecture followed in Britain would in many cases cost no more than we pay for such churches as we now have. Our friend the Sexton garulously assured us that Thackeray had spent much of his time as a youth at the vicarage and insisted that a great part of Vanity fair was written there. He even pointed out the room in which he alleged the famous book was produced and assured us that the great author had found the originals of many of his characters such as Becky Sharp and Colonel Newcombe among the villages of Hadley, all of which we took for what it was worth. Thackeray himself told his friends, Jase T. Fields, that Vanity Fair was written in his London house. Still he may have been a visitor at the Hadley vicarage and might have found pleasure in writing in the snug little room whose windows open on the flower garden, rich with dashes of colour that contrasted effectively with the dark green foliage of the hedges and trees. The house still does duty as a vicarage, the small casement windows peep out of the ivy that nearly envelopes it, and an air of coziness and quiet seems to surround it. Near at hand is the home where Antony Trollop, the novelist, lived for many years and his sister is buried in the churchyard. A short distance from Hadley is the village of Edgeware with Whitchurch, famous for its association with the musician Handel. He was organised here for several years and on the small pipe organ still in the church though not in use composed his oratorio Esther and a less important work the Harmonious Blacksmith. The idea of the latter came from an odd character the Village Blacksmith who lived in Edgeware in Handel's day and who acquired some fame as a musician. His tombstone in the churchyard consists of an anvil and hammer wrought in stone. Afterwards Handel became more widely known and was called from Whitchurch for larger fields of work. He is buried in West Minster Abbey. The road from Edgeware to the city is a good one and being Saturday afternoon it was nearly deserted. Saturday in London is quite as much of a holiday as Sunday little business being transacted especially in the afternoon. This custom prevails to a large extent all over the kingdom and rarely is any attempt made to do business on Saturday. The weekend holiday as it is called is greatly prized and is recognised by the railroads in granting excursions at greatly reduced rates. There is always a heavy exodus of people from the city to the surrounding resorts during the summer and autumn months on Saturday afternoon and Sunday. Owing to the extreme difficulty of getting about the city we made but few short excursions from London such as I have described. If one desires to visit such places in sequence without going further into the country it would be best to stop for the night at the hotels in the better suburban towns without attempting to return to London each day. The garage accommodations in London I found very good and the charges generally lower than in the United States There is a decided tendency at grafting on the part of the employees and if it is ascertained that a patron is a tourist especially an American he is quoted a higher rate at some establishments and various exactions are attempted. At the first garage where I applied a quotation made was withdrawn when it was learned that I was an American. The man said he would have to discuss the matter with his partner before making a final rate. I let him carry on his discussion indefinitely for I went on my way and found another place where I secured accommodations at a very reasonable rate without giving information of any kind. With the miserable business methods in vogue at some of the garages it seemed strange to me if any of the money paid to employees ever went to the business office at all. There was no system and little check on sales of supplies and I heard a foreman of a large establishment declare that he had lost two guineas which a patron had paid him. I can't afford to lose it he said and it will have to come back indirectly if I can't get it directly. In no case should a motorist pay a bill at a London garage without a proper receipt. No place within equal distance of London is of greater interest than Canterbury and indeed there are very few cities in the entire kingdom that can vie with the ancient cathedral town in historical importance and antiquity. It lies only 65 miles southeast of London but allowing for the late start that one always makes from an English hotel and the points that will engage attention between the two cities the day will be occupied by the trip. Especially will this be true if, as in our case, fully two hours be spent in getting out of the city and reaching the highway south of the Thames which follows the river to Canterbury. Leaving Russell Square about ten o'clock I followed the jam down Holburn past the bank and across London bridge crawling along at a snails pace until we were well beyond the river. A worse route and a more trying one it would have been hard to select. With more experience I should have run down the broad and little congested Kingsway to Waterloo Bridge and directly onto Old Kent Road in at least one fourth the time which I consumed in my ignorance. Nevertheless if a novice drives the car in London he can hardly avoid such experiences. Detailed directions given in advance cannot be remembered and there is little opportunity to consult street signs and maps or even to question the policeman in the never-ending crush of the streets. However, one gradually gains familiarity with the streets and landmarks and by the time I was ready to leave London for America I had just learned to get about the city with comparative ease. Old Kent Road which leads out of London towards Canterbury is an ancient highway and follows nearly if not quite the route pursued by the Canterbury pilgrims of the poet Chaucer. In the main it is unusually broad and well kept but progress will be slow at first as the suburbs extend a long way in this direction and for the first twenty-five miles one can hardly be said to be out of the city at any time. Ten miles out the road passes Greenwich where the British observatory is located and Woolwich the seat of the great government arsenals and gunworks is also near this point lying directly by the river. Nearly midway between London and Rochester is the old town of Dartford where we enjoyed the hospitality of the Bull Hotel for luncheon a dingy time-worn rambling old hostel where it is every odd corner filled with stuffed birds and beasts to an extent that suggested a museum and as if to still further carry out the museum feature mine host had built in a small court near the entrance a large cage or birdhouse which was literally alive with specimens of feathered songsters of all degrees. The space on the first floor not occupied by these curios was largely devoted to liquor selling for there appeared to be at least three bars in the most accessible parts of the hotel. However, somewhat to the rear there was a comfortable coffee room where our luncheon was neatly served. We had learned by this time that all well-regulated hotels in the medium-sized towns and even in some of the larger cities as largest Bristol for instance have two dining rooms one generally for tourists called the coffee room with separate small tables and a much larger room for commercials or traveling salesmen where all are seated together at a single table. The service is practically the same but the ratio of charges is from two to three times higher in the coffee room. We found many old hotels in retired places where a coffee room had been hastily improvised an innovation no doubt brought about largely by the motor car trade and the desire to give the motorist more aristocratic rates than those charged the well-posted commercials. Though we stopped in Dartford no longer than necessary for lunch and a slight repair to the car it is a place of considerable interest. Its chief industry is a large paper mill a direct successor to the first one established in England near the end of the sixteenth century and full-scat paper standard throughout the English-speaking world takes its name from the crest a fool's cap of the founder of the industry whose tomb may still be seen in Dartford church. A short run over a broad road bordered with beautiful rural scenery brought us into Rochester whose cathedral spire and castle with its huge Norman Tower loomed into view long before we came into the town itself. A few miles out of the town our attention had been attracted by a place of unusual beauty a fine old house almost hidden by high hedges and trees on one side of the road and just opposite a tangled bit of wood and shrubbery with several of the largest cedars we saw in England. So picturesque was the spot that we stopped for a photograph of the car and party with the splendid trees for a background but as often happens in critical cases the Kodak film only yielded a fog when finally developed. When we reached Rochester a glance at the map showed us that we had unwittingly past Gads Hill the home where Charles Dickens spent the last 15 years of his life and where he died 36 years ago. We speedily retraced the last four or five miles of our journey and found ourselves again at the fine old place with the cedar trees where we had been but a short time before. We stopped to inquire at a roadside inn which among the multitude of such places we had hardly noticed before and which bore the legend the Sir John Falstaff a distinction earned by being the identical place where Shakespeare located some of the pranks of his ridiculous hero. The innkeeper was well posted on the literary traditions of the locality. Yes said he this is Gads Hill Place where Dickens lived and where he died just 36 years ago today on June 9th, 1870 but the house is shown only on Wednesdays of each week and the proprietor doesn't fancy being troubled on other days but perhaps since you are Americans and have come a long way he may admit you on this special anniversary anyway it will do no harm for you to try. Personally I could not blame the proprietor for his disinclination to admit visitors on other than the regular days and it was impressed on me more than once during our trip that living in the home of some famous man carries quite a penalty especially if the present owner happens to be a considerate gentleman who dislikes to deprive visitors of a glimpse of the place. Such owners are often wealthy and the small fees which they fix for admittance are only required as evidence of good faith and usually devoted to charity. With a full appreciation of the situation it was not always easy to ask for the suspension of a plainly stated rule yet we did this in many instances before our tour was over and almost invariably with success. In the present case we were fortunate for the gentleman who owned Gad's Hill was away and the neat maid who responded to the bell at the gateway seemed glad to show us the place regardless of rules. It is a comfortable old fashioned house built about 1775 and was much admired by Dickens as a boy when he lived with his parents in Rochester. His father used to bring him to look at the house and told him that if he grew up a clever man he might possibly own it sometime. We were first shown into the library which is much the same as the great writer left it at his death and the chair and desk which he used still stand in their accustomed places. The most curious feature of the library is the rows of dummy books that occupy some of the shelves and even the doors aligned with these sham leather backs glued to boards a whim of Dickens carefully respected by the present owner. We were also accorded a view of the large dining room where Dickens was seized with the attack which resulted in his sudden and unexpected death. After a glimpse of other parts of the house and gardens surrounding it the maid conducted us through an underground passage leading beneath the road to the plot of shrubbery which lay opposite the mansion. In this secluded thicket Dickens had built a little house to which in the summertime he was often accustomed to retire when writing. It was an ideal English June day and everything about the place showed to the best possible advantage. We all agreed that Gad's Hill alone would be well worth a trip from London. The country around is surpassingly beautiful and it is said that Dickens liked nothing better than to show his friends about the vicinity. He thought the seven miles between Rochester and Maidstone the most charming walk in all England. He delighted in taking trips with his friends to the castles and cathedrals and he immensely enjoyed picnics and luncheons in the cherry orchards and gardens. A very interesting old city as Rochester with its 11th century cathedral and massive castle standing on