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 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 court, but the state apartments, 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' "Barnaby Rudge;" Waltham Abbey Church, founded in 1060; the home of Charles Darwin at Downe; Epping Forest; Hampton Court; Rye House at Broxborne; Hatfield House, the estate of the Marquis of Salisbury; Runnymede, where the Magna Charta was signed; St. Albans, with its ancient cathedral church; Stoke Poges Church of Gray's "Elegy" fame; Windsor Castle; Knole House, with its magnificent galleries and furniture; Penshurst Place, the home of the Sidneys; John Milton's cottage at Chalfont St. Giles; the ancient town of Guildford in Surrey; Gad's Hill, Dickens' home, near Rochester; the vicarage where Thackeray's grandfather lived and the old church where he preached at Monken 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.

HARVESTING IN HERTFORDSHIRE.
From Painting by Alfred Elias. Exhibited in 1906 Royal Academy.

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 wheel 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 crestfallen 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 site 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 parklike 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 enamored 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 marvelous 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 inn 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 inn" is still standing and that the village is as rural and pretty as when Dickens wrote over sixty years since.

The inn 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 inn 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 smoke and the odor of liquors. The garden at the rear was bright with a 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 inn unless he has read Dickens' story. You may still see the panelled room upstairs where Mr. Chester met Geoffry Haredale. This room has a splendid mantel-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 eas