awkward scramble over a primitive stile. At Charlecote, the church, the interior is well worth visiting, for the carved oak stalls, and the monuments in the Lucy Chapel, especially the figure of the historical Sir Thomas,-though in the immediate neighbourhood of the Hall, is beyond the grounds, and across the river. But when you are face to face with the lodge and the high iron gates on the Stratford road, you see that there is no need to ring or beg for admission. Hard by, in the oaken palings, is a little "wicket-gate," whence a path leads across the park along a gentle slope, slightly diverging from the leafy carriage approach, and skirting what in the north would be called the home policies. Charlecote is a genuine low-country park, and of no very great extent. But it is fortunate in gentle undulations of the ground, and it has the charms of wood and water in perfection. When we visited it last, the superb trees,, with their spreading branches throwing vast circular shadows over the sunny grass, were in every shade of the freshest vernal green. There was the soft green of the limes, the deeper green of the elms, and the bright yellow-tinted green of the bursting oaks, a week or two at least behind the others. Inconsistent as it may sound to say so, there was an enchanting confusion of absolute repose and the most intense vitality. The air was drowsy and warm ; there was scarcely breeze enough stirring to shake an aspen-leaf; the herds of deer were languidly ruminating under the trees, or listlessly brushing away the flies that began to bother them. By the way, it was not from this park of Charlecote that Shakespeare stole the deer, but from the Lucys' seat of Fullbrook,

which has long since been demolished and disparked. And in friendly fellowship with the fallow deer, the colonies of rabbits - black, white, and grey-had stolen silently out to feed from their burrows in the banks, beneath the gnarled roots of the mighty stems. They heard the footfall of the wayfarer with entire indifference, scarcely troubling themselves to go to ground, even when we passed within pistol-shot. But, on the other hand, there were small glancing shadows in all directions in swiftest motion. The jackdaws that swarmed in the holes in the hollow trunks of patriarchal elms, seemed to have found out the secret of perpetual motion; the starlings, if less noisy, were at least as restless; while swallows were circling everywhere overhead, skimming through the blades of the grass, and sweeping round again towards the Avon. The river flowing close past the house bounds the park to the westward. For the builders of old English castles and manorhouses always ran like rats to the water; and we know many of them which have probably been established to all eternity on the least eligible site of their beautiful domains. Not that that is the case at Charlecote-far from it. Should you keep strictly to the public path, when the foliage is out, you will be tantalised by fugitive glimpses through a leafy screen interposing itself continually between your eyes and the mansion. But a slight detour to the left brings one in full sight of the house, and surely the circumstances excuse so insignificant a trespass. May we be tried and condemned by a conclave of the dullest Shallows if we do not repeat it on the very next occasion. Charlecote suggests to us what

Waverley Honour must have been -a representative seat of the oldest order of the untitled landed gentry. It shows signs of opulence rather than magnificence; there is infinite homely beauty, with little state or pretension, although the house looks all the more imposing for the ranges of the stabling, in similar style of architecture, attached to the main building. The Avon, as we said, sweeps under the terraces; and on its placid water, reflecting the slopes of the closely-shaven turf and the flower - beds, there are swans and boats, and "all manner of games," to borrow the imagery of Rob the turnkey in 'Little Dorrit,' when he tried vaguely to paint the beauties of the country.

From the more modest beauties of Charlecote Hall, it is a change to the magnificence of Warwick Castle. Yet, visiting Warwick, we are half inclined to retract what we said as to the superior charms of less stately country residences. We have no great liking for being hustled through the grandest interiors, and we must confess that we have never stepped across the threshold of Warwick. Though it may be a great thing to be the occupier of the noblest baronial hall in the British Isles, we fancy a man must be to the manner born to put up with the troubles with which Mr Toole has familiarised us in the "Birthplace of Podgers"; and it must be terrible to be hunted from post to pillar in one's own house by surging floods of independent incursionists. Yet we must say that a man might be content to bear a good deal, if the home domains at Warwick Castle belonged to him. The site of the castle is superb, on a rocky ridge rising sheer above