the banks of the river. Little of the latter remains saved the square tower of the Norman Keep one of the largest and most imposing we saw in England. The interior had been totally destroyed by fire hundreds of years ago but the towering walls of enormous thickness still stand firm. Its antiquity is attested by the fact that it sustained a siege by William Rufus the son of the Conqueror. The cathedral is not one of the most impressive of the great churches. It was largely rebuilt in the 12th century the money being obtained from miracles wrought by the relics of Saint William the Perth a pilgrim who was murdered on his way to Canterbury and who lies buried in the cathedral. Rochester is the scene of many incidents of Dickens stories. It was the scene of his last unfinished work Edwin Drude and he made many allusions to it elsewhere the most notable perhaps in pickwick papers where he makes the effervescent Mr. Jingle describe it thus Ah! fine place glorious pile frowning walls tottering arches dark nooks crumbling staircases old cathedral too earthy smell pilgrims feet worn away the old steps Across the river from Rochester lies Chatham a city of 40,000 people and a famous naval and military station. The two cities are continuous and practically one. From here without further stop we followed the fine highway to Canterbury and entered the town by the west gate of Chaucer's Tales. This alone remains of the six gateways of the city wall in the Poets Day and the strong wall itself with its 21 towers has almost entirely disappeared. We followed a winding street bordered with quaint old buildings until we reached our hotel. In this case a modern and splendidly kept hostelry. The hotel was just completing an extensive garage but it was not ready for occupancy and I was directed to a well-equipped private establishment with every facility for the care and repair of motors. The excellence of the service at this hotel attracted our attention and the head waiter told us that the owners had their own farm and supplied their own table accounting in this way for the excellence and freshness of the milk, meat and vegetables. The long English summer evening still afforded time to look about the town after dinner. Passing down the main street after leaving the hotel we found that the river and a canal wound their way in several places between the old buildings closely bordering on each side. The whole effect was delightful and so soft with sunset colors as to be suggestive of Venice. We noted that although Canterbury is exceedingly ancient it is also a city of nearly 30,000 population and the centre of rich farming country and as at Chester we found many evidences of prosperity and modern enterprise freely interspersed with the quaint and time-worn landmarks. One thing which we noticed not only here but elsewhere in England was the consummate architectural taste with which the modern business buildings were fitted in with the antique surroundings harmonising in style and colour and avoiding the discordant note that would come from a rectangular business block such as an American would have erected. Towns which have become known to fame and to the dollar distributing tourists are now very slow to destroy or impair the old monuments and buildings that form their chief attractiveness and the indifference that prevailed generally 50 or 100 years ago has entirely vanished. We in America think we can afford to be iconoclastic for our history is so recent and we have so little that commands reverence by age and association yet 500 years hence our successors will no doubt bitterly regret this spirit of their ancestors just as many ancient towns in Britain lament the folly of their forebears who converted the historic abbeys and castles into hovels and stone fences. Fortunately the cathedral at Canterbury escaped such a fate and as we viewed it in the fading light we received an impression of its grandeur and beauty that still keeps it preeminent after having visited every cathedral in the island. It is indeed worthy of its proud position in the English church and its unbroken line of traditions lost in the mist of antiquity. It is rightly the delight of the architect and the artist but an adequate description of its magnificence has no place in this hurried record. Time has dealt gently with it and careful repair and restoration have arrested its decay. It stands today though subdued and stained by time as proudly as it did when a monarch barefooted walked through the roughly paved streets to do penance at the tomb of its martyr dutch bishop. It escaped lightly during the reformation and civil war though Beckett's shrine was despoiled as savouring of idolatry and Cromwell's men desecrated its sanctity by stabling their horses in the great church. The next day being Sunday we were privileged to attend services at the cathedral an opportunity we were always glad to have at any of the cathedrals despite the monotony of the Church of England service for the music of the superb organs the mellowed light from the stained windows and the associations of the place were far more to us than litany or sermon. The archbishop was present at the service in state that fitted his exalted place as primate of all England and his rank which as actual head of the church is next to the king nominally head of the church as well as of the states. He did not preach the sermon but officiated in the ordination of several priests a service full of solemn and picturesque interest. The archbishop was attired in his crimson robe of state the long train of which was carried by young boys in white robes and he proceeded to his throne with all the pomp and ceremony that so delights the soul of the Englishman. He was preceded by several black robe officials bearing the insignia of their offices and when he took his throne he became apparently closely absorbed in the sermon which was preached by a Cambridge professor. We were later astonished to learn that the archbishop's salary amounts to seventy-five thousand dollars per year or half as much more than that of the president of the United States and we were still more surprised to hear that the heavy demands made on him in maintaining his state and keeping up his splendid Episcopal palaces are such that his income will not meet them. We were told that the same situation prevailed everywhere with these high church dignitaries and that only recently the Bishop of London had published figures to show that he was twenty-five thousand dollars poorer in the three years of his incumbency on an annual salary of forty thousand dollars per year. It is not strange, therefore, that among these churchmen there exists a demand for a simpler life. The Bishop of Norwich frankly acknowledged recently that he had never been able to live on his income of twenty-two thousand five hundred dollars per year. He expressed his conviction that the widespread poverty of the bishops is caused by their being required to maintain venerable but costly palaces. He says that he and many of his fellow churchmen would prefer to lead plain and un ostentatious lives but they are not allowed to do so that they would much prefer to devote a portion of their income to charity and other worthy purposes rather than to be compelled to spend it in useless pomp and ceremony. Aside from its cathedral Canterbury teams with unique relics of the past some anti-dating the Roman invasion of England. The place of the town in history is an important one and Dean Stanley in his Memorials of Canterbury claims that three great landings were made in Kent adjacent to the city that of Hengist and Horser which gave us our English forefathers and character that of Julius Caesar which revealed to us the civilized world and that of St. Augustine which gave us our Latin Christianity. The tower of the cathedral dominates the whole city and the great church often overshadows everything else in interest to the visitor but one could spend days in the old world streets continually coming across fine half-timbered houses with weather-beaten gables in subdued colors and rich antique oak carvings. There are a few more pleasing bits of masonry in Britain than the great cathedral gateway at the foot of Mercery Lane with its rich carving weather-worn to a soft blur of gray and brown tones. Near Mercery Lane, too, are slight remains of the inn of Chaucer's Tales The Checkers of Hope and in Monastery Street stands the fine gateway of the once-rich and powerful St. Augustine's Abbey. Then there is the quaint little church of St. Martin's and doubtedly one of the oldest in England and generally reputed to be the oldest. Here, in the year 600, St. Augustine preached before the cathedral was built. Neither should St. John's Hospital with its fine half-timbered gateway be forgotten, nor the old grammar school founded in the 7th century. Our stay in the old town was all too short, but business reasons demanded our presence in London on Monday, so we left for that city about two o'clock. We varied matters somewhat by taking a different return route, and we fully agreed that the road leading from Canterbury to London by way of Maidstone is one of the most delightful which we traversed in England. It led through fields fresh with dune verdure, losing itself at times in great forests where the branches of the trees formed an archway overhead. Near Maidstone we caught a glimpse of Leeds Castle, one of the finest country seats in Kent, the main portions of the building dating from the 13th century. We had a splendid view from the highway through an opening in the trees of the many-towered old house surrounded by a shimmering lake, and gazing on such a scene under the spell of an English June day, one might easily forget the present and fancy himself back in the time when knighthood was in flower, though the swirl of a motor rushing past us would have dispelled any such reverie had we been disposed to entertain it. We reached London early and our party was agreed that our pilgrimage to Canterbury could not very well have been omitted from our itinerary. I had provided myself with letters of introduction from the American Automobile Association and Motor League addressed to the Secretary of the Motor Union of Great Britain and Ireland and shortly after my arrival in London I called upon that official at the club headquarters. After learning my plans he referred me to Mr Moroney the touring secretary whom I found a courteous gentleman posted on almost every foot of road in Britain and well prepared to advise one how to get the most out of a tour. As attaining the time I proposed to spend and the general objects I had in view he brought out road maps of England and Scotland and with a blue pencil rapidly traced a route covering about three thousand miles which he suggested as affording the best opportunity of seeing in the time and distance proposed many of the most historic and picturesque parts of Britain. In a general way this route followed the coast from London to Land's End through Wales north to Oban and in Venice thence to Aberdeen and back to London along the eastern coast. He chose the best roads with unerring knowledge and generally avoided the larger cities. On the entire route which he outlined we found only one really dangerous grade in Wales and by keeping away from cities much time and nervous energy were saved. While we very frequently diverged from this route it was nonetheless of inestimable value to us and other information maps, roadbooks etc which were supplied us by Mr Moroney were equally indispensable. I learned that the touring department of the Union not only affords this service for Great Britain but has equal facilities for planning tours in any part of Europe. In fact it is able to take in hand of the full details such as providing for transportation of the car to some port across the channel arranging for necessary licenses and supplying maps and road information covering the different countries of Europe which the tourist may wish to visit. This makes it very easy for a member of the Union or anyone to whom it may extend its courtesies to go direct from Britain for a continental trip leaving the tourist almost nothing to provide for except the difficulties he would naturally meet in the languages of the different countries. When I showed a well posted English friend the route that had been planned he pronounced very favourably upon it but declared that by no means should we miss a run through the Midlands. He suggested that I join him in Manchester on business which we had in hand allowing for an easy run of two days to that city by way of Coventry. On our return trip we plan to visit many places not included in our main tour among them the Welsh border towns Shrewsbury and Ludlow and to run again through Warwickshire taking in Stratford