ENGLAND

ENGLANDOh, to be in EnglandNow that April's there,And whoever wakes in EnglandSees, some morning, unaware,That the lowest boughs and the brush-wood sheafRound the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf,While the chaffinch sings on the orchard boughIn England—now!Robert Browning.LIVERPOOL:We landedat eleven o'clock and I went immediately and sent a cable to you. In the paying for it—my first money transaction in England—I was given too little change, which stamps me fresh from America and not up in shillings, pence, and ha'-pennies.The contents of our letters made it necessary to change some of our plans. A telegram to Ruth from Lady S—, compelling her to go north for a few days, will separate us for a time. Ruth begged me to accompany her, but my plans lead elsewhere, so this merry family of ours parts to meet—(?)You are a very satisfactory sort of correspondent, for you bid me tell how oneshould go to London from Liverpool, what to see and any little details not known to the stranger, not forgetting the necessary expenses. Ruth has been here many times, and knows every spot of interest, and she has mapped out a route for me to take until she can join me.After going through the Customs, which, by the way, is easier in European countries than in America, we started at once for London, via the Great Western Railway. Speaking of the Customs, they have sort of aisles, in which the trunks are arranged, and one is not allowed to enter until all is ready. Hanging in conspicuous places are the letters of the alphabet, and a man at the door asks your name, and you are directed to the proper aisle. The officer first looks you over, then says: "Have you any spirits" (not ghosts, but liquors), "cigars, or English copyrighted books?" I answered, "No," of course, and the blue chalk mark was placed on my luggage without further question, after which a splendid porter was called to carry it to my carriage.The woman behind me, too, said "No," just as I did, but she, it seems, had a man all her own, and the officer said,"I will have to trouble you to open the trunks for me."Apparently the Customs officers have a way of finding out things, and I wish you could have seen the contents of those trunks! There were bottles and bottles, and cigars and tobacco—everything but books. That was the first time I was sorry my name began with —, for had it been otherwise I should have been spared the sight of the discomfort of that poor woman.As I was leaving, the second officer said to her, "Please call your husband, madam." Now, how do you suppose they knew she had a husband with her?Oh, dear! Oh, dear! That ocean seems, somehow, awfully wide today with you on the other side.CHESTER:We purchasedin Liverpool an "American tourists' stop-over ticket," over what is known as the "Garden Route," for 16/6, which, being interpreted, signifies sixteen shillings and sixpence, or slightly over four dollars.We are at The Blossoms, an inn over four hundred years old. We have been to Hawarden Castle, the beautiful home ofthe late Mr. Gladstone. It is in Wales, but five miles from here. On our return we visited Eaton Hall, the magnificent "place" of the Duke of Westminster.Chester is one of the oldest towns in England, and some of the old Roman wall, built over one thousand years ago, is yet standing. The "Old Rows," two-story shops, with some above and some below the sidewalk, are quaint. The beautiful drive is called the "Roodee," a contraction of the French wordrueand the River Dee, on the banks of which the old town is situated. Here is a cathedral which presents every style of English mediæval architecture, from the early Norman to the last Perpendicular.I count this a remarkable day. I have seen my first English cathedral, my first English estate, and have stood, for the first time, in the cloisters of an abbey.LEAMINGTON:We arrivedat Leamington at "ten to five" last evening. The people of the Manor House were expecting us, as we had written from Chester. We chose this inn from our guide-book, and because it had a garden. I have learned that, inEngland, when in doubt about an inn, "lead" with a garden, and you will rarely make a mistake.This has been a damp journey so far. The rain began in Chicago, and has kept pace with me all the way. Notwithstanding, we strolled, after tea, over the little spa and a good five miles of beautiful meadow to Guy's Cliff, the handsome countryseat of Lord Percy, and back in time for eight o'clocktable d'hôte. The number of times these English cousins of ours eat is remarkable. They breakfast anywhere from eight to eleven, lunch from twelve to four, have tea always at five, and dinner from eight to eleven at night.This morning, at eight, dressed in our short walking skirts and heavy boots, with every warm garment we possess under our jackets, we started for Warwick. It was bitterly cold—but—did you ever see a castle?I have! Today!Imagine me standing outside the castle wall, gazing up in silent awe. This wall is one hundred and twenty-five feet high and ten feet thick, built around a square of two miles, the gray walls of the castle itself forming one side of the square.I wonder if other people are moved to tears by grandeur in nature or in art? Do you recall how the tears would come the day I caught my first glimpse of the Pacific Ocean from Mt. Lowe? So today, while others were "ohing" and "ahing," I was dumb with joy; and if I have said once, I have said a hundred times, "If you were only here to enjoy it with me!"As we left the embattled gateway we passed through a road deeply cut out of the solid rock, the walls of which were covered with vines. A sudden turn brought us abruptly into the vast open court, when there burst upon our vision a fortress, mighty and magnificent, and this was Warwick Castle! No matter how many embattled castles you see, the one seen first will be stamped forever upon your memory, and I hope it will be beautiful Warwick. We were shown through the state apartments, but they were as nothing compared with my first glimpse of the massive fortress of the feudal barons of Warwick—the old king-makers. After dinner we drove to Kenilworth and viewed the stately ruins by moonlight.STRATFORD-ON-AVON:Thesun shone today, and it was a welcome sight. We came here to rest over the Sabbath, and we have wandered over the simple old town to all the haunts of the poet, where we met