Through England & Wales on Bikes
Liverpool to London

Through England

On Bikes.

(By H. and F. RIECK, of Coff’s Harbour, N.S. Wales.)

WREXHAM, N. Wales, 27th May, 1905.

It appears to us hard that in England immense parts of good agricultural land are in possession of comparatively few people (“Noblemen”), who often surround these lovely landscapes by huge cruel stone walls, depriving humanity of even a look at God’s lovely nature, while these proprietors in the most beautiful and short time of the year (spring and summer time) are in foreign parts spending the rent produced in England. But there are very good exceptions to these: Squire Yorke, whose very large beautiful estates are in close vicinity to this metropolis of North Wales—Wrexham—has put at the main entrance of these parks, gardens, paddocks, on large tablets, the following inscription:—

But this on sufferance only. These graceful permits might be taken away without any reason and without compliments in a future time by heirs, as it happened to the most lovely spot in Wales: Llangollen, where more than a hundred years ago two old maiden ladies erected a kind of hermitage. They were most liberal, and their lovely parks and gardens were open like the public recreation grounds in our Australian towns. Now, the memory of these good old noblewomen is held by the present generation in highest esteem; but the present owner has withdrawn these licenses, and—although he is living far away—his domestics are not allowed to admit visitors to view the museum of rare art, parks and gardens so carefully collected and exhibited to their fellow men by the old dames of Llangollen.

Sir Walter Scott visited Llangollen in 1825, and the “New Palace” (Plas newydd), the celebrated abode of these ladies. The elder was the Right Honorable Lady Eleanor Charlotte Butler, daughter of the Earl of Ormonde-Ossory; the younger was the Honorable Miss Ponsonby, who spent their great fortune in collecting a memorable selection of curiosities, and elevating the lot of the poor.

Sir Walter Scott writes about his visit: “Imagine two old women, dressed in a heavy blue riding habit, enormous shoes, and high black pointed men’s top hats, as the native Welsh women wear. We took them for a couple of hazy or crazy old sailors. The elder lady is almost blind, the other in good preservation. Yet, it would be too bad to laugh at these good old girls; they have long been the guardian angels of the town of Llangollen, and are worshipped by every man, woman and child about them.”

In 1828 Llangollen Valley was visited by the German Prince Puikler-Muskau, who wrote of the lovely landscape in this part of North Wales: “The vale of Llangollen is a spot which, in my opinion, far surpasses all the beauties of the Rhine land, and has, moreover, a character quite its own from the unusual forms of the tops and rugged declivities of the mountains.”

We—yours truly, H. and F. R., of Coff’s Harbour—have been since our arrival here in Wrexham (6th of May, ’05) very busy, with help of our cycles travelling through the valleys of North Wales. We have four times been in the very remarkable town of Chester, mentioned in our last letter; also we have, from this good town of Wrexham—which is celebrated for its collieries, iron works, breweries, etc., and mainly by its very numerous (about 30) churches, amongst which is the gigantic, beautiful Cathedral, with a flat-topped tower of unusual height and rare beauty, built in Gothic style in 1470—made many excursions. Near this town are, like in all parts of the British Isles, many large estates, mostly parks, halls and meadows: Brymbo Hall, Acton Hall (the birthplace of the notorious Judge Jeffries), Erddig Hall, and Westminster Hall.

On a foot tour from here over the huge mountain chain direct to Llargollen, we came across a landscape very much like the top of the Pennent Hills (described in our last letter). Also here in Wales are all these crags and tablelands, overgrown only by heather. The ground is here very stony, and, if not planted with pines, firs, etc., will, in the run of the years, as more and more by rains and storms, these unprotected heights will show the bare rock, as the few remains of clay, loam and humus is fast disappearing. The ancient Romans were also a great nation, and also they deprived the tops of their mountains greedily of the timber, without replanting. Consequently the mountain tops of Italy show to-day senile bare rock.

Even the poor heather on the Welsh hill tops is on many parts burned off to give, as we were told, marching ground for the young moor hens and grouse. As we walked along over the bare stony ground, a pair of grouse flew up close beside us, and the little, yellow, fluffy, young ones hid themselves in the heather, as they thought; but we caught three pretty, little, gentle things, and, after admiring them, put them again into their shelter. After some hours walking we arrived on top of the range, and at the entrance of one of the gullies leading into the Valley of Llangollen, and on a sheltered rocky spot, called “The World’s End,” where the fresh, pure mountain water spurts out of the rocks, we spread our repast and boiled the billy tea in real Australian style. After a good rest we left this neglected heather country, and started down a beautiful valley with the craggy and massive Eglwysegg Rocks to our left, and the lovely wooded and grassy valley of the River Dee to our right. Following a little stream, which flows down a deep ravine, we came to Plas Vcha, a very ancient, curious, historic house, formerly the place of the castle of the old Kings of Wales. In the cracks of the venerable old (still by caretakers inhabited) building had a nest of bees made an abode. Queen Elizabeth of England got this simple little mansion erected, and resided often in hot summer time here in these cool heights. She ordered an ancient tablet, a rare relic, to be embedded in the wall above the door, whereon is the following inscription: “Eglwysegg Manor, inherited by the Princes and Lords of Powys, from Bleddyn ab Cynvyn, King of North Wales and Powys, slain, A.D., 1073, sixth in descent from Mervyn, King of Powys, slain in battle, A.D., 903, son of Roderic the Great, King of all Wales, slain in battle, A.D., 877; son of Mervyn, King of North Wales and Powys, slain in battle, A.D., 844; son of Nest, daughter of Cadell ab Brochwel ab Eliseg, of Powys, who died, A.D., 808.”

