that it
recurs about three times a week, but it was good mutton, though it
would have been a great deal better roasted, instead of boiled.

Via Cheddar, where the cheeses come from, we made our way to Bristol.
Bristol is one of the most progressive automobile towns in England.
You may see all sorts and conditions of automobiles at Bristol, even
American automobiles, which are more or less of a rarity in Europe,
even in England.

From Bristol to Gloucester, another cathedral town, we passed over
good roads and pleasant ones, rounding meanwhile the Cotswolds and
passing direct to Worcester, where we lunched.

It is useless to attempt to describe a complete trip in pages such as
these, and, beyond commenting on changing conditions and novel
scenes, it is not attempted. Generally speaking the road surfaces
were excellent throughout, but the grades of the hills were ofttimes
abnormal, and the narrowness of main roads, and the hedge-hidden
byroads which crossed them, made travelling more or less of a danger
for the stranger, particularly if he was not habituated to England's
custom of "meeting on the left and passing on the right."

Following the valley of the Severn, by Shrewsbury and Whitechurch, we
crossed the great Holyhead Road, "the king's highway," from London to
Holyhead.

From Ogilby's Road Book, an old book-stall find of one of our party
at Shrewsbury, we learned that in days gone by the coach "Wonder"
left the Bull and Mouth, at St. Martin's-le-Grand in London, at 6.30
A. M., and was at Shrewsbury at 10.30 the same night. Good going
indeed for those days!

At Shrewsbury one is within easy reach of the Welsh border, but, in
spite of the novelty promised us, we kept on our way north. This was
not because we feared the "evil character" of the Welsh (as an old
writer put it), but because we feared their language.

We left Liverpool and its docks, and Manchester and its cotton
factories, to the left, and, passing through Warrington and Preston,
arrived at Lancaster for the night. It was the longest day's driving
we had done in England, something over two hundred miles. All the
ordinary characteristics of the southern counties had been left far
behind. The _prettiness_ of conventional English scenery had made way
for something more of _character_ and severity of outline. For the
morrow we had to look forward to the climb over Shap Fell, one of
England's genuine mountain roads, or as near like one as the country