ad arrows, would go "slumming" out of idle curiosity; and I have
always thought I could not love a woman who amused herself by slumming,
any more than I could love one who eagerly patronized bull-fights.

Thomas Hardy's work is too near Nature's heart to appeal to Mrs. Senter,
and too clever for my good sister Emily, who will read no author,
willingly, unless he calls a spade a pearl-headed hatpin. But Ellaline,
strange to say, has been allowed to read him. Evidently French schools
are not what they once were; and she and I particularly wanted to go
through Dorchester (his Casterbridge) even though we could see nothing
of Hardy's place, Max Gate, except its tree-tops. A pity more English
towns haven't made boulevards of their earthworks (since there are
plenty that have earthworks), planting them with chestnuts and
sycamores, as Dorchester has cleverly done. It was an idea worthy of a
"Mayor of Casterbridge." We lingered a bit, in the car, picking out
"landmarks" of resemblance to the book, and there were plenty. You know,
there's a magnificent Roman amphitheatre near by; but did we stay to
look at it? My friend, we are motorists! And it happened to be a grand
day with the car, which, though still very new, has "found" itself.
"Apollo" seemed a steed of "pure air and fire; and the dull elements of
earth and water never appear in him." He chafed against stopping, and I
humoured him gladly.

"Strange," said Ellaline, yesterday, "how a person will pay lots of
money to buy a motor-car, and go tearing about the world at great
expense, to gratify two little black or blue holes in his face; and
then, instead of letting the holes thoroughly absorb his money's worth,
he will rush past some of the best things on earth rather than 'spoil a
run.'" But she doesn't take the intoxication of ozone into consideration
in this indictment.

Our road was of the best, and always interesting, with some fine distant
views, and here and there an avenue of trees like a vast Gothic aisle in
a cathedral. "We could see things so nicely if it weren't for the
mists!" sighed Emily, who, if her wish had been a broom, would have
ruthlessly swept away those lacy cobwebs clinging to the hill-sides.
"Why," replied Ellaline, "you could see a bride's face more clearly if
you took away her veil, but it's the prettiest thing about her." That
put my feelings in a nutshell. England would be no bride for me if she
threw away her veil; and nowhere did it become