Americans, Germans, Frenchmen, Italians—all doing him honor. As we walked "Across the field to Ann" in the twilight, I recalled Dr. Richard Burton's beautiful poem of that title.OXFORD:Thackeraywas certainly right when he said of Oxford, "It is a delight to enter, but despair to leave." Should you ask me to tell you candidly how long one should remain in Oxford in order to see it perfectly, I should reply, "A lifetime." It is charming. Of course the college buildings, with their quads and cloisters, the churches, the Sheldonian Theater and Bodleian Library, are all teeming with historic interest, but it is the beauty of the outdoor part of Oxford—of all England, in fact—that most appeals to me. Well may this be called the "Garden Route," for all nature is alive with flowers and foliage, with green of all shades, and odors sweeterthan honey. Everything here is freely accessible to the visitor. No wonder the English women are good walkers. One cannot see the beauties of these glorious gardens, both public and private, unless one walks miles, as I have this day.WINDSOR:I havebeen repaid a thousandfold for that awful ocean voyage. The massive walls of Windsor Castle are just outside my window, and as I write, I count ten guards abreast upon them. It is the Queen's birthday, "God bless her!"I was up with the lark and entered the embattled gateway as soon as it was open to visitors. The terraces, the grand parterre, the royal stables, St. George's Chapel where the royal marriages are celebrated, the State Apartments, the Round Tower, and Albert Memorial Chapel—all, all are beyond my power of description. It was with difficulty that I tore myself away, bade good-bye to Mr. and Mrs. W., caught the train for Paddington Station, reached London in time to take a cab to my bankers, where I found your blessed letters, and then went to my new home.LIME WALK, OXFORDLONDON:Laurence Huttonsays: "London has no associations so interesting as those connected with its literary men." I do not entirely agree with him.Not half has been told of dear, delightful, dirty, dreary London. I should be the last person to call her dreary, for she put on her best behavior for me, and the sun shone nearly every day those first weeks. It was June:"And what is so rare as a day in June?"You will remember that the American statesman-poet wrote the poem containing this line in London.The first and last place to visit in London is Westminster Abbey. The church is in the form of a Latin cross, and the poets' corner is in the south transept, a wing off the organ-room. When you enter it, you seem to be in a chapel with pews and an altar like any place of worship, but it appears to grow larger as one continues to gaze. The walls and every available space are filled with marble busts or bas-reliefs.It is worthy of note that Longfellow is the only American whose bust adorns thepoets' corner. There is a service of song here every afternoon at four, and the harmony of those sweet voices is yet ringing in my ears.The Houses of Parliament are across the street from the Abbey. They contain over a thousand apartments, more than a hundred staircases, and a dozen courts. The art in these buildings rivals anything of the kind in the world. The paintings, sculptures, and the mosaic pavements are beautiful. They are open to the public only on Saturdays, from ten to four.One should take a boat from the Tower Bridge to get the view of the Parliament buildings from the river, and sail away down past the embankment, where are many of the finest hotels.There are some beautiful water trips about London. One particularly pleasant is from London Bridge to Kew. If you have time, stop at Chelsea and see the home of Carlyle, which is now fitted up as a memorial and open to visitors. Go on to Kew, where you disembark and take achar-a-bancs, or the top of an omnibus, to Hampton Court and walk through the grounds.To me one of the greatest delights ofLondon is Hyde Park. I cannot understand why one hears so much about Paris and so little of London. Hyde Park is to London what the Tuileries are to Paris, and the marble arch at the Victoria Street entrance, erected by George the Fourth, is as beautiful as the Arc de Triomphe, while the massive archway and iron gates at the Piccadilly end are imposing. One gets the best idea of Hyde Park by taking a 'bus at Piccadilly Circus—and, by the by, do you know what Piccadilly Circus is? Well, it is only a street, or rather a widening of the place where Regent Street ends and where Piccadilly turns west. Piccadilly itself is a prominent street, but only about half a mile in length, beginning at Haymarket and ending at Hyde Park.To go back to Hyde Park—I repeat, take a 'bus at Piccadilly Circus, ride to Kensington Gore, and walk back through Kensington Gardens, past the Albert Memorial and the marble statue of the Queen, done by her daughter, Princess Louise. One is obliged to walk, as carriages are not allowed in Kensington Gardens, and there is no other way to see the beauty of the rare old trees, the fountains, the lakes, the bridges and the glorious array of blossoms. Tryto get to Rotten Row in Hyde Park by four, for at that time the "drive" begins, and one may see London's lords and ladies at their best.Another delightful day may be spent in St. James' Park. Aim to arrive there for the "guard mount," at nine each morning, and if you go on a Wednesday, and the King and Queen happen not to be in town, you may be shown through the palace.Make a day of the Crystal Palace at Norwood. If you cannot take the continental trip, a very good idea of the works of art of Switzerland, Germany, France and Italy may be obtained in this "miniature world," as the Crystal Palace is sometimes called.You should go to the theaters, and go some time when they do not "book stalls." This experience is apt to test your disposition. The Haymarket Theater, for instance, does not book seats on Saturday afternoons and the highest priced seat is but four shillings. It seemed strange that Ruth insisted on our lunching so early the Saturday we were to attend, but I thought the performance began at twelve like the Wagnerian cycles at Covent Garden. When I saw the pretty, well-behavedyoung women sitting there in line on camp-stools, it struck me as very funny. I lost my "place" time after time stepping out to gaze at them. There were few men present, and the low voices of the women never rose high or shrill