and Warwick on our return to London. This plan was adopted and we left London about noon with Coventry nearly 100 miles away as our objective points. A motor car is a queer and capricious creature. Before we were entirely out of the crush of the city the engine began to limp and shortly came to a stop. I spent an hour hunting the trouble to the entertainment and edification of the crowd of loafers who always congregate around a refractory car. I hardly know to this minute what ailed the thing but it suddenly started off blightly and this was the only exhibition of sulkingness it gave for its scarcely Mr. Stroke in our Midland trip of 800 miles mostly in the rain. Nevertheless the little circumstance just at the outset of our tour was depressing. We stopped for lunch at the Red Lion in the old town of St. Albans 20 miles to the north of London. It is a place of much historic interest being a direct descendant of the ancient Roman city of Varylamium and St. Albans or Albanus who gave his name to the town and cathedral and who was beheaded near this spot was the first British martyr to Christianity of whom there is any record. The cathedral occupies the highest site of any in England and the Square Norman Tower which owes its red colouring to the Roman brick used in its construction is a conspicuous object from the surrounding country. The nave is of remarkable length being exceeded only by Winchester. Every style of architecture is represented from early Norman to late perpendicular and there are even a few traces of Saxon work. The destruction of this cathedral was ordered by the pious Henry VIII at the time of his Reformation but he considerably rescinded the order when the citizens of St. Albans raised money by public subscription to purchase the church. Only an hour was given to St. Albans much less than we had planned but our late start made it imperative that we move onward. Our route for the day was over the old coach road leading from London to Holyhead one of the most perfect in the kingdom having been in existence from the time of the Romans. In fact no stretch of road of equal distance in our entire tour was superior to the one we followed from St. Albans to Coventry. It was nearly level free from sharp turns with perfect surface and cared for with neatness such as we would find only in a millionaire's private grounds in the United States. Everywhere men were at work repairing any slight depression trimming the lawn-like grasses on each side to an exact line with the edges of the stone surface and even sweeping the road in many places to rid it of dust and dirt. Here and there it ran for a considerable distance through beautiful avenues of fine alms and use. The Hawthorne hedges which bordered it almost everywhere were trimmed with careful exactness and yet amid all this precision they're bloomed in many places the sweet English wildflowers for get-me-nots, violets, wild hyacinths and bluebells. The country itself was rather flat and the village is generally uninteresting. The road was literally bordered with wayside inns or more properly ale houses for they apparently did little but sell liquor and their names were odd and fantastic in a high degree. We noted a few of them the stump and pie the hare and hounds the plume of feathers the blue ball in the horse and wagon the horse and jockey the dog and parson the dusty miller the angel hotel the dun cow inn the green man the adam and eve and the coach and horses are a few actual examples of the fearful and wonderful nomenclature of the roadside houses. Hardly less numerous than these inns were the motor supply depots along this road. There is probably no other road in England over which there is greater motor travel and supplies of all kinds are to be had every mile or two. The careless motorist would not have far to walk should he neglect to keep up his supply of petrol or motor spirit as they call it everywhere in Britain. Long before we reached Coventry we saw the famous Three Spires outlined against a rather threatening cloud and just as we entered the crooked streets of the old town the rain began to fall heavily. The King's Head Hotel was comfortable and up to date and the large room given us with its fire burning brightly in the open grate was acceptable indeed after the drive in the face of a sharp wind which had chilled us through. And by the way there is little danger of being supplied with too many clothes and wraps when motoring in Britain there were very few days during our entire summer's tour when one could dispense with cloaks and overcoats. Coventry with its odd buildings and narrow crowded streets reminded Nathaniel Hawthorne of Boston not the old English Boston but its big namesake in America. Many parts of the city are indeed quaint and ancient the finest of the older buildings dating from about the year 1400 but these form only a nucleus for the more modern city which has grown up around them. Coventry now has a population of about seventy-five thousand and still maintains its old-time reputation as an important manufacturing centre. Once it was famed for its silks, ribbons and watches but this trade was lost to the French and Swiss some say for lack of a protective tariff. Now cycles and motorcars are the principal products and we saw several of the famous Daimler cars made here being tested on the streets. Coventry has three fine old churches whose tall needle-like spires form a landmark from almost any point of view in Warwickshire and give to the town the appellation by which it is often known the city of the three spires. Nor could we well have forgotten Coventry's unique legend for high upon one of the gables of our hotel was a wooden figure said to represent Peeping Tom who earned eternal ignominy by his curiosity when Lady Godiva resorted to her remarkable expedient to reduce the tax levy of Coventry. Our faith in the story so beautifully retold by Tennyson will not be shaken by the iconoclastic assertion that the effigy is merely an old sign taken from an armorous shop that the legend of Lady Godiva is common to half a dozen towns and that she certainly never had anything to do with Coventry in any event. Leaving Coventry the next day about noon in a steady rain we sought the most direct route to Manchester thereby missing Nunniton, the birthplace and for many years the home of George Elliot and the centre of some of the most delightful country in Warwickshire. Had we been more familiar with the raids of this country we could have passed through Nunniton without loss of time. The distance was only a little greater and over main roads, whereas we travelled for a good portion of the day through narrow byways and the difficulty of keeping the right road in the continual rain considerably delayed our progress. We were agreeably surprised to find that the car did not skid on the wet Macadam road and that despite the rain we could run very comfortably and quite as fast as in fair weather. I had put up our Cape Top and curtains but later we learned that it was pleasanter protected by waterproof wraps to dash through the rain in the open car. English spring showers are usually light and it was rather exhilarating to be able to bid defiance to weather conditions that in most parts of the United States would have put a speedy end to our tour. A few miles further brought us to Tamworth with its castle lying on the border between Warwickshire and Staffordshire, the tower and town of Scott's Marmian. The castle of the feudal baron chosen by Scott as the hero of his poem still stands in ruins and was recently acquired by the town. It occupies a commanding position on a knoll and is surrounded by a group of fine trees. A dozen miles more over a splendid road brought in view the three spires of Litchfield Cathedral, one of the smallest though most beautiful of these great English churches. Built of red sandstone, rich with sculptures, and of graceful and harmonious architecture, there are few cathedrals more pleasing. The town of Litchfield is a comparatively small place but it has many literary and historical associations, being the birthplace of Dr. Samuel Johnson whose house is still standing and for many years the home of Maria Edgeworth. Here too once lived Major Andre whose melancholy death in connection with the American Revolution will be recalled. The cathedral was fortified during the Civil War and was sadly battered in sieges by Cromwell's roundheads, but so completely has it been rebuilt and restored that it presents rather a new appearance as compared with many others. It occurred to us that the hour for luncheon was well past and we stopped at the rambling old Swan Hotel which was to all appearances deserted for we wandered through narrow halls and around the office without finding any one. I finally ascended two flights of stairs and found a chambermaid who reluctantly undertook to locate someone in authority which she at last did. We were shown into a clean comfortable coffee-room where tea served in front of a glowing fireplace was grateful indeed after our long ride through the cold rain. It became apparent that owing to our many delays we could not easily reach Manchester and we stopped at Newcastle under Lime for the night. This town has about 20,000 people and lies on the outer edge of the Pottery's District where Josiah Wedgewood founded this great industry over 100 years ago. The whole region comprising Burslam, Hanley, Newcastle, Stoke-on-Trent and many smaller places may be described as a huge scattered city of about 300,000 inhabitants, nearly all directly or indirectly connected with the manufacture of various grades of China and earthenware. The Castle Hotel where we stopped was a very old in yet it proved unexpectedly home-like and comfortable. Our little party was given a small private dining-room with massive antique furniture and we were served with an excellent dinner by an obsequious waiter in full dress suit and with immaculate linen. He cleared the table and left us for the evening with the apartment as a sitting-room and a mahogany desk by the fireside well supplied with stationery afforded amends for neglected letters. In the morning our breakfast was served in the same room and the bill for entertainment seemed astonishingly low. Mine host will no doubt be wiser in this particular as motorists more and more invade the country. An hour's drive brought us to Manchester, the road by which we entered the city took us direct to the Midland Hotel which is rebuted to be the finest in the kingdom. Manchester is a city of nearly a million inhabitants but its streets seemed almost like those of a country town as compared with the crowded thoroughfares of London. It is a great centre for motoring and I found many of the garages so full that they could not take another car. I eventually came to one of the largest where by considerable shifting they managed to accommodate my car. But with all this rush of business it seemed to me that the owners were in no danger of becoming plutocrats for the charge for a day's garage, cleaning the car, polishing the brass and making a slight repair was five shillings. By half the way from Manchester to Leeds the drive was about as trying as anything I found in England. The road is winding exceedingly steep in places and built up on both sides with houses largely homes of miners and mill operatives. The pavement is of rough cobblestones and swarms of dogs and children crowded the way everywhere. Under such conditions the numerous steep hills, narrow places and sharp turns in the road made progress slow indeed. It was evident that the British motorists generally avoid this country for we met no cars and our own attracted attention that showed it was not a common spectacle. However the trip was nonetheless an interesting one as showing a bit of the country and a phase of English life not usually seen by tourists. There is little to detain one within the city of Leeds itself but there are many places of interest in its immediate vicinity. There are few more picturesque spots in Yorkshire than Warfdale with its riotous little river and ruins of Bolton Abbey and Barden Tower. This lies about fifteen miles to the northwest and while for special reasons we went to Ilkley station by train the trip is a fine motor drive over good roads. The park which contains the Abbey and Castle is the property of the Duke of Devonshire who keeps it at all times open to the public. The river Warf, rippling over shingly rocks leaping in waterfalls and compressed into the remarkable rapids called the Strid only five or six feet wide but very deep and terribly swift is the most striking feature of the park. The forest-clad cliffs on either side rise almost precipitously from the edges of the narrow dale and from their summit if the climb does not deter one a splendid