the river. The art of the arboriculturist and landscape-gardener has taken advantage of each favouring circumstance presented by nature. The foundations of turrets springing out of inequalities in the ground, of winding outer staircases hewn out of the living rock, are clothed with hardy shrubs and climbing plants, intermingling in the wildest luxuriance. The magnificent shrubberies are, if we may misapply a word, almost as "monumental" as the baronial castle; the walks, as broad as ordinary carriagedrives, wind between shady lawns under the drooping boughs of limes and horse-chestnuts; the yew-hedges might have been grown in the dripping warmth of Herefordshire; while the gardeners have gradually been leaving nature more and more to herself, as the park and the pleasance stretch away along the banks of the river. It may be that when you challenge the civil warder at the great gate, your appeal for admission will be rejected. The grounds are closed on Sundays; and on other days, after a certain hour, when the family is resident. Yet, even then, though he loses much, the visitor may be in a measure consoled. Examine the photographs in the windows of any of the print-shops, and you will

see that the favourite view of Warwick is that from the picturesque old bridge on the public highroad. And from no other point can the river-front of the castle be possibly seen to greater advantage, with the massive buttresses that appear to have been built for all time, and the romantic air of hoar antiquity which has long ago effaced what may once have been an impression of baldness; while the mill in the foreground, to the left, with the swift mill-stream, and the drooping horse-chestnuts, is in itself

as enticing a bit as ever charmed the soul of the artist. And there is a loop-lane beyond, leaving the road and returning to it, which is well worth following, for the sake of the cottages which form the frontage, and for the glimpses into the park beyond.

The town of Warwick, with its strong gates and its steep streets, not to speak of the neighbourhood of the formidable castle, must have been a hard nut to crack by the soldiers of the middle ages. Its citizens must have seen or heard of a great deal of marching and countermarching, and the "Low Countries" stretching around were the scene of many a bloody battle. The gates still remain, with their chapels over the gateways, where the priests might watch as well as pray, when any enemy was threatening the community. They have been kept in what may be described as "substantial repair," though the restorations say little for the taste of the municipal authorities. The history of Warwick is the history of its famous earls, from the days of the half-mythical Guy downwards. The Warwicks of the various families were generally to the front in the civil and foreign wars of their centuries; and many of the monuments of the long-descended Beauchamps are to be seen in the noble church of St Mary's. The most magnificent, perhaps, is that of Thomas Beauchamp, a companion in arms of the Black Prince, who lies peacefully in his armour, on his gravestone in the choir, affectionately clasping the hand of his lady. As for Bulwer's "last of the Barons," the king-making Earl of Warwick, who plucked "this white rose with Plantagenet" in the Temple Gardens, he, as is well known, was carried from Barnet

field to Bisham, and laid with his father in the beautiful Berkshire abbey. Not the least interesting of the tombs in St Mary's is that of Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester and Lord of Kenilworth, the minion of Fortune and of a queen scarcely less fickle.

Another venerable Warwickshire town, almost as rich in historic memories, and certainly more intimately associated with Shakespeare and his writings, is Coventry.

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We can hardly name the place without thinking of Falstaff and his ragged regiment; and picturing Mouldy and Wart, and the other shirtless tatterdemalions, straggling along in the train of their leader, and looking for linen on every hedge. And it was at Coventry that the solemn passage of arms between Bolingbroke and Mowbray was suspended, by both champions being summarily sentenced to banishment. If Falstaff marched through Coventry on foot, he must have larded the sharp paving-stones as he marched along, for the pull up the hill is even more severe than in Warwick. very different figure from the fat knight was that of the fair Lady Godiva who rode through in a solitude between closed shutters, "clothed in her loveliness" and her flowing hair; and the Lady of Leofric of Mercia links Coventry to the Laureate. Nor can it be said that the worthy citizens have been wanting in gratitude, since till the other day, although latterly at lengthening intervals, they made a ceremonial display something more than indelicate, in commemoration of the benefactress who had enfranchised their forefathers. It was a startling sight, and scarcely conducive to morality, to see, in the middle of the nineteenth century, a very pretty

woman, in flesh-coloured tights, parading herself on horseback above the facetious crowd, with the dignified patres conscripti of the place following in her train, in a procession that may possibly have included the clergy. And since this article was written, we have been sorry to see that another commemoration is being arranged for this year.