when arguing about their right to a place.But best and most fascinating of all is the National Gallery, and after that the British Museum. I like the English school of art: Landseer, Turner, Reynolds, Hogarth and Gainsborough.If I could have but one picture, and that of my own choosing, I'd take, without hesitation, Landseer's "A Distinguished Member of the Royal Humane Society," not because the largest crowd is always before it, nor because the easel space is full with artists copying it, but because it appeals to my heart. One should go several times to the National Gallery that the knowledge gained may be properly digested. On the first visit especially, a guide should be taken.BOURNE END:I havehad a most delightful opportunity to see something of the country life of England, and one that the casual travelercannot experience, unless she has friends living here. It was on a house-boat at Bourne End, and the memory of that charming week will live long after paintings and sculptures have faded from my mind. It was the last week in June. The Thames was in gala dress for the boat races, and the banks were lined with house-boats—veritable bowers of plants and blossoms—ready for the Henley regatta. These house-boats are really flatboats supporting summer cottages. They are seldom moved except for the races, and are then towed up the Thames to Henley or Oxford by little tugs.The scene is one of unsurpassed loveliness—the banks lined with these floating bowers, the water dotted with thousands of small boats each flying some college colors, the fresh-looking English maidens in holiday array, the stalwart fellows in white duck, the bands of music, the gaiety and flowers—flowers everywhere. If you have read the description of an Oxford regatta in "The Handsome Humes," you will agree with me, I am sure.NATIONAL GALLERY, LONDON, FRONTING TRAFALGAR SQUAREI shall not soon forget those who have been faithful and have written me everylittle while. No one knows, save those who have experienced it, what a letter means to one traveling in a strange country.I am having the desire of my life. Every one is lovely to me. I am seeing picturesque England, literary England and historical England. I am having an ideally perfect time amid elegance and luxury, yet you can little realize the courage it takes not to throw the whole thing up and go home. I feel as though I'd like to gallop—run is too tame—right off to the docks and take the first thing that crosses that big ocean. Never fear, though; I'm going to brave it out, and I'll be a better and a wiser woman in consequence of it.LONDON,July Fourth:Hurrahfor the red, white, and blue!The dear maid brought me eleven letters, each with a little flag on it, and each intended to reach me this day.Ruth and I took two young American girls with us to the Ambassador's reception this afternoon at four.There is a spirit of patriotism in the breast of social leaders which perhaps is seldom equaled by those in the humbler walks of life. The firing of gunpowder inits various forms, the drinking of all sorts and conditions of drinks, the noise of the numerous and senseless yells on our nation's natal day, do not necessarily stamp the doer with boundless national love.When one is far from one's native land the feeling of love for that home land is of too deep and sacred a nature to admit of jocular demonstrations. I saw society today with statesmen and men of letters and foreign representatives at the Ambassador's reception, and the heart swelled with patriotic emotion, and many eyes were moist with tears as some one unfurled the Stars and Stripes, while the band played the Star-spangled Banner. All this was done without sound of any sort, save the sweet strains of the music, or the deeper drawing of the breath, and yet the men of other nations uncovered their heads in respectful acknowledgment of the fact that they stood before the representatives of the truest and most patriotic country on earth.So many things crowd to the place where the gray matter should be that I gasp for breath. I wonder if every woman who comes over here is possessed with thewild desire to write letters. I go to places now, that I may tell you about them, and am uneasy until I reach my little sky-parlor in order to begin the telling.Can I ever make you understand how much, how very much, I appreciate all the delights you are making it possible for me to enjoy? Were I to be stricken blind and deaf, and then live a thousand years, I have enough of beauty of color, of sound and of fragrance to enable me to live happily through it all. And yet, I am going to say, "I told you so."You never did so unwise a thing as to induce me to bring those trunks. We have discarded them, and have each purchased an English "hold-all" and a dress basket. This last we send to the place where we are to be at the week's end, and there we are laundered, and away it goes to our next resting-place.I find that one can get her linen washed quickly, cheaply and well in all parts of England. You give your soiled clothes, with a thru'pence, to your maid at night, and you will find them at your door, along with your shoes, in the morning—shoes and all having been thoroughly washed.There is a system of "carted luggage"here by which one may send any large piece of luggage that can be locked (it will not be taken otherwise) from one's door and find it in one's room at the hotel or lodgings in the next city. The cost is nominal. Unless one comes to visit or for social duties, only the bare necessities should be taken. Other articles are an extra bother and expense. We have learned, too, to write in advance, in time for a reply, before venturing to hotels or lodgings. Women unaccompanied by men do not receive the best attention in Europe unless "expected."FRESHWATER, ISLE OF WIGHT:In comingto the Isle of Wight we journeyed from London to Portsmouth by rail, and from Portsmouth to Ryde by boat across the Solent. The Spithead, as this part of the Solent is called, is the naval rendezvous of the world. Portsmouth harbor is filled with historic interest. It is here that Nelson's famous flagshipVictory, now a schoolship, is anchored. Off to the northward are many basins lined with factories. A monstrous floating bridge carries multitudes of passengers and vehicles, and the smaller ferries and boats of everydescription make a wonderful scene of activity.VENTNORTENNYSON'S HOUSEThe