view presents itself. The dale gradually opens into a beautiful valley and here the old abbey is charmingly situated on the banks of the river. The ruins are not extensive but the crumbling walls bright with ivy and wall-flowers and with the soft green lawn beneath made a delightful picture in the mottled sunshine and shadows of the English May day. On our return to Leeds our friend who accompanied us suggested that we spend the next day Sunday at Harrogate fifteen miles to the north one of the most famous of English watering places. It had been drizzling fitfully all day but as we started on the trip it began to rain in earnest. After picking our way carefully until free from the slippery streets in Leeds we found the fine Macadam road little affected by the deluge. We were decidedly ahead of the season at Harrogate and there were but few people at the splendid hotel where we stopped. The following Sunday was as raw and nasty as English weather can be when it wants to regardless of the time of year and I did not take the car out of the hotel garage. In the afternoon my friend and I walked to Nairsborough one of the old Yorkshire towns about three miles distant. I had never even heard of the place before and it was a thorough surprise to me to find it one of the most ancient and interesting towns in the kingdom. Not a trace of modern improvement interfered with its old world quaintness it looked as if it had been clinging undisturbed to the sharply rising hillside for centuries. Just before entering the town we followed up the valley of the river Nid to the so-called Dripping Well whose waters heavily charged with limestone drip from the cliffs above and petrify various objects in course of time by covering them with a stone-like surface. Then we painfully ascended the hill not less than a forty-five percent grade in motor parlance and wandered through the streets if such an assortment of narrow footpaths twisting around the corners may be given the courtesy of the name until we came to the site of the castle. The guidebook gives the usual epitaph for the ruined castles dismantled by orders of Cromwell's parliament and so well was this done that only one of the original eleven great watchtowers remains and a small portion of the Norman Keep beneath which are the elaborate vaulted apartments where Beckett's murderers once hid. No doubt the great difficulty the Cromwellians had in taking the castle seemed a good reason to them for effectually destroying it. At one time it was in the possession of the notorious Piers Gaveston and it was for a while the prison-house of King Henry II. There are many other points of interest in Nersborough not forgetting the cave from which Mother Shipton issued her famous prophecies in which she missed it only by bringing the world to an end ahead of schedule time. But they deny in Nersborough she ever made such a prediction and prefer to rest her claims to infallibility on her prophecy illustrated on a postcard by a highly coloured motor-car with the legend, Carriages without horses shall go and accidents fill the world with woe. All together Nersborough is a town little frequented by Americans but nonetheless worthy of a visit. Harrogate is an excellent centre for this and many other places if one is insistent on the very best and most stylish hotel accommodations that the island affords. Right on, with its cathedral and fountains abbey, perhaps the finest ruin in Great Britain is only a dozen miles away but we visited these on our return to London from the north. On Monday the clouds cleared away and the whole country was gloriously bright and fresh after the heavy showers. We returned to Leeds over the road by which we came to Harrogate and which passes Hairdale Hall, one of the finest country places in the Kingdom. A large portion of the way the road is bordered by fine forests, which form a great park around the mansion. We passed through Leeds to the southward having no desire to return to Manchester over the road by which we came or in fact to pass through the city at all. Our objective point for the evening was Chester and this could be reached quite as easily by passing to the south of Manchester. Wakefield, with its magnificent church recently dignified as a cathedral, was the first town of consequence on our way and about twenty-five miles south of Leeds we came to Barnsley, lying on the edge of the Great Moorlands in Central England. There is hardly a town in the whole Kingdom that does not have its peculiar tradition and an English friend told us that the fame of Barnsley rests on the claim that no hotel in England can equal the mutton chops of the king's head, a truly unique distinction in a land where the mutton chop is standard and the best in the world. An English Moor is a revelation to an American who has never crossed one and who may have a hazy notion of it from Tennyson's verse or Lorna Dune. Imagine lying in the midst of fertile fields and populous cities, a large tract of brown, desolate and broken land, almost devoid of vegetation except Gorse and Heather, more comparable to the Arizona sagebrush country than anything else, and you have a fair idea of the dreary, dreary moorland of the poets. For twenty miles from Barnsley, our road ran through this Great Moor and except for two or three wretched-looking public houses, one of them painfully misnamed the Angel, there was not a single town or habitation along the road. The Moorland road began at Peniston, a desolate-looking little mining-town straggling along a single street that dropped down a very sharp grade on leaving the town. Despite the lonely desolation of the moor, the road was excellent and followed the hills with gentle curves, generally avoiding steep grades. So far as I can recall, we did not meet a single vehicle of any kind in the twenty miles of Moorland road, surely a paradise for the scorcher. Coming out of the moor, we found ourselves within half a dozen miles of Manchester, practically in its suburbs, for Staley Bridge, Stockport, Ultringham, and other large manufacturing towns are almost contiguous with the main city. The streets of these towns were crowded with traffic and streetcar lines are numerous. There is nothing of the slightest interest to the tourist, and after a belated luncheon at a really modern hotel in Stockport, we set out on the last forty miles of our journey. After getting clear of Manchester and the surrounding towns, we came to the Chester Road, one of the numberless waddling streets, which one finds all over England, a broad, finely kept highway leading through a delightful country. Northwich, famous for its salt mines, was the only town of any consequence until we reached Chester. We had travelled the distance of about one hundred and twenty miles, our longest day's journey, with one exception, not very swift motoring, but we found that an average of one hundred miles per day was quite enough to thoroughly satisfy us, and even with such an apparently low average as this, a day's rest now and then did not come amiss. It would be better yet if one's time permitted a still lower daily mileage, not the least delightful feature of the tour was the marvellous beauty of the English landscapes, and one would have a poor appreciation of these to dash along at forty or even twenty-five miles per hour. There were many places at which we did not stop at all, and which were accorded scant space in the guidebooks, that would undoubtedly have given us ideas of English life and closer contact with the real spirit of the people than one could possibly get in the tourist-thronged towns and villages. End of Chapter 4 Chapter 5 of British Highways and Biways from a Motor Car by Thomas Dowler Murphy This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, recording by Christine Blashford. Chapter 5 The Border Towns, Shrewsbury and Ludlow I shall say but little of Chester, as of every other place on the line of our journey, so well known as to be on the itinerary of nearly everybody who makes any pretensions at touring Britain, the volumes which have been written on the town and the many pages accorded it in the guidebooks will be quite sufficient for all seekers after information. Frankly, I was somewhat disappointed with Chester. I had imagined its quaintness that of a genuine old country town, and was not prepared for the modern city that surrounds its showplaces. In the words of an observant English writer, it seems a trifle self-conscious, its famous old rose carry a suspicion of being swept and garnished for the dollar-distributing visitor from over the Atlantic, and of being less genuine than they really are. However that may be, the moment you are out of these show streets of Chester, there is a singular lack of charm in the environment, the taint of commerce and the smoke of the North hangs visibly on the horizon. Its immediate surroundings are modern and garish, to a degree that by no means assists in the fiction that Chester is the unadulterated old country town one would like to think it. Such a feeling I could not entirely rid myself of, and even in following the old wall, I could not help noting its carefully maintained disrepair. I would not wish to be understood as intimating that Chester is not well worth a visit, and a visit of several days if one can spare the time. Only that its charm was, to me, inferior to that of its more unpretentious neighbors, Shrewsbury and Ludlow. Our stay was only a short one, since our route was to bring us to the town again. Still, we spent half a day in a most delightful manner, making a tour of the rose and the odd corners with quaint buildings. The tourist, fortified with his red-backed Baydecker, is a common sight to Chester people, and his dollar-distributing propensity, as described by the English writer I have quoted, is not unknown even to the smallest fry of the town. Few things during our trip amused me more than the antics of a brown, bare-footed, dirt-begrimed little mite, not more than two or three years old, who seized my wife's skirts and hung on for dear life, pouring out earnestly and volubly her unintelligible jargon. We were at first at a loss to understand what our new associate desired, and so grimly did she hang on that it seemed as if another accession to our party was assured. But a light dawned suddenly on us, and as the brown little hand clasped a broad English copper, our self-appointed companion vanished like a flash into a neighbouring shop. Even when touring in your wind-shod car, as an up-to-date English poet puts it, and though your motor waits you not a stone's throw from your hotel, you may not entirely dispense with your antiquated equine friend as a means of locomotion. So we learned when we proposed to visit Eaton Hall, the country-place of the Duke of Westminster, which lies closely adjoining Chester, situated deep in the recesses of its eight-thousand-acre park. A conspicuous sign, motors strictly forbidden, posted near the Great Gateway, forced us to have recourse to the Hackman, whose moderate charge of eight shillings for a party of three was almost repaid by his services as a guide. He was voluble in his information concerning the Duke, and especially dwelt on his distinction as the richest man in the world, an honour which, as good and loyal Americans, we could not willingly see rested from our own John D. of oleaginous fame. Eaton Hall is one of the greatest English showplaces, but it is modern, and might well be matched by the castles of several of our American aristocracy. Tame indeed seemed its swept and garnished newness, its trim and perfect repair, after our visits to so many time-worn places, the Great Library, with its thousands of volumes in the richest bindings, and its collections of rare additions, might well be the despair of a bibliophile, and the pictures and furnishings of rare interest to the connoisseur, but these things one may find in the museums. Over a main road, almost level, and as nearly straight as any English road merits such a description, we covered the forty miles from Chester to Shrewsbury without incident. The most trying grade given in the road-book is one in twenty-five, and all conditions are favourable for record time in absence of police traps. Four miles out of Chester we passed Roten Station, lying adjacent to Roten Moor, where King Charles, standing on the tower of Chester Wall, which bears his name, saw his army defeated by the parliamentarians. We made a late start from Chester, but reached Shrewsbury in time to visit many parts of the town after dinner. We found it indeed a delightful old place, rich in historic traditions, and the centre of a country full of interesting places. The town is built on a lofty peninsula, surrounded on three sides by the River Severn, and the main streets lead up exceedingly steep