But it would be hard to find a more appropriate stage for a medieval pageant than the most ancient quarter of the town, dominated by the spire of St Michael. Coventry seems to have been almost a sacred city in the olden time, and, at all events, it was an earthly paradise for churchmen, both lay and secular, though in these days the Protestant vicar has had to fight the battle of the tithes. Earl Leofric was a munificent benefactor of the Church; and it is likely indeed that the husband of the Lady Godiva may have had matters enough to trouble his conscience. There were confraternities of friars of all colours; while the parochial churches were architectural triumphs. One is tempted to stand and gaze even now till the back sinews of the neck are aching and cracking for the church is crowded up by humbler buildings-looking up at that graceful steeple of St Michael's, with its buttresses carved in florid fancies, and the numerous figures of saints in their niches. The elaboration of the workmanship may be due to the softness of the material, which has suffered lamentably from the weather on that wind-blown height, to the advantage of nobody or nothing save the jackdaws, and the jackdaws find extraordinary conveniences in nesting. That grand church of the great archangel dwarfs its next-door neighbour, which was

VOL. CXXXIV. NO. DCCCXIII.

sacred to the Virgin, and which would strike us anywhere else as an extraordinarily beautiful edifice. But our Lady has another and a more unique monument in the adjacent Hall of St Mary, which, having been erected originally by one of the city guilds, has passed long since into the hands of the corporation, and has been consecrated to civic festivities. The grand hall is a sight: so is the great kitchen. The building is generally allowed to be one of the finest specimens of medieval domestic architecture. There is stained glass; there are admirable carvings. But perhaps the most curious and attractive of the internal adornments is what we venture to christen the Shakespeare tapestries, which drape the northern end of the hall. In one of the hangings the pious Henry VI. is on his knees; behind him, in a similar attitude, is the impenitent old Cardinal Beaufort, who "died and made no sign;" and in the surrounding group of courtiers and priests are other of the princes of the house of Lancaster. We said St Michael's Church was crowded up by houses; and indeed, around and between the church and the market-place is a little labyrinth of lanes and back slums, some of which seem to have been forgotten by the builder from time immemorial, though the petty shopkeepers drive a bustling trade. In one of them the jutting upper storeys lean over, till, in the narrow streak of light left between the chimneys and the sky, there scarcely seems room for the passage of the slimmest of chimneysweeping lads. In another, in an ancient booth, the blackened oaken framework of which is a model of bold wood-carving, a second-hand furniture-dealer had

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taken up his abode, selling everything, from horse-hair sofas down to rusty saucepans. Hard by was a pawnbroker hanging out the three balls over a shell-fish stall; dirty children were disporting themselves in the open runnels; and it seemed impossible that there should be so strong a smell of old clothes and stale periwinkles on a height in the breezy midlands, many feet above the level of the sea. At the same time, a respectable average of sanitary arrangement is more than established within the bounds of the borough. If older Coventry recalls the demolished Judengasse of Frankfort, though hook-nosed Hebrews and swarthy roses of Sharon are conspicuous by their absence, new Coventry, in the vastness of its spaces, the absurd width of its thoroughfares, and the imposing effects of some of the pretentious blocks of building, reminds one much of modern Munich. It was the Huguenot refugees who gave the old town its industrial impulse, carrying their silk-looms and their shuttles thither after the revocation of the Edict of Nantes. We know that the ribbon trade has been in decadence of late years; but if we had not been told as much, we should have remarked no signs of decay. And in any case, and happen what may to the manufacturers, Coventry must always be a centre for hay and corn sales, judging at least by the ample stable accommodation at the big hotels in the precincts of the market-place; and when we add that the town has established hansoms notwithstanding its hills, we may feel tolerably confident as to its future.

The change from the cheery railway station at Coventry, with its advertisements and its bookstalls,

to the grey ruins of Kenilworth, would be more striking if Kenilworth were not almost as popular a place of resort as the "Baldfaced Stag" in Epping Forest in the days of the Epping hunt. Kenilworth should be the very place for a day-dream,—that is to say, for any man who has steeped himself in the romances of Scott; and yet, unless by some unlookedfor piece of good luck, we defy any mortal to dream there comfortably. "Eothen," a shrewd analyst of human nature, has remarked on the difficulty we find in stringing the soul to harmonious tones, even in such saintly localities as Bethlehem, or the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. Anthony Trollope has touched off picnics on the Mount of Olives, where the company brought everything for an agreeable afternoon, except the reflections that might most

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naturally suggest themselves. And the vast courtyard of Kenilworth, which, as Scott said, might have very comfortably contained all the castles to the north of the Tweed, should be the best of starting-places for a balloon voyage through the spheres of imagination. There are benches on sunny and shady banks, inviting the fervid pilgrim to restful meditation. rests and nods, or he strives to meditate; and he is perpetually brought back from the unseen to the visible. The arrangements generally remind him of a tea-garden. The admission is fixed at the unromantic sum of twopence; and that figure is a stimulus to the rush of visitors. We presume that the railway company finds its profit in running excursion trains. And so the pageantry of the Kenilworth of Leicester and Walter Scott is eclipsed by the latter-day panorama of good-humoured Philistines.