ride was all too short. It seemed but a moment until we were stepping from the boat into the train at Ryde which was to carry us the entire length of the island to Freshwater, twenty-three miles away.We arrived at Freshwater at sunset just as the bells were ringing for vespers, and we walked with the country folk the half mile from the station to the inn. Stopping long enough to leave our bags and wraps, we continued across the meadows to Farringford, the beautiful home of Tennyson. This was the realization of one of my cherished desires.The house possesses no architectural pretensions, but is singularly attractive. It is a long, low, rambling structure absolutely covered with creeping vines. I sat in Tennyson's chair, held his pen, leaned on his desk and touched the books he loved. This was a privilege because the public is not admitted since the young Lord Tennyson has taken up his residence there.Afterwards, I stood on the rustic bridge where Tennyson often stood to watch the sea, seen far away through the trees. I sat in the bower where he wrote "EnochArden," and strolled along the lanes which wind over the three hundred acres comprising the estate.It was with difficulty that I dragged myself away from this restful spot, but I hope that I caught a bit of the inspiration that he found there.Another day from the top of a coach we saw the beautiful country through which we had been whirled at dusk some days before. We drove to the rocks at the "bottom of the island," called the Needles; we wound through the cluster of cottages forming the village of Freshwater—then on we went through a succession of flowers on the hillside, flowers in the valleys, flowers by the sea, for the Isle of Wight is composed of blossoms and all the variations of green, with ever the blue sea as a background.We had our tea in the garden of the little inn which nestles under the wall of Carisbrooke Castle. After we had climbed to its tower for the view and had returned to earth again, we continued on to Newport and Ventnor.If you ever arrive at that part of Ventnor called "Bonchurch," stay there. Whoever named it must have been color-blind.SHANKLIN, ISLE OF WIGHTSTREET IN BONCHURCHSTOKE POGES:A delightfullyrestful day has been spent at Stoke Poges, in that peaceful old churchyard which inspired Gray's Elegy. The whole place remains the same as in the poet's time—1717, except "Yon ivy-mantled tower," which has been spoiled by a modern spire. But the ivy refuses to "mantle" it, and with strange perverseness stops at the tower, leaving the spire bare and "unloved" by the vine.As you sit under the yew tree where Gray sat and dreamed, you will realize the significance of his immortal lines:"Full many a gem of purest ray sereneThe dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear:Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,And waste its sweetness on the desert air."The scenery along the Thames Valley, from London to Slough, is pleasing. On leaving the train at Slough, one finds all sorts of carriages waiting to carry one to Stoke Poges, and on to Burnham Beeches.LAKESIDE, WINDERMERE, WEST VIEW VILLAS:We leftLondon, St. Pancras Station, via the Midland Railway, stoppingen routeat Chesterfield long enough to seethe "Twisted Tower" of the cathedral. It was built in the fourteenth century, and the book says, "A curious twist to the spire was caused by the warping of the wood." The poor ignorant people say it was the devil. It is very odd, whatever did it.STOKE-POGES, WHERE GRAY'S "ELEGY" WAS WRITTENWe left the train at Leeds to see the ruins of Kirkstall Abbey, catching the next through train by driving to Skipton, and here began the most picturesque scenery I have found in England.The valley of Craven consists of meadows similar to those of Chester and Warwick, but they are softer and greener; the same hedges, but darker, higher, and more velvety. The woods behind them set them off to advantage, and here and there, sparkling in the sunlight, are little lakes. The winding white roads and beautiful roses are everywhere. We passed a cañon cut in the rocks, with cliffs as high as one can see, then the blue hills of Cumberland burst on our vision.This mountain region, called the English Lake District, is said by the English to be the most beautiful spot in the British Isles, but the Scotch and the Irish each claim the same superlative. I shall seethem all, and shall give you an unprejudiced opinion, but certain it is that within these limits lies a wealth of scenery not to be very far surpassed anywhere.Have you the slightest idea what an English meadow is like? I had not, until today. This one has hills on either side with the clear blue Windermere at their feet. The white roads wind in and out, with this cluster of villas all covered with roses, and an old rustic bridge near by. I am writing this in the sweetest and cleanest of rooms, from the window of which I see the purple hills in the west and the sun just sinking behind them.EN ROUTE:Thesail on Lake Windermere was delightful. The boat touched at a number of picturesque places once frequented by Scott, Wordsworth, Shelley and Southey, landing us at Ambleside about ten in the morning. Here the coach was waiting to take us on one of the loveliest drives in Great Britain. All the way we glided over the same smooth roads, with mountains on one side and Lake Grasmere at our feet. We visited the cottage where Wordsworth lived, the one inwhich Coleridge died, and the home of Harriet Martineau. What wonder that these dear people wrote so poetically! One must find expression for one's dreams in this land of beauty.We reached Keswick just in time to board the train for Penrith, where we changed for Carlisle. Here we took time to visit the old castle and the really fine cathedral before leaving for Melrose, Scotland.It is a mistaken idea that the English people sneer at or slight Americans. Every well-informed Englishman acknowledges the United States to be the most progressive nation on earth. Everything American is sought after, and American ideas command the highest price.I have found the better class of English the most charming of people, and their hospitality knows no limit. My stay here, away from my native land, has been one bright dream of pleasure, made so particularly by a dear old English couple, and by the family on the house-boat.And now, good-bye, bright, fragrant and flowery England!

