COUNTRY VERSUS TOWN

continually growing suburbs, ruthlessly transforming the fresh green fields into a dreary desolation of bricks and mortar. A gathering of depressingly monotonous structures, utterly devoid of any grace; for what recks the modern speculative builder of beauty? If the English country is lovely, its huge manufacturing cities are the perfection of ugliness, and should be carefully avoided by those in search of the picturesque.

It was June, leafy sunny June, the month of fresh greens, blue skies, and bright flowers, the pleasantest month surely of all the year, and therefore, by a strange perversity, just the time when everybody remains in town. London then truly looks its best, but equally so does the country. By some happy good fortune, it happened one evening that I chanced to come across a portfolio of water-colour drawings, done during my summer rambles in past years. Glancing listlessly over these for the weather was hot and I was lazily inclined-I found my mind by degrees wandering far, far away, over purple hill and spreading down; then a winding wooded valley came before me, through which flowed a rocky river, cool and clear. Now I was by the side of a trout-haunted stream; next, by way of a change, I found myself facing the open sea with the crisp green curling waves breaking in a musical monotone upon the sandy shore; again, another sketch took me in spirit along a bird-beloved lane, with the tree boughs interlacing above in a tanglement of greenery; then came a pleasant hayfield; with a peep beyond of

cottage homes; and anon a hoary old castle, stern and desolate, took the place of the dreamy pastoral prospect; and so my mind, filled with Nature's poetry and picturesqueness, was willingly led away from my prosaic town surroundings.

Long before I had finished inspecting my treasured sketches, an irrepressible longing took possession of me to exchange the smoke-and-sulphur charged atmosphere of London for the fresh, free air of the country, always so pure and sweet, and not seldom perfume-laden, to replace the endless vistas of bricks and stucco by glimpses of green fields and daisy-dotted meadows, and to substitute for the ceaseless rattle of cabs and general din of traffic soothing country sounds-the gurgling of rippling streams, the grateful splashing of falling waters, the musical sur, sur, sur' of the wind-stirred foliage, and the gladsome songs of birds.

What a world of freshness and peaceful country delights those sketches opened up before my mind's vision! They caused within me an intense desire to free myself from the numberless conventionalities and restraints of society, to get right away into the real country, and to wander whither I wouldmasterless. It little mattered to me where I went, so long as I should be free from guidebook bondage and show-places, with the shoals of sightseers they bring; rather I would explore some quiet land, where I could commune alone with nature, sketch, employ my camera, and generally wander about unheeded, free from the gaze of the vulgar crowd, and thus enjoy a true holiday, idling-for even idle

THE PLEASURES OF ANTICIPATION

9

ness is sometimes a virtue-pleasantly and profitably the sunny hours away, surrounded by loveliness everywhere, for rural England is to me all beautiful.

Why, I asked myself, should I not exchange the dust and din of London streets for these simple delights, if it so please me, and time and circumstances would permit? Why not, indeed? Because everybody was in town, should I of necessity remain therein? What though it was the height of the season-what signified that to me? Should I merely for fashion's sake keep myself a town prisoner, when my heart was elsewhere, and my eyes were longing for something more beautiful to gaze upon than dusty pavements and crowded streets?

My mind was quickly made up; fortunately my time was my own; I was accountable to no one for it; there were no business engagements to detain me against my will, therefore I determined that I would start on a driving tour forthwith-my usual method of spending my summer holiday: I would explore by road some of the out-of-the-way nooks and corners of rural England.

A few mornings after my determination, according to arrangement, the phaeton was standing at the door fully equipped for the journey, with waterproofs, rugs, horse clothing duly stowed away, not forgetting the useful horn. The short interval of time between my making up my mind and the hour appointed for departure had been fully occupied in the delightful task of preparation; for the pleasures of anticipation are by no means to be despisedthey form with the realisation and after recollec

tions an essential part of an expedition. Roadbooks that had been many a journey with us, and bore evidences of much usage, together with sundry maps, were hunted up; sketch-books, paint-box, and easel got together, and colours replenished. A compact portable photographic apparatus fitted for instantaneous work had also been purchased, this being a new addition to our usual travelling outfit, procured at the earnest recommendation of a friend, an enthusiastic amateur photographer, who kindly put us into the way of using it before our departure. I may say here that we never regretted our purchase, for we found the camera to add wonderfully to the pleasures of our excursion, by enabling us to secure, without any loss of time, any particular view that we wished. By its magic aid ancient buildings of many kinds, with all their architectural details, quaint conceits, merits, and demerits, were faithfully reproduced, and in this particular respect we found our photographic apparatus most useful, for it was set up and taken down in a few minutes, and a picture was secured, with little delay and small trouble, that it might have taken hours to produce in pencil. Truly a photograph is but a poor substitute for a sketch, but on such a journey, taken solely for pleasure, one does not always feel inclined to deliberately set to and paint everything that strikes him, or that he would like to take a reminder of some kind back home with him. And as we took some dozen or more such bits each day, had we been unprovided with a camera, we should have lost many pleasing representations of curious old houses

we passed on the way, of picturesque past-time villages, ancient coaching inns, and the numerous interesting objects one comes across on a day's drive. We took paper films with us, so that we avoided the weight and risk of glass breakage, the two great drawbacks, to the tourist at any rate, of the old process. The photographic prints, duly collected in order and mounted in an album, formed a very pleasing memento of our journey, and helped us to recall the various spots and places that we had visited they refreshed our memories and brought back to our recollections many little incidents of our outing that otherwise might have been forgotten. Photography has now been reduced to such a simple art that any one can take a photograph, though not necessarily a picture, be it borne in mind.

But I must not wander thus, or our journey will never be begun. The horses, well accustomed to road work, were pawing the ground, impatient to be off. How eager they appeared! I verily believe they had, by some unexplainable instinct, a kind of knowledge that they were about to start upon a country outing, and rejoiced in the fact-a fanciful belief very possibly; but of one thing I am sure, as far as my own horses are concerned at any rate, that they appreciate a change of air as much as their owner; they sniff in an unmistakable manner of delight at the moorland and sea breezes, and in their first day in the country frisk about playful as a child fresh from school.

Mounting the phaeton, the word was given, the traces tightened, and we trotted along at a merry