class="pginternal" tag="{http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml}a">KILCHURN CASTLE, LOCH AWE

152 TOWERS OF ELGIN CATHEDRAL, NORTH SCOTLAND 162 DUNNOTTAR CASTLE, STONEHAVEN, NEAR ABERDEEN 164 TOWN HOUSE, DUNBAR, SCOTLAND 180 BAMBOROUGH CASTLE, NORTHUMBERLAND 184 OLD COTTAGE AT COCKINGTON 200 SOMERSBY RECTORY, BIRTHPLACE OF TENNYSON 210 SOMERSBY CHURCH 212 ST. BOTOLPH'S CHURCH FROM THE RIVER, BOSTON 216 A TYPICAL BYWAY 224 JOHN WYCLIF'S CHURCH, LUTTERWORTH 232 BYRON'S ELM IN CHURCHYARD, HARROW 246 MILTON'S ROOM IN COTTAGE AT CHALFONT ST. GILES 250 DISTANT VIEW OF MAGDALEN TOWER, OXFORD 256 RINGWOOD CHURCH 260 WINDMILL NEAR ARUNDEL, SUSSEX 274 ARUNDEL CASTLE 276 PEVENSEY CASTLE, WHERE THE NORMANS LANDED 280 WINCHELSEA CHURCH AND ELM TREE 282 ENTRANCE FRONT BODIAM CASTLE, SUSSEX 286 PENSHURST PLACE, HOME OF THE SIDNEYS 292

MAPS

MAP OF ENGLAND AND WALES 310 MAP OF SCOTLAND 318

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British Highways and Byways From a Motor Car

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I

A FEW GENERALITIES

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 veriest layman, and no fewer than thirty thousand pilgrims, largely from America, visit the delightful old town each year. And who ever 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 parklike 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