Oh, to be in EnglandNow that April's there,And whoever wakes in EnglandSees, some morning, unaware,That the lowest boughs and the brush-wood sheafRound the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf,While the chaffinch sings on the orchard boughIn England—now!Robert Browning.

Oh, to be in England

Now that April's there,

And whoever wakes in England

Sees, some morning, unaware,

That the lowest boughs and the brush-wood sheaf

Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf,

While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough

In England—now!

Robert Browning.

We landedat eleven o'clock and I went immediately and sent a cable to you. In the paying for it—my first money transaction in England—I was given too little change, which stamps me fresh from America and not up in shillings, pence, and ha'-pennies.

The contents of our letters made it necessary to change some of our plans. A telegram to Ruth from Lady S—, compelling her to go north for a few days, will separate us for a time. Ruth begged me to accompany her, but my plans lead elsewhere, so this merry family of ours parts to meet—(?)

You are a very satisfactory sort of correspondent, for you bid me tell how oneshould go to London from Liverpool, what to see and any little details not known to the stranger, not forgetting the necessary expenses. Ruth has been here many times, and knows every spot of interest, and she has mapped out a route for me to take until she can join me.

After going through the Customs, which, by the way, is easier in European countries than in America, we started at once for London, via the Great Western Railway. Speaking of the Customs, they have sort of aisles, in which the trunks are arranged, and one is not allowed to enter until all is ready. Hanging in conspicuous places are the letters of the alphabet, and a man at the door asks your name, and you are directed to the proper aisle. The officer first looks you over, then says: "Have you any spirits" (not ghosts, but liquors), "cigars, or English copyrighted books?" I answered, "No," of course, and the blue chalk mark was placed on my luggage without further question, after which a splendid porter was called to carry it to my carriage.

The woman behind me, too, said "No," just as I did, but she, it seems, had a man all her own, and the officer said,

"I will have to trouble you to open the trunks for me."

Apparently the Customs officers have a way of finding out things, and I wish you could have seen the contents of those trunks! There were bottles and bottles, and cigars and tobacco—everything but books. That was the first time I was sorry my name began with —, for had it been otherwise I should have been spared the sight of the discomfort of that poor woman.

As I was leaving, the second officer said to her, "Please call your husband, madam." Now, how do you suppose they knew she had a husband with her?

Oh, dear! Oh, dear! That ocean seems, somehow, awfully wide today with you on the other side.

We purchasedin Liverpool an "American tourists' stop-over ticket," over what is known as the "Garden Route," for 16/6, which, being interpreted, signifies sixteen shillings and sixpence, or slightly over four dollars.

We are at The Blossoms, an inn over four hundred years old. We have been to Hawarden Castle, the beautiful home ofthe late Mr. Gladstone. It is in Wales, but five miles from here. On our return we visited Eaton Hall, the magnificent "place" of the Duke of Westminster.

Chester is one of the oldest towns in England, and some of the old Roman wall, built over one thousand years ago, is yet standing. The "Old Rows," two-story shops, with some above and some below the sidewalk, are quaint. The beautiful drive is called the "Roodee," a contraction of the French wordrueand the River Dee, on the banks of which the old town is situated. Here is a cathedral which presents every style of English mediæval architecture, from the early Norman to the last Perpendicular.

I count this a remarkable day. I have seen my first English cathedral, my first English estate, and have stood, for the first time, in the cloisters of an abbey.

We arrivedat Leamington at "ten to five" last evening. The people of the Manor House were expecting us, as we had written from Chester. We chose this inn from our guide-book, and because it had a garden. I have learned that, inEngland, when in doubt about an inn, "lead" with a garden, and you will rarely make a mistake.

This has been a damp journey so far. The rain began in Chicago, and has kept pace with me all the way. Notwithstanding, we strolled, after tea, over the little spa and a good five miles of beautiful meadow to Guy's Cliff, the handsome countryseat of Lord Percy, and back in time for eight o'clocktable d'hôte. The number of times these English cousins of ours eat is remarkable. They breakfast anywhere from eight to eleven, lunch from twelve to four, have tea always at five, and dinner from eight to eleven at night.

This morning, at eight, dressed in our short walking skirts and heavy boots, with every warm garment we possess under our jackets, we started for Warwick. It was bitterly cold—but—did you ever see a castle?

I have! Today!

Imagine me standing outside the castle wall, gazing up in silent awe. This wall is one hundred and twenty-five feet high and ten feet thick, built around a square of two miles, the gray walls of the castle itself forming one side of the square.

I wonder if other people are moved to tears by grandeur in nature or in art? Do you recall how the tears would come the day I caught my first glimpse of the Pacific Ocean from Mt. Lowe? So today, while others were "ohing" and "ahing," I was dumb with joy; and if I have said once, I have said a hundred times, "If you were only here to enjoy it with me!"

As we left the embattled gateway we passed through a road deeply cut out of the solid rock, the walls of which were covered with vines. A sudden turn brought us abruptly into the vast open court, when there burst upon our vision a fortress, mighty and magnificent, and this was Warwick Castle! No matter how many embattled castles you see, the one seen first will be stamped forever upon your memory, and I hope it will be beautiful Warwick. We were shown through the state apartments, but they were as nothing compared with my first glimpse of the massive fortress of the feudal barons of Warwick—the old king-makers. After dinner we drove to Kenilworth and viewed the stately ruins by moonlight.