hills. In fact, many of the steepest and most dangerous hills which we found in our travels were in the towns themselves, where grades had been fixed by buildings long ago. The clean macadam in Shrewsbury made it possible to drive our car without chains, though it rained incessantly, but so steep and winding are some of the streets that the greatest caution was necessary. Shrewsbury is described by an English writer as a sweet-ed, genuine, dignified, and proud old market town, the resort of squires, Parsons, and farmers, and mainly inhabited by those who minister to their wants. It never dreams of itself as a show place. He also adds another strong point in its claim to distinction. Some years ago a book was published by a zealous antiquarian, enumerating with much detail all the families of England of a certain consequence, who still occupied either the same state or estates contiguous to those upon which they were living in the fifteenth century. The shire of which Shrewsbury is the capital very easily headed the list in this honourable competition, and thereby justified the title of proud sylopians, which the more consequential of its people submit to with much complacency, even though it be not always applied in a wholly serious way. It is a genuine old border town, so far unspoiled by commercialism, modern improvements have not invaded its quaint streets to any great extent, and many of those still retain their old names—dogpole, wild-cop, and shoplatch—and are bordered by some of the finest half-timbered houses in Britain. Nor is Shrewsbury wanting and famous suns. In front of the old grammar school building is a bronze statue of Charles Darwin, the man who changed the scientific thought of a world, who was born here in 1809. The same grammar school was built in 1630, and is now converted into a museum of Roman relics, which have been found in the immediate vicinity. In its earlier days, many distinguished men received their education here, among them Sir Philip Sidney and Judge Jeffries. The Elizabethan Market House and the Council House, which was visited by both Charles I and James II, on different occasions, are two of the most fascinating buildings to be seen in the town. There are scant remains, principally of the keep of the castle, built by the Norman Baron, to whom William the Conqueror generously presented the town. St. Mary is the oldest and most important church, and in some particulars it surpasses the cathedral at Chester. It is architecturally more pleasing, and its windows are among the finest examples of antique stained glass in the kingdom. We spent some time among the remarkable collection of relics in the museum, and as they mainly came from the Roman city of Euriconium, we planned a side trip to this place, together with the Bildwassabi and the old Saxon town of Much Wenlock, all of which are within twenty miles of Shrewsbury. When we left the Raven Hotel it was raining steadily, but this no longer deterred us, and after cautiously descending the steep hill leading out of the town, we were soon on the road to Roxeter, the village lying adjacent to the Roman ruins. We found these of surprising extent, and could readily believe the statement made in the local guide-book that a great city was at one time located here. Only a comparatively small portion has been excavated, but the city enclosed by the wall covered nearly one square mile. One great piece of wall about seventy-five feet long and twenty feet in height still stands above ground to mark the place, but the most remarkable revelations were found in the excavations. The foundations of a large public building have been uncovered, and the public baths, to which the Romans were so partial, are in a remarkable state of preservation, the tile flooring in some cases remaining in its original position. There is every indication that the city was burned and plundered by the wild Welsh tribes sixteen hundred or more years ago. A few miles further, mainly through narrow byways, brought us to build Wasabi, beautifully situated near the seven. Evidently this fine ruin is not much frequented by tourists, for we found no custodian in charge, and the haunts of the old monks had been converted into a sheepfold by a neighbouring farmer. Yet at one time it was one of the richest and most extensive monasteries in England. On our return to Shrewsbury we passed through Much Wenlock, a very ancient town which also has its ruined abbey. It is remarkable how thickly these monastic institutions were at one time scattered over the kingdom, and when one considers what such elaborate establishments must have cost to build and to maintain, it is easy to understand why, in the ages of church supremacy, the common people were so miserably poor. Aside from the places of historic interest that we visited on this trip, the country through which we passed would have made our half-day a memorable one, though the continual rain intercepted the view much of the time, yet from some of the hilltops we had vistas of the Seven Valley, with its winding river, that we hardly saw surpassed in a country famous for lovely landscapes. We regretted later that our stay at Shrewsbury was so short, for we learned that in the immediate vicinity there are many other places which might well have occupied our attention, but in this case, as in many others, we learned afterwards the things we should have known before our tour began. Late in the afternoon we started for Ludlow. It was still raining, a grey day, with fitful showers that never entirely ceased, but only varied in intensity. Much of the beauty of the landscape was hidden in the grey mist, and the distant Welsh hills, rich with soft colouring on clear days, were entirely lost to us. Yet the gloomy day was not altogether without its compensation, for if we had visited Stokesay when the garish sunshine gilded but to flaunt the ruined's grey, we should have lost much of the impression which we retain of the gloom and desolation that so appropriately pervaded the unique old manor, with its timbered gate-house and its odd little church, surrounded by thickly set gravestones. It was only by an accidental glance at our road-book that we saw Stokesay Castle as an object of interest on this road, about eight miles north of Ludlow. This old house is the finest example in the kingdom of a fortified manor, as distinguished from a castle, its defensive feature being a great crenellated tower, evidently built as a later addition when the manor passed from a well-to-do country gentleman to a member of the nobility. This is actually the case, for there is on record a license granted in 1284 to Lawrence de Ludlow, permitting him to crenellate his house. The house itself was built nearly two hundred years earlier, and was later surrounded by a moat as a further means of defence. Considering its age, it is in a wonderfully good state of preservation, the original roof still being intact. We were admitted by the keeper, who lives in the dilapidated but delightfully picturesque half-timbered gate-house. The most notable feature of the old house is the banqueting hall, occupying the greater portion of the first floor, showing how, in the good old days, provision for hospitality took precedence over nearly everything else. Some of the apartments on the second floor retain much of their elaborate oak panelling, and there are several fine mantel pieces. A narrow circular stairway leads to the tower, from which the beauty of the location is at once apparent, situated as the mansion is in a lovely valley, bounded by steep and richly wooded hills, at whose base the river Onney flows through luxuriant meadows, one is compelled to admire the judgment of the ancient founder who selected the site. It indeed brought us near to the spirit and customs of feudal times, as we wondered about in the gloom of the deserted apartments. How comfortless the house must have been from our standard, even in its best days, with its rough stone floors and rude furnishings. No fireplace appeared in the banqueting hall, which must have been warmed by an open fire, perhaps in the centre, as in the hall of Pencerst Place. How little these ancient landmarks were appreciated until recently is shown by the fact that for many years Stokesay Manor was used as a blacksmith shop and a stable for a neighbouring farmer. The present noble proprietor, however, keeps the place in excellent repair and always open to visitors. In one of the rooms of the tower is exhibited a collection of ancient documents relating to the founding of Stokesay and to its early history. After visiting hundreds of historic places during our summer's pilgrimage, the memory of Ludlow with its quaint, unsullied old-world air, its magnificent church whose melodious chime of bells lingers with us yet, its great ruined castle redolent with romance, and its surrounding country of unmatched interest and beauty is still the pleasantest of all. I know that the town has been little visited by Americans, and that in Baydeca, that holy writ of tourists, it is accorded a scant paragraph in small type. Nevertheless, our deliberately formed opinion is still that if we could revisit only one of the English towns, it would be Ludlow. Mr. A. G. Bradley in his delightful book, In the March and Borderland of Wales, which everyone contemplating a tour of Welsh border towns should read, gives an appreciation of Ludlow which I am glad to reiterate when he styles it, the most beautiful and distinguished country town in England. He says, There are towns of its size perhaps as quaint and boasting as many ancient buildings, but they do not crown an eminence and really striking scenery, nor yet again share such distinction of type with one of the finest medieval castles in England, and one possessed of a military and political history unique in the annals of British castles. It is this combination of natural and architectural charm with its intense historical interest that gives Ludlow such peculiar fascination. Other great border fortresses were centres of military activities from the conquest to the Battle of Bosworth, but when Ludlow laid aside its armour and burst out into graceful Tudor architecture, it became in a sense the capital of fourteen counties, and remained so for nearly two hundred years. We were indeed fortunate in Ludlow, for everything conspired to give us the best appreciation of the town, and were it not for the opinion of such an authority as I have quoted, I might have concluded that our partiality was due to some extent to the circumstances. We had been directed to a hotel by our host in Shreesbury, but on inquiring of a police officer, they are everywhere in Britain, on our arrival in Ludlow, he did us a great favour by telling us that the Feathers Hotel, just opposite, would please us better. We forthwith drew up in front of the finest old black-and-white building which we saw anywhere in the kingdom, and were given a room whose diamond-pained windows opened toward church and castle. No modern improvements broke in on our old-time surroundings. Candles lighted us when the long twilight had faded away. The splendid dark oak panelling that reached to the ceiling of the dining-room, and the richly carved mantelpiece they told us, were once in rooms of Ludlow Castle. As we sat at our late dinner, a familiar melody from the sonorous chimes of the church-tower came through the open window to our great delight. Oh! what a nuisance those bells are, said the neat waiting maid, and a bad thing for the town, too. Why, the commercials all keep away from Ludlow. They can't sleep for the noise. Do the chimes ring in the night? we asked. At midnight and at four o'clock in the morning, she said, and I was fearful that we would not awake. But we did, and the melody in the silence of the night amid the surroundings of the quaint old town awakened a sentiment in us no doubt quite different from that which vexed the soul of the commercial. But we felt that credit was due the honest people of Ludlow, who preferred the music of the sweet-toned bells to sordid business. And as the maid said, the bells did not awaken any one who was used to them, surely a fit reward to the citizens for their high-minded disregard of mere material interests. I said we were fortunate at Ludlow, the gray, chilly weather, and almost continual rain which had followed us for the last few days vanished, and the next morning dawned cool and fair, with sky of untainted blue. Our steps were first turned towards the castle which we soon reached. There was no one to admit us. The custodian's booth was closed, but there was a small gate in the great entrance, and we walked in. We had the noble ruin to ourselves, and a place richer in story and more beautiful and majestic in decay we did not find elsewhere. A maze of gray walls