nearly run into one of these closed gates. But if the undesirable turnpike-gates no longer obstruct the traveller, it must be confessed that the gates protecting the level crossings of the railways which have multiplied so throughout the land are still more objectionable, even though you have not to pay for the pleasure of being unexpectedly delayed, for at one of these you must wait till the train, or perhaps trains, have passed. Upon a certain wellremembered occasion in the north country, I was actually detained at a level railway crossing for full a quarter of an hour whilst some shunting was going on, and this in a thunderstorm! On the whole the turnpike-gate is preferable.

Shortly after leaving the village we had a stiff hill to mount. An old weather-beaten windmill at the top of this tempted us to pull up awhile and make a sketch of it, and we lingered long after our drawing was done to enjoy the fine prospect that opened out from there before us. A very charming sketch that old mill made, though the subject was a simple one. How little goes to form a pleasing picture! It may be merely an ancient gnarled oak with moss-grown trunk, or the corner of a tumble-down barn, or a water-mill with its grey-green wheel and sparkling stream by its side, or even a rush-grown pool. Such simple things make far better subjects for a sketch than the most stately buildings reared by man in all their assertive perfection. An ancient thatched cottage, the humbler the better, that has been beautified by age, mellowed and toned by time, and painted by the weather-tints of summer suns and

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winter storms, how charming is it to the artist's eye! Pictorially speaking, such an old cottage is far more picturesque and delightful to

palace the world can show.

look upon than the finest

But it is not given to

all to see the beauty of the commonplace; to reveal such to those who cannot see it (even though before their eyes), is the privilege of the artist.

Leaving the old mill we soon came to another charming village, with a fine old half-timbered house standing by the wayside in a companionable manner, not hidden by envious high walls from the gaze of the passer-by. One of the ancient homes of the people this, standing in its own garden, self-contained. Not a grand mansion nor yet an humble dwelling-a house that a decayed nobleman might live in and not be ashamed. Then as we drove along we passed several picturesque cottages. One of these had some yew trees in front of it, each one cut into quaint shapes, stiff and prim these; very different indeed from what Nature intended a tree to be, quaint shapes like those that were in vogue long years ago in the ancient gardens of our forefathers, when sundials, terraces, nut-walks, bowling-greens, and simple flowers were the fashion. The greenhouse has given us rarer plants, at more expense, but to my mind. none so beautiful as the homely hardy flowers that contented our ancestors. Then in this delightful old-time village we passed another ancient home, built of flint, with a timber and brick gable story boldly projecting in the centre over the porch, both affording shelter and adding a pleasant feature to the building. These old houses are often, though not

always, simple in construction, but their outlines are certain to be vigorous; high-pitched roofs, great gables, clustering chimney-stacks, and an ample porch give even a yeoman's abode an expression of dignity that the mere costly piling up of stones and mortar never can impart.

Journeying on, at the top of another hill a glorious prospect of far-stretching country opened before us; a vast expanse of wooded landscape, fading away from the freshest greens close at hand to the palest blue in the dim dreamy distance. What wonderful revelations of scenery were presented to our forefathers, who travelled by coach or posted through the pleasant land-scenes of rare bewildering beauty that now are seen by hardly any but the very leisured and fortunate few, since everyone is compelled to go by the speedy but unromantic railway! How we pitied the railway traveller that day! The iron way, as it was termed in its early days, is useful and convenient; in this restless age of eternally rushing about hither and thither, we could not exist without it; but it does seem a pity that the fates have so ordained that it should monopolise all the traffic, so that the unequalled loveliness of rural England is now only glanced at by the modern traveller. A hundred-mile drive along the deserted highways will afford to many a revelation of scenery and an experience not readily to be forgotten. To those who have travelled the world over and have seen every country but their own, here is a suggestion. Try England; take one of the old coaching roads and follow it the whole of its length, say from London