Thesun shone today, and it was a welcome sight. We came here to rest over the Sabbath, and we have wandered over the simple old town to all the haunts of the poet, where we met Americans, Germans, Frenchmen, Italians—all doing him honor. As we walked "Across the field to Ann" in the twilight, I recalled Dr. Richard Burton's beautiful poem of that title.

Thackeraywas certainly right when he said of Oxford, "It is a delight to enter, but despair to leave." Should you ask me to tell you candidly how long one should remain in Oxford in order to see it perfectly, I should reply, "A lifetime." It is charming. Of course the college buildings, with their quads and cloisters, the churches, the Sheldonian Theater and Bodleian Library, are all teeming with historic interest, but it is the beauty of the outdoor part of Oxford—of all England, in fact—that most appeals to me. Well may this be called the "Garden Route," for all nature is alive with flowers and foliage, with green of all shades, and odors sweeterthan honey. Everything here is freely accessible to the visitor. No wonder the English women are good walkers. One cannot see the beauties of these glorious gardens, both public and private, unless one walks miles, as I have this day.

I havebeen repaid a thousandfold for that awful ocean voyage. The massive walls of Windsor Castle are just outside my window, and as I write, I count ten guards abreast upon them. It is the Queen's birthday, "God bless her!"

I was up with the lark and entered the embattled gateway as soon as it was open to visitors. The terraces, the grand parterre, the royal stables, St. George's Chapel where the royal marriages are celebrated, the State Apartments, the Round Tower, and Albert Memorial Chapel—all, all are beyond my power of description. It was with difficulty that I tore myself away, bade good-bye to Mr. and Mrs. W., caught the train for Paddington Station, reached London in time to take a cab to my bankers, where I found your blessed letters, and then went to my new home.

LIME WALK, OXFORD

Laurence Huttonsays: "London has no associations so interesting as those connected with its literary men." I do not entirely agree with him.

Not half has been told of dear, delightful, dirty, dreary London. I should be the last person to call her dreary, for she put on her best behavior for me, and the sun shone nearly every day those first weeks. It was June:

"And what is so rare as a day in June?"

You will remember that the American statesman-poet wrote the poem containing this line in London.

The first and last place to visit in London is Westminster Abbey. The church is in the form of a Latin cross, and the poets' corner is in the south transept, a wing off the organ-room. When you enter it, you seem to be in a chapel with pews and an altar like any place of worship, but it appears to grow larger as one continues to gaze. The walls and every available space are filled with marble busts or bas-reliefs.

It is worthy of note that Longfellow is the only American whose bust adorns thepoets' corner. There is a service of song here every afternoon at four, and the harmony of those sweet voices is yet ringing in my ears.

The Houses of Parliament are across the street from the Abbey. They contain over a thousand apartments, more than a hundred staircases, and a dozen courts. The art in these buildings rivals anything of the kind in the world. The paintings, sculptures, and the mosaic pavements are beautiful. They are open to the public only on Saturdays, from ten to four.

One should take a boat from the Tower Bridge to get the view of the Parliament buildings from the river, and sail away down past the embankment, where are many of the finest hotels.

There are some beautiful water trips about London. One particularly pleasant is from London Bridge to Kew. If you have time, stop at Chelsea and see the home of Carlyle, which is now fitted up as a memorial and open to visitors. Go on to Kew, where you disembark and take achar-a-bancs, or the top of an omnibus, to Hampton Court and walk through the grounds.

To me one of the greatest delights ofLondon is Hyde Park. I cannot understand why one hears so much about Paris and so little of London. Hyde Park is to London what the Tuileries are to Paris, and the marble arch at the Victoria Street entrance, erected by George the Fourth, is as beautiful as the Arc de Triomphe, while the massive archway and iron gates at the Piccadilly end are imposing. One gets the best idea of Hyde Park by taking a 'bus at Piccadilly Circus—and, by the by, do you know what Piccadilly Circus is? Well, it is only a street, or rather a widening of the place where Regent Street ends and where Piccadilly turns west. Piccadilly itself is a prominent street, but only about half a mile in length, beginning at Haymarket and ending at Hyde Park.

To go back to Hyde Park—I repeat, take a 'bus at Piccadilly Circus, ride to Kensington Gore, and walk back through Kensington Gardens, past the Albert Memorial and the marble statue of the Queen, done by her daughter, Princess Louise. One is obliged to walk, as carriages are not allowed in Kensington Gardens, and there is no other way to see the beauty of the rare old trees, the fountains, the lakes, the bridges and the glorious array of blossoms. Tryto get to Rotten Row in Hyde Park by four, for at that time the "drive" begins, and one may see London's lords and ladies at their best.

Another delightful day may be spent in St. James' Park. Aim to arrive there for the "guard mount," at nine each morning, and if you go on a Wednesday, and the King and Queen happen not to be in town, you may be shown through the palace.

Make a day of the Crystal Palace at Norwood. If you cannot take the continental trip, a very good idea of the works of art of Switzerland, Germany, France and Italy may be obtained in this "miniature world," as the Crystal Palace is sometimes called.

You should go to the theaters, and go some time when they do not "book stalls." This experience is apt to test your disposition. The Haymarket Theater, for instance, does not book seats on Saturday afternoons and the highest priced seat is but four shillings. It seemed strange that Ruth insisted on our lunching so early the Saturday we were to attend, but I thought the performance began at twelve like the Wagnerian cycles at Covent Garden. When I saw the pretty, well-behavedyoung women sitting there in line on camp-stools, it struck me as very funny. I lost my "place" time after time stepping out to gaze at them. There were few men present, and the low voices of the women never rose high or shrill when arguing about their right to a place.