rose all around us, but fortunately every part of the ruin brought a printed card telling us just what we wanted to know. The crumbling walls surrounded a beautiful lawn, starred with wild flowers, buttocks and forget-me-nots, and a flock of sheep grazed peacefully in the wide enclosure. We wandered through the deserted, roofless chambers, where fireplaces with elaborate stone mantles and odd bits of carving told of the pristine glory of the place. The castle was of great extent, covering the highest point in Ludlow, and before the day of artillery must have been well nigh impregnable. The walls on the side toward the river rise from a cliff, which drops down a sharp incline toward the edge of the water, but leaving room for a delightful footpath between rows of fine trees. The stern square tower of the keep, the odd circular chapel with its fine Norman entrance, the great banqueting hall, the elaborate stone fireplaces, and the various apartments celebrated in the story of the castle interested us most. From the great tower I saw what I still consider the finest prospect in England, and I had many beautiful views from similar points of vantage. The day was perfectly clear, and the wide range of vision covered the fertile valleys and wooded hills interspersed with the villages, the whole country appearing like a vast, beautifully kept park. The story of Ludlow Castle is too long to tell here, but no one who delights in the romance of the days of chivalry should fail to familiarize himself with it. The castle was once a royal residence, and the two young princes murdered in London Tower by the agents of Richard III dwelt here for many years. In 1636 Milton's Mask of Comus, suggested by the youthful adventures of the children of the Lord President, was performed in the castle courtyard. The Lord of the Castle at one time was Henry Sydney, father of Sir Philip, and his coat of arms still remains over one of the entrances. But the story of love and treason of how in the absence of the owner of the castle made Marian admitted her clandestine lover, who brought a hundred armed men at his back to slay the inmates and capture the fortress, is the saddest and most tragic of all. We saw high up in the wall, frowning over the river, the window of the chamber from which she had thrown herself, after slaying her recreation lover in her rage and despair. A weird story it is, but if the luckless maiden still haunts the scene of her blighted love, an observant sojourner, who fitly writes of Ludlow in poetic phrase, never saw her. Nearly every midnight for a month, he says, it fell to me to traverse the quarter of a mile of dark, lonely lane that leads beneath the walls of the castle to the falls of the river, and a spot more calculated to invite the wanderings of a despairing and guilty spirit I never saw. But though the savage gray towers far above shone betimes in the moonlight, and the tall trees below rustled weirdly in the night breeze, and the rush of the river over the weir rose and fell, as is the want of falling water in the silence of the night, I looked in vain for the wraith of the hapless maiden of the heath, and finally gave up the quest. When we left the castle, though nearly noon, the custodian was still belated, and we yet owe him sixpence for admittance, which we hope to pay some time in person. A short walk brought us to the church, the finest parish church in England, declares one well qualified to judge. Next to the castle, he says, the glory of Ludlow is its church, which has not only the advantage of a commanding site, but, as already mentioned, is held to be one of the finest in the country. It is built of red sandstone, and is cruciform in shape with a lofty and graceful tower, which is a landmark over miles of country and beautiful from any point of view. I have already mentioned the chime of bells, which flings its melodies every few hours over the town, and which are hung in this tower. The monuments, the stained glass windows, and the imposing architecture are scarcely equaled by any other church outside of the cathedrals. We had made the most of our stay in Ludlow, but it was all too short. The old town was a revelation to us, as it would be to thousands of our countrymen who never think of including it in their itinerary. But for the motor-car it would have remained undiscovered to us. With the great growth of this method of touring, doubtless thousands of others will visit the place in the same manner, and be no less pleased than we were. From Ludlow we had a fine run to Worcester, though the road was sprinkled with short steep hills noted dangerous in the road-book. Our fine weather was very transient, for it was raining again when we reached Worcester. We first directed our steps to the cathedral, but were nearly there beheld a large sign, this way to the royal porcelain works, and the cathedral was forgotten for the time by at least one member of our party. The royal porcelain works it was, then, for hadn't we known of royal Worcester long before we knew there was any cathedral or any town for that matter. It is easy to get to the royal porcelain works, a huge sign every block will keep you from going astray, and an intelligent guide will share you every detail of the great establishment for only a sixpence. But it is much harder and more costly to get away from the royal Worcester works, and when we finally did we were several guineas poorer and were loaded with a box of fragile wear to excite the suspicions of our amiable customs officials. Nevertheless the visit was full of interest. Our guide took us through the great plant from the very beginning showing us the raw materials, clay, chalk, and bones, which are ground to a fine powder, mixed to a paste, and deftly turned into a thousand shapes by the skilled potter. We were shown how the bowl or vase was burned, shrinking to nearly half its size in the process. We followed the various steps of manufacture until the finished wear, hand-painted, and burned many times to bring out the colours, was ready for shipments. An extensive museum, connected with the works, is filled with rare specimens to delight the soul of the admirer of the Kerame cart. There were samples of the notable sets of tableware manufactured for nearly every one of the crowned heads of Europe during the last century. Gorgeous vases of fabulous value, and rare and curious pieces without number. When we left the porcelain works it was too late to get into the cathedral, and when we were ready to start in the morning it was too early, so we contented ourselves with driving the car around the noble pile and viewing the exterior from every angle. We took the word of Honest Baydecker that the interior is one of the most elaborate and artistic in England, but largely the result of modern restoration. The cathedral contains the tomb of King John, who requested that he be buried here, though his life was certainly not such as to merit the distinction. Here, too, is buried the elder brother of King Henry VIII, Prince Arthur, who died at Ludlow Castle in 1502, and had he lived to be king in place of the strenuous Henry, who can say what changes might have been recorded in English history. All these we missed, nor did we satisfy ourselves personally of the correctness of the claim that the original entry of the marriage contract of William Shakespeare and Anne Hathaway is on file in the diocese office near the gateway of the cathedral, along with the other notable places of the town mentioned in the guidebook as worthy of a visit is the great factory where the fiery Worcestershire sources concocted it, but this did not appeal to our imagination as did the porcelain works. Our early start and the fine nearly level road brought us to Stratford upon Avon well before noon. Here we did little more than revisit the shrines of Shakespeare, the church, the birthplace, the grammar school, all familiar to the English-speaking world. Nor did we forget the Red Horse Inn at lunch and time, finding it much less crowded than on our previous visit, for we were still well in advance of the tourist season. After luncheon we were lured into a shop across the street by the broad assurance made on an exceedingly conspicuous sign that it is the largest souvenir store on earth. Here we hoped to secure a few mementos of our visit to Stratford by motor-car. We fell into a conversation with the proprietor, a genial white-haired old gentleman who we learned had been mayor of the town for many years, and is it not a rare distinction to be mayor of Shakespeare's Stratford? The old gentleman bore his honours lightly indeed, for he said he had insistently declined the office, but the people wouldn't take no for an answer. It is only a few miles to Warwick over winding roads as beautiful as any in England. One of these leads passed Charlotte, famous for Shakespeare's DS-dealing episode, but no longer open to the public. We passed through Warwick, which reminded us of Ludlow, except for the former's magnificent situation, without pausing, a thing which no one would do who had not visited that quaint old town some time before. In Leamington, three miles further on, we found a modern city of forty thousand inhabitants, noted as a resort and full of pretentious hotels. After we were located at the Manor House, there was still time for a drive to Kenilworth Castle, five miles away, to which a second visit was even more delightful than our previous one. For the next day we had planned a circular tour of Warwickshire, but a driving all-day reign, and still more the indisposition of one of our party, confined us to our hotel. Our disappointment was considerable, for within easy reach of Leamington there were many places that we had planned to visit. Ashile Church, Stonely Abbey, George Elliot's birthplace, and home near Nunn-Eaton, the cottage of Mary Arden, mother of Shakespeare, Rugby, with its famous school, and Max Stoke Castle, an extensive and picturesque ruin, are all within a few miles of Leamington. From Leamington to London was nearly an all-days run, although the distance is only one hundred miles. A repair to the car delayed us, and we went several miles astray on the road. It would have been easier to have returned over the Holyhead Road, but our desire to see more of the country led us to take a route nearly parallel to this, averaging about fifteen miles to the southward. Much of the way this ran through narrow byways, and the country generally lacked interest. We passed through Banbury, whose cross, famous in nursery rhyme, is only modern. At Wattersdon we saw the most up-to-date and best-ordered village we came across in England, with a fine new hotel, the Five Arrows, glittering in fresh paint. We learned that this village was built and practically owned by Baron Rothschild, and just adjoining it was the estate which he had laid out, the gentleman of whom we inquired courteously offered to take us into the great park, and we learned that he was the head landscape gardener. The palace is modern, of gothic architecture, and crowns and eminence in the park. It contains a picture gallery, with examples of the works of many great masters, which is open to the public on stated days of the week. On reaching London we found that our tour of the Midlands had covered a little less than eight hundred miles, which shows how much that distance means in Britain when measured in places of historic and literary importance, of which we really visited only a few of those directly on the route of our journey, or lying easily adjacent to it. Chapter 6 London to Land's End The road from London to Southampton is one of the oldest in the kingdom, and passes many places of historic interest. In early days this highway, leading from one of the main seaports through the ancient Saxon capital, was of great importance. Over this road we began the trip suggested by the touring secretary of the motor union. As usual we were late in getting started, and it was well after noon when we were clear of the city. At Kingston on Thames, practically a suburb, filled with villas of wealthy Londoners, we stopped for lunch at the Griffin Hotel, a fine old inn whose antiquity was not considered sufficient to atone for bad service, which was sometimes the case. Kingston has a history as ancient as that of the capital itself. Its name is peculiar in that it was not derived from King's town, but from King's stone, and at the town crossing is the identical stone, so says tradition, upon which the Saxon kings were crowned. It would seem to one that this historic bit of rock would form a more fitting pedestal for the English coronation chair than the old Scottish stone from Dunstaffnidge Castle. After a short run from Kingston we passed down High Street, Guilford, which a well-qualified authority declares is one