But best and most fascinating of all is the National Gallery, and after that the British Museum. I like the English school of art: Landseer, Turner, Reynolds, Hogarth and Gainsborough.

If I could have but one picture, and that of my own choosing, I'd take, without hesitation, Landseer's "A Distinguished Member of the Royal Humane Society," not because the largest crowd is always before it, nor because the easel space is full with artists copying it, but because it appeals to my heart. One should go several times to the National Gallery that the knowledge gained may be properly digested. On the first visit especially, a guide should be taken.

I havehad a most delightful opportunity to see something of the country life of England, and one that the casual travelercannot experience, unless she has friends living here. It was on a house-boat at Bourne End, and the memory of that charming week will live long after paintings and sculptures have faded from my mind. It was the last week in June. The Thames was in gala dress for the boat races, and the banks were lined with house-boats—veritable bowers of plants and blossoms—ready for the Henley regatta. These house-boats are really flatboats supporting summer cottages. They are seldom moved except for the races, and are then towed up the Thames to Henley or Oxford by little tugs.

The scene is one of unsurpassed loveliness—the banks lined with these floating bowers, the water dotted with thousands of small boats each flying some college colors, the fresh-looking English maidens in holiday array, the stalwart fellows in white duck, the bands of music, the gaiety and flowers—flowers everywhere. If you have read the description of an Oxford regatta in "The Handsome Humes," you will agree with me, I am sure.

NATIONAL GALLERY, LONDON, FRONTING TRAFALGAR SQUARE

I shall not soon forget those who have been faithful and have written me everylittle while. No one knows, save those who have experienced it, what a letter means to one traveling in a strange country.

I am having the desire of my life. Every one is lovely to me. I am seeing picturesque England, literary England and historical England. I am having an ideally perfect time amid elegance and luxury, yet you can little realize the courage it takes not to throw the whole thing up and go home. I feel as though I'd like to gallop—run is too tame—right off to the docks and take the first thing that crosses that big ocean. Never fear, though; I'm going to brave it out, and I'll be a better and a wiser woman in consequence of it.

Hurrahfor the red, white, and blue!

The dear maid brought me eleven letters, each with a little flag on it, and each intended to reach me this day.

Ruth and I took two young American girls with us to the Ambassador's reception this afternoon at four.

There is a spirit of patriotism in the breast of social leaders which perhaps is seldom equaled by those in the humbler walks of life. The firing of gunpowder inits various forms, the drinking of all sorts and conditions of drinks, the noise of the numerous and senseless yells on our nation's natal day, do not necessarily stamp the doer with boundless national love.

When one is far from one's native land the feeling of love for that home land is of too deep and sacred a nature to admit of jocular demonstrations. I saw society today with statesmen and men of letters and foreign representatives at the Ambassador's reception, and the heart swelled with patriotic emotion, and many eyes were moist with tears as some one unfurled the Stars and Stripes, while the band played the Star-spangled Banner. All this was done without sound of any sort, save the sweet strains of the music, or the deeper drawing of the breath, and yet the men of other nations uncovered their heads in respectful acknowledgment of the fact that they stood before the representatives of the truest and most patriotic country on earth.

So many things crowd to the place where the gray matter should be that I gasp for breath. I wonder if every woman who comes over here is possessed with thewild desire to write letters. I go to places now, that I may tell you about them, and am uneasy until I reach my little sky-parlor in order to begin the telling.

Can I ever make you understand how much, how very much, I appreciate all the delights you are making it possible for me to enjoy? Were I to be stricken blind and deaf, and then live a thousand years, I have enough of beauty of color, of sound and of fragrance to enable me to live happily through it all. And yet, I am going to say, "I told you so."

You never did so unwise a thing as to induce me to bring those trunks. We have discarded them, and have each purchased an English "hold-all" and a dress basket. This last we send to the place where we are to be at the week's end, and there we are laundered, and away it goes to our next resting-place.

I find that one can get her linen washed quickly, cheaply and well in all parts of England. You give your soiled clothes, with a thru'pence, to your maid at night, and you will find them at your door, along with your shoes, in the morning—shoes and all having been thoroughly washed.

There is a system of "carted luggage"here by which one may send any large piece of luggage that can be locked (it will not be taken otherwise) from one's door and find it in one's room at the hotel or lodgings in the next city. The cost is nominal. Unless one comes to visit or for social duties, only the bare necessities should be taken. Other articles are an extra bother and expense. We have learned, too, to write in advance, in time for a reply, before venturing to hotels or lodgings. Women unaccompanied by men do not receive the best attention in Europe unless "expected."

In comingto the Isle of Wight we journeyed from London to Portsmouth by rail, and from Portsmouth to Ryde by boat across the Solent. The Spithead, as this part of the Solent is called, is the naval rendezvous of the world. Portsmouth harbor is filled with historic interest. It is here that Nelson's famous flagshipVictory, now a schoolship, is anchored. Off to the northward are many basins lined with factories. A monstrous floating bridge carries multitudes of passengers and vehicles, and the smaller ferries and boats of everydescription make a wonderful scene of activity.

VENTNORTENNYSON'S HOUSE

VENTNOR

TENNYSON'S HOUSE

The ride was all too short. It seemed but a moment until we were stepping from the boat into the train at Ryde which was to carry us the entire length of the island to Freshwater, twenty-three miles away.