of the most picturesque streets in England. Guilford might well detain for a day or more anyone whose time will permit him to travel more leisurely than ours did. William Cobbett, the author and philosopher, who was born and lived many years nearby, declared it the happiest-looking town he ever knew, just why I do not know. The street with the huge town clock projecting halfway across on one side, the seventeenth-century town hall with its massive Greek portico on the other, and a clearly assorted row of many gabled buildings following its winding way looked odd enough, but as to Guilford's happiness a closer acquaintance would be necessary. Shortly after leaving the town the ascent of a two-mile hill brought us to a stretch of upland road which ran for several miles along a table-land, lying between pleasantly diversified valleys sloping on either side. From this, a long, gradual descent led directly into Farnham, the native town of William Cobbett. The house where he was born and lived as a boy is still standing as the jolly farmers in. One may see the little house which was the birthplace of the reverent Augustus top lady, whose hymn, Rock of Ages, has gained worldwide fame. On the hill overlooking the town is the ancient castle rebuilt in the sixteenth century, and from that time one of the palaces of the bishops of Winchester. Here, too, lingers one of the ubiquitous traditions of King Charles I, who stopped at Vernon House in West Street while a prisoner in the hands of the parliamentarians, on their way to London. A silk cap which the king presented to his host is proudly shown by one of the latter's descendants, who is now owner of the house. One must be well posted on his route when touring Britain, or he will pass many things of note in sublime ignorance of their existence. Even the road-book is not an infallible guide, for we first knew that we were passing through Chortern when the post-office sign on the main street of a straggling village arrested our attention. We were thus reminded that in this quiet little place the inimitable Jane Austen had lived and produced her most notable novels, which are far more appreciated now than in the lifetime of the authoress. An old woman of whom we inquired, pointed out the house, a large square building with tiled roof, now used as the home of a working men's club. Less than two miles from Chortern, though not on the Winchester Road, is Selbourne, the home of Gilbert White, the naturalist, and famed as one of the quaintest and most retired villages in Hampshire. But one would linger long on the way if he paused at every landmark on the Southampton Road. We had already loitered in the short distance which we had travelled until it was growing late, and with open throttle our car rapidly covered the last twenty miles of the fine road leading into Winchester. From an historical point of view no town in the kingdom surpasses the proud old city of Winchester. The Saxon capital still remembers her ancient splendour, and it was with a manifest touch of pride that the old verger, who guided us through the cathedral, dwelt on the long line of kings who had reigned at Winchester before the Norman conquest. To him London at best was only an upstart and a usurper. Why, when Oxford was Shambles and Westminster was Brambles, Winchester was in her glory. And her glory has never departed from her, and never will so long as her great cathedral stands intact, guarding its age-long line of proud traditions. The exterior is not altogether pleasing. The length exceeding that of any cathedral in Europe, together with the abbreviated tower, impresses one with a painful sense of lack of completeness, and a failure of proper proportion. It has not the splendid site of Durham or Lincoln, the majesty of the massive tower of Canterbury, or the grace of the great spire of Salisbury. But its interior makes full amends. No cathedral in all England can approach it in elaborate carvings and furnishings, or in interesting relics and memorials. Here lie the bones of the Saxon king Ethelwolf, father of Alfred the Great, of Canute, whose sturdy common sense silenced his flatterers, and of many others. A scion of the usurping Norman sleeps here, too, in the tomb where William Rufus was buried, with many looking on and few grieving. In the North Isle a memorial stone covers the grave of Jane Austen, and a great window to her memory sends its many-coloured shafts of light from above. In the South transept rests Ike Walton, prince of fishermen, who, it would seem to us, must have slept more peacefully by some rippling brook. During the parliamentary wars Winchester was a storm centre, and the cathedral suffered severely at the hands of the parliamentarians, yet fortunately many of its ancient monuments and furnishings escaped the wrath of the round-head iconoclasts. The cathedral is one of the oldest in England, having been mainly built in the ninth century. Recently it has been discovered that the foundations are giving away to an extent that makes extensive restoration necessary, but it will be only restored and not altered in any way. But we may not pause long to tell the story of even Winchester Cathedral in this hasty record of a motor-flight through Britain, and speaking of the motor-car, ardent devotee as I am, I could not help feeling a painful sense of the inappropriateness of its presence in Winchester, of its rush through the streets at all hours of the night, of its clatter as it climbed the steep hills in the town, of the blast of its unmusical horn, and of its glaring lights falling weirdly on the old buildings, it seemed an intruder in the capital of King Alfred. There is much else in Winchester, though the cathedral and its associations may overshadow everything. The college, one of the earliest educational institutions in the kingdom, was founded about thirteen hundred, and many of the original buildings stand almost unchanged. The abbey has vanished, though the ground still serves as a public garden, and of Wolvesley Palace, a castle built in eleven thirty-eight, only the keep still stands. How usual this saying, only the keep still stands, becomes of English castles, thanks to the old builders who made the keep strong and high to withstand time, and so difficult to tear down that it escaped the looters of the ages. A day might well be given to the vicinity of Winchester, which teams with points of literary and historic interest, in any event one should visit Twyford, only three miles away, often known as the Queen of the Hampshire Villages, and famous for the finest U-Tree in England. It is of a special interest to Americans, since Benjamin Franklin wrote his autobiography here, while a guest of Dr. Shipley, Vicar of St. Assaf, whose house, a fine Elizabethan mansion, still stands. The Salisbury, by way of Romsey, is a fine drive of about thirty miles over good roads, and through a very pleasing country. Long before we reached the town, there rose interview its great cathedral spire, the loftiest and most graceful in Britain, a striking landmark from the country for miles around. Following the winding road and passing through the narrow gateway entering High Street, we came directly upon this magnificent church, certainly the most harmonious in design of any in the kingdom. The situation, too, is unique, the cathedral standing entirely separate from any other building, its gray walls and buttresses rising sheer up from velvety turf, such as is seen in England alone. It was planned and completed within the space of fifty years, which accounts for its uniformity of style, while the construction of most of the cathedrals ran through the centuries, with various architecture in vogue at different periods. The interior, however, lacks interest, and the absence of stained glass gives an air of coldness. It seems almost unbelievable that the original stained windows were deliberately destroyed at the end of the eighteenth century by a so-called architect, James Wyatt, who had the restoration of the cathedral in charge. To his everlasting infamy, Wyatt swept away screens, chapels, and porches desecrated and destroyed the tombs of warriors and prelates obliterated ancient paintings, flung stained glass by cartloads into the city ditch, and raised to the ground the beautiful old campanile which stood opposite the north porch. That such desecration should be permitted in a civilized country only a century ago, indeed, seems incredible. No one who visits Salisbury will forget Stonehenge, the most remarkable relic of prehistoric man to be found in Britain. Nearly everyone is familiar with pictures of this solitary circle of stones standing on an eminence of Salisbury plain, but one who has not stood in the shadow of these gigantic monoliths can have no idea of their rugged grandeur. Their mystery is deeper than that of Egypt's sphinx, for we know something of early Egyptian history, but the very memory of the men who reared the stones on Salisbury plain is forgotten, who they were, why they built this strange temple, or how they brought for long distances these massive rocks that would tax modern resources to transport, we have scarcely a hint. The stones stand in two concentric circles, those of the inner ring being about half the height of the outer ones. Some of the stones are more than twenty feet high and extend several feet into the ground. There are certain signs which seem to indicate that Stonehenge was the temple of some early sun-worshiping race, and Sir Norman Lockyer, who has made a special study of the subject, places the date of construction about 1680 BC. No similar stone is found in the vicinity, hence it is proof positive that the builders of Stonehenge must have transported the enormous monoliths for many miles. The place lies about eight miles north of Salisbury. We went over a rather lonely and uninteresting road by the way of Amesbury, which is two miles from Stonehenge. We returned by a more picturesque route following the river Avon to Salisbury, and passing through Millstone, a quaint little village where Joseph Addison was born in 1672. A few miles south of Salisbury we entered New Forest, an ancient royal hunting domain covering nearly 300 square miles, and containing much of the most pleasing woodland scenery in England. This is extremely diversified but always beautiful. Glades and reaches of gentle park and meadow and open heath-like stretches contrast wonderfully with the dark masses of huge oaks and beaches, and are some of which daylight never penetrates. We stopped for the night at Lindhurst, directly in the centre of the forest, and sometimes called the capital of New Forest. It looks strangely new for an English town, and the large church built of red brick and white stone shows its recent origin. In this church is a remarkable altar fresco, which was executed by the late Lord Layton. The fine roads and splendid scenery might occupy at least a day of time permitted, but if, like us, one must hasten onward, a run over the main roads of New Forest will give opportunity to see much of its silvan beauty. Our route next day through the narrow biways of Dorseture was a meandering one. From Lindhurst we passed through Christchurch, Blandford, and Dorchester, and came for the night to Yeovil. We passed through no place of a special note, but no day of our tour afforded us a better idea of the more retired rural sections of England. By the roadside everywhere were the thatched roof cottages with their flower gardens, and here and there was an ancient village, which, to all appearances, might have been standing quite the same when the conqueror landed in Britain. Oftentimes the biways were wide enough for only one vehicle, but were slightly broadened in places to afford opportunity for passing. Many of the crossings lacked the familiar signboards, and the winding biways, with nothing but the map for a guide, were often confusing, and sharp turns between high hedges made careful driving necessary. At times we passed between avenues of tall trees, and again unexpectedly dropped into some quiet village nestling in the Dorset Hills. One of the quaintest of these, not even mentioned in Baydecker, is Cern Abbas, a straggling village through which the road twisted along a little old world community seemingly severed from modern conditions by centuries. It rather lacked the cosy picturesqueness of many English villages. It seemed to us that it wanted much of the bloom and shrubbery. Everywhere were the grey stone houses with thatched roofs, sagging walls, and odd little windows with square or diamond-shaped panes set in iron casements. Nowhere was there a structure that had the slightest taint of newness. The place is quite unique. I do not recall another village that impressed us in just the same way. Our car seemed strangely out of place