We arrived at Freshwater at sunset just as the bells were ringing for vespers, and we walked with the country folk the half mile from the station to the inn. Stopping long enough to leave our bags and wraps, we continued across the meadows to Farringford, the beautiful home of Tennyson. This was the realization of one of my cherished desires.

The house possesses no architectural pretensions, but is singularly attractive. It is a long, low, rambling structure absolutely covered with creeping vines. I sat in Tennyson's chair, held his pen, leaned on his desk and touched the books he loved. This was a privilege because the public is not admitted since the young Lord Tennyson has taken up his residence there.

Afterwards, I stood on the rustic bridge where Tennyson often stood to watch the sea, seen far away through the trees. I sat in the bower where he wrote "EnochArden," and strolled along the lanes which wind over the three hundred acres comprising the estate.

It was with difficulty that I dragged myself away from this restful spot, but I hope that I caught a bit of the inspiration that he found there.

Another day from the top of a coach we saw the beautiful country through which we had been whirled at dusk some days before. We drove to the rocks at the "bottom of the island," called the Needles; we wound through the cluster of cottages forming the village of Freshwater—then on we went through a succession of flowers on the hillside, flowers in the valleys, flowers by the sea, for the Isle of Wight is composed of blossoms and all the variations of green, with ever the blue sea as a background.

We had our tea in the garden of the little inn which nestles under the wall of Carisbrooke Castle. After we had climbed to its tower for the view and had returned to earth again, we continued on to Newport and Ventnor.

If you ever arrive at that part of Ventnor called "Bonchurch," stay there. Whoever named it must have been color-blind.

SHANKLIN, ISLE OF WIGHTSTREET IN BONCHURCH

SHANKLIN, ISLE OF WIGHT

STREET IN BONCHURCH

A delightfullyrestful day has been spent at Stoke Poges, in that peaceful old churchyard which inspired Gray's Elegy. The whole place remains the same as in the poet's time—1717, except "Yon ivy-mantled tower," which has been spoiled by a modern spire. But the ivy refuses to "mantle" it, and with strange perverseness stops at the tower, leaving the spire bare and "unloved" by the vine.

As you sit under the yew tree where Gray sat and dreamed, you will realize the significance of his immortal lines:

"Full many a gem of purest ray sereneThe dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear:Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,And waste its sweetness on the desert air."

"Full many a gem of purest ray serene

The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear:

Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,

And waste its sweetness on the desert air."

The scenery along the Thames Valley, from London to Slough, is pleasing. On leaving the train at Slough, one finds all sorts of carriages waiting to carry one to Stoke Poges, and on to Burnham Beeches.

We leftLondon, St. Pancras Station, via the Midland Railway, stoppingen routeat Chesterfield long enough to seethe "Twisted Tower" of the cathedral. It was built in the fourteenth century, and the book says, "A curious twist to the spire was caused by the warping of the wood." The poor ignorant people say it was the devil. It is very odd, whatever did it.

STOKE-POGES, WHERE GRAY'S "ELEGY" WAS WRITTEN

We left the train at Leeds to see the ruins of Kirkstall Abbey, catching the next through train by driving to Skipton, and here began the most picturesque scenery I have found in England.

The valley of Craven consists of meadows similar to those of Chester and Warwick, but they are softer and greener; the same hedges, but darker, higher, and more velvety. The woods behind them set them off to advantage, and here and there, sparkling in the sunlight, are little lakes. The winding white roads and beautiful roses are everywhere. We passed a cañon cut in the rocks, with cliffs as high as one can see, then the blue hills of Cumberland burst on our vision.

This mountain region, called the English Lake District, is said by the English to be the most beautiful spot in the British Isles, but the Scotch and the Irish each claim the same superlative. I shall seethem all, and shall give you an unprejudiced opinion, but certain it is that within these limits lies a wealth of scenery not to be very far surpassed anywhere.

Have you the slightest idea what an English meadow is like? I had not, until today. This one has hills on either side with the clear blue Windermere at their feet. The white roads wind in and out, with this cluster of villas all covered with roses, and an old rustic bridge near by. I am writing this in the sweetest and cleanest of rooms, from the window of which I see the purple hills in the west and the sun just sinking behind them.

Thesail on Lake Windermere was delightful. The boat touched at a number of picturesque places once frequented by Scott, Wordsworth, Shelley and Southey, landing us at Ambleside about ten in the morning. Here the coach was waiting to take us on one of the loveliest drives in Great Britain. All the way we glided over the same smooth roads, with mountains on one side and Lake Grasmere at our feet. We visited the cottage where Wordsworth lived, the one inwhich Coleridge died, and the home of Harriet Martineau. What wonder that these dear people wrote so poetically! One must find expression for one's dreams in this land of beauty.

We reached Keswick just in time to board the train for Penrith, where we changed for Carlisle. Here we took time to visit the old castle and the really fine cathedral before leaving for Melrose, Scotland.

It is a mistaken idea that the English people sneer at or slight Americans. Every well-informed Englishman acknowledges the United States to be the most progressive nation on earth. Everything American is sought after, and American ideas command the highest price.

I have found the better class of English the most charming of people, and their hospitality knows no limit. My stay here, away from my native land, has been one bright dream of pleasure, made so particularly by a dear old English couple, and by the family on the house-boat.

And now, good-bye, bright, fragrant and flowery England!

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