as it cautiously followed the crooked main street of the town, and the attention bestowed on it by the smaller natives indicated that a motor was not a common sight in Cern Abbas. Indeed, we should have missed it ourselves had we not wandered from the main road into a narrow lane that led to the village. While we much enjoyed our day in the Dorset Biways, our progress had necessarily been slow. In Yeovil we found an old English town, apparently without any important history, but a prosperous centre for a rich farming country. The place is neat and clean and has a beautifully kept public park, a feature of which the average English town appears more appreciative than the small American city. From Yeovil to Torquay, through Exeter, where the stop at the latter place was an unusually good day's run. The road was more hilly than any we had passed over here to fore, not a few of the grades being styled dangerous, and we had been warned by an English friend that we should find difficult roads and steep hills in Devon and Cornwall. However, to one who had driven over some of our worst American roads, even the bad roads of England looked good, and the dangerous hills, with their smooth surface and generally uniform grade, were easy for our moderate powered motor. Exeter enjoys the distinction of having continuously been the sight of a town or city for a longer period than is recorded of any other place in England. During the Roman occupation it was known as a city, and it is believed that the streets, which are more regular than usual, and which generally cross each other at right angles, were first laid out by the Romans. It is an important town of about fifty thousand inhabitants, with thriving trade and manufacturers, and modern improvements are in evidence everywhere. The Cathedral, though not one of the largest or most imposing, is remarkable for the elaborate carving of the exterior. The West Front is literally covered with life-sized statues set in niches in the wall, but the figures are sadly time-worn, many of them having almost crumbled away. Evidently the roundheads were considerate of Exeter Cathedral that such a host of effigies escaped destruction at their hands, and they were not very well disposed towards Exeter either, as it was always a royalist stronghold. Possibly it was spared because the Cromwellians found it useful as a place of worship, and in order to obtain peace and harmony between the two factions of the army, the Cathedral was divided into two portions by a high brick wall through the centre, the independence holding forth on one side, and the Presbyterians on the other. The road from Exeter to Torquay follows the coast for some distance, affording many fine views of the ocean. We were now in the limestone country, and the roads are exceedingly dusty in dry weather. The dust, in the form of a fine white powder, covers the trees and vegetation, giving the country here and there an almost ghostly appearance. No wonder that in this particular section there is considerable prejudice against the motor, on account of its great propensity to stir up the dust. So far as we ourselves were concerned, we usually left it behind us, and it troubled us only when some other car got in ahead of us. Torquay is England's Palm Beach, a sea coast resort town where the temperature rarely falls below 40 degrees thanks to the warm current of the Gulf Stream, and where the sea breezes keep down the summer heat, which seldom rises above 60 degrees. It is especially a winter resort, although the hotels keep open during the year. Most of the town is finally situated on a high promontory, overlooking a beautiful harbour, studded with islands and detached rocks that half remind one of Capri. From our hotel window we had a glorious ocean view, made the more interesting for the time being by a dozen of King Edward's men of war, supposed to be defending Torquay against the enemy of a mimic naval warfare. On the opposite side of Torbay is the quiet little fishing village of Bricsum, the landing place of Prince William of Orange. We reached here early on a fine June day when everything was fresh after heavy showers during the night. The houses rise in terraces up the sharp hillside, fronting the harbour, which was literally a forest of fishing-boat masts. A rather crude stone statue of William stands on the key, and a brass footprint on the shore marks the exact spot where the Dutch Prince first set foot in England, accompanied by an army of thirteen thousand men. Our car attracted a number of urchins who crowded around it, and though we left it unguarded for an hour or more to go out on the seawall and look about the town, not one of the fishing lads ventured to touch it or to molest anything, an instance of the law-abiding spirit which we found everywhere in England. From Bricsum an hour's drive over bad roads brought us to Dartmouth, whether we had been attracted by the enthusiastic language of an English writer, who asserts that there is scarcely a more romantic spot in the whole of England than Dartmouth. Spread out on one of the steep slopes of the Dart, it overlooks the deep set river toward the sea. Steep wooded banks rising out of the water's edge give the winding of the estuaries a solemn mystery which is wanting in meadows and plough-land. In the midst of scenery of this character, and it must have been richer still a few centuries back, the inhabitants of Dartmouth made its history. As we approached the town, the road continually grew worse until it was little better than the average unimproved country highway in America, and the sharp loose stones everywhere were ruinous on tires. It finally plunged sharply down to a steamboat ferry over which we crossed the Dart and landed directly in the town. There are few towns in England more charmingly located than old Dartmouth, and a hundred years ago it was an important seaport, dividing on us about equally with Plymouth. The road to Dartmouth was unusually trying. The route which we took to Plymouth was by odds the worst of equal distance we found anywhere. We began with a precipitous climb out of the town, up a very steep hill over a mile long, with many sharp turns that made the ascent all the more difficult. We were speedily lost in a network of unmarked byways, running through a distressingly poor looking, and apparently quite thinly inhabited country. After a deal of studying the map and the infrequent signboards, we brought up in a desolate looking little village, merely a row of gray stone slate-roofed houses on either side of the way, and devoid of a single touch of the picturesque which so often atones for the poverty of the English cottages. No plot of shrubbery or flower garden broke the gray monotony of the place. We had seen nothing just like it in England, though some of the Scotch villages which we saw later matched it very well. Here a native gave us the cheerful information that we had come over the very road we should not have taken, that just ahead of us was a hill where the infrequent motorcars generally stalled, but he thought that a good strong car could make it all right. Our car tackled the hill bravely enough, but slowed to a stop before reaching the summit, but by unloading everybody except the driver, and with more or less coaxing and adjusting, it was induced to try it again with a rush that carried it through. The grade, though very steep, was not so much of an obstacle as the deep sand with which the road was covered. We encountered many steep hills and past villages nearly as unpre-possessing as the first one, before we came to the main Plymouth Exeter Road, as excellent a highway as one could wish. It was over this that our route had originally been outlined, but our spirit of adventure led us into the digression I have tried to describe. It was trying at the time, but we sought a phase of England that we otherwise would have missed, and have no regrets for the strenuous day in the Devonshire Byways. Plymouth, with the adjoining towns of Devonport and Stonehouse, is one of the most important seaports in the kingdom, the combined population being about two hundred thousand. The harbour is one of the best, and affords safe anchorage for the largest ocean-going vessels. It is protected by a stupendous granite breakwater, costing many millions, and affording a delightful promenade on a fine day. Plymouth is the principal government naval port, and its ocean commerce is gaining rapidly on that of Liverpool. To Americans, it appeals chiefly on account of its connection with the Pilgrim Fathers, who sailed from its harbour on the Mayflower in 1620. A granite block set in the pier near the oldest part of the city is supposed to mark the exact spot of departure of the gallant little ship on the hazardous voyage, whose momentous outcome was not then dreamed of. I could not help thinking what a fine opportunity is offered here for some patriotic American millionaire to erect a suitable memorial to commemorate the sailing of the little ship fraught with its wonderful destiny. The half-day spent about the old city was full of interest, but the places which we missed would make a most discouraging list. It made us feel that one ought to have two or three years to explore Britain, instead of a single summer's vacation. From Plymouth to Penzance through Truro runs the finest road in Cornwall, broad, well-kept, and with few steep grades. It passes through a beautiful section and is bordered in many places by the immense parks of country estates. In some of these the woods were seemingly left in their natural, wild state, though close inspection showed how carefully this appearance was maintained by judicious landscape gardening. In many of the parks the road addendrons were in full blue and their rich masses of color wonderfully enlivened the scenery. Everything was fresh and bright. It had been raining heavily the night before, and the air was free from the dust that had previously annoyed us. It would be hard to imagine anything more inspiring than the vistas which opened to us as we sped along. The road usually followed the hills in gentle curves, but at places it rose to splendid points of vantage from which to view the delightful valleys. Then again it lost itself under great overarching trees, and as we came too rapidly down a steep hill on entering Bodmin the road was so heavily shaded that we were near our undoing. The loose sand had been piled up by the rain and the dense shade prevented the road from drying. The car took a frightful skid and by a mere hares breath escaped disastrous collision with a stone wall, but we learned something. After leaving Truro, an ancient town with a recently established cathedral, the road to Penzance, though excellent, is without special interest. It passes through the copper mining section of Cornwall, and the country is dotted with abandoned mines. A few are still operated, but it has come to the point where, as a certain Englishman has said, Cornwall must go to Nevada for her copper, and there are more Cornish miners in the western states than there are in their native Shire. Penzance is another of the south of England resort towns, and is beautifully situated on Mount Spay, one indeed wonders at the great number of sea coast resorts in Britain, but we must remember that there are forty millions of people in the kingdom who need breathing places, as well as a number of Americans who come to these resorts. The hotels at these places are generally excellent from the English point of view, which differs somewhat from the American. Probably there is no one point on which the difference is greater than the precise temperature that constitutes personal comfort and makes a fire in the room necessary. On a chilly muggy day when an American shivers and calls for a fire in the generally diminutive grate in his room, the native enjoys himself or even complains of the heat, and is astonished at his thin-skinned cousin who must have his room, according to the British notion, heated to suffocation. The hotel manager always makes a very adequate charge for fires in guest rooms, and is generally cherry about warming the corridors or public parts of the hotel. In one of the large London hotels, which actually boasts of steam heat in the hallways, we were amazed on a chilly May day to find the pipes warm and a fine fire blazing in the great fireplace in the lobby. The chambermaid explained the astonishing phenomenon the week before several Americans had complained frequently of the frigid atmosphere of the place without exciting much sympathy from the management, but after they had left the hotel it was taken as an evidence of good faith and the heat was turned on. But this digression has taken me so far away from Penzance that I may as well close this chapter with it. End of chapter 6