We came next to the ruined castle Dinas Bran (Rooks Nest), on top of a steep, sugar-loaf hill, then to Dinbren Hall, and then into the town of Llangollen. Our first visit was to the house where Mrs. Fanny E. Rieck’s aunt, Miss Annie Cox, lived and died. Several times later, on comfortable roads on bicycles, we visited these grounds, the homes of the ancestors of yours truly, F.R., and where several kind relations and their friends gave us a hearty welcome. We saw the Horseshoe Waterfalls, the Aqueduct, the Llangollen bridge over the River Dee, with its many waterfalls, where the glittering trout and salmon leap up the watery ladders in great numbers on their way to the river’s source: the Bala Lake. A canal offshot from the River Dee runs through the town. This Shropshire Canal was quite lively with a peculiar kind of barges for goods and elegant “treck-shuites” for passengers, drawn in Hollandish style by horses. This canal runs in many places smooth and peaceful high above the road, while deep down in the valley the River Dee rushes furiously over huge boulders. Very often we have walked through hospitable old Squire Yorke’s Erddig Park, which is, as above mentioned, open for the public, and, to conclude our sojourn in these parts, we cycled to the celebrated immense seaport of Liverpool, a distance of about 30 miles.

We passed on this tour through Chester again, saw again the quiet Manchester-Liverpool shipping canal; but, again, no barges on it. We passed several small villages around which, as we came in greater vicinity to the big town of Liverpool, some ploughing had been done, also gardening and orcharding; then we passed the much talked about “model village” of “Port Sunlight,” where a much advertised soap is made. We saw there a great lot of chimneys and mountains of barrels. After this the country takes a townlike character for many miles, and soon we found ourselves in Birkenhead, a town on the left shore of the immense broad River Mersey, opposite Liverpool, which city was invisible through a peculiar white mist, similar to the kind of haze which often hangs over the Gulf and city of Naples, and is called by the Italians “Sirocco.” Nevertheless the ferry steamer, of which constantly a considerable number of large boats run to and fro, brought us and our machines (for 4d each) across the one mile broad stream.

Arriving at “Pier’s Head,” and proceeding to the Central railway station, we were almost overwhelmed by the extraordinary bustle and life in this large shipping place, whose population is, without the many surrounding towns, etc., over one million. Under the kind guidance of a lady cyclist, whom we met about Birkenhead, and who is well acquainted in Liverpool, we threaded our way through the very lively broad Lord-street, Church-street, etc., and put our cycles in the railway station, to secure a furnished room to stay for several days; but before this we went to the enormous trading emporium of Lewis, very like Anthony Hordern’s, Sydney, and had a pot of excellent tea and cake (4d per pot and 1d per cake), and afterwards, without any difficulty, found a private apartment for three days, with very nice people, near Princes road. After a good rest and wash, we went to visit friends, as promised to our relations at home. Not finding them at home we spent the beautiful evening promenading in Sefton and Princes Park, and enjoyed the military music till the soldiers (volunteers) marched homewards.

Liverpool is seldom without enormous smoke and fog, but has very grand public buildings. On the main place we saw St. George’s Hall, where the Assizes are held, and close by are the Museum and Picture Gallery. The latter we visited, and it took us half a day to carefully examine the great collection of modern and ancient masters. Many proud monuments show that also Liverpool honors the great men of its nation. Churches are in Liverpool too numerous to mention. Within a stone’s throw of each other they are in all directions. We remarked this to a respectable Liverpool gentleman, who said: “Yes, there are such a lot of sects here, and they all have their several churches and chapels in this extensive town. Unification would not be desirable to the clerical population, as also in church affairs opposition seems to keep the great number of clergymen occupied.” Recently a large church was pulled down and a monument put in its place.

We took, after visiting the families of our friends, tickets by the overhead railway to Seaforth, and we saw five miles of docks, with steamers and sailing ships of all nations of the earth. Afterwards we went by one of the line of big ferry steamers across the Mersey River to the lively seaside resort, New Brighton, for a smell of the briny sea air. There is a splendid esplanade of about three miles, an “Eiffel” tower, like in Paris, and very numerous donkeys and saddle horses are kept on the hard sandy beach for hire. Along one side of the terrace, above high water mark, is an endless row of shops, called the “Ham and Egg Walk,” where vendors of tea, coffee, dinners, oysters, fruit, post cards, photographers, and side shows do a thriving trade in the summer months, or when it is “Sarah’s Sunday out.” For “elegant” concerts is, on a long, broad, and elegant pier, a “grand cafe,” which is patronised by elegant dressed youngsters of both sexes, where the popular “cake walks” and comic songs are “done.”

Liverpool appears to be rather overbuilt, as we notice not only many large stores and shops, but also a great deal of great and small dwelling houses all over the town, to be let or for sale, and all say that: “since the war times are terribly dull.” Food, and especially all kinds of clothing, especially boots, are very cheap, and public monster auction sales attract great crowds of people. We visited the house where Gladstone was born, in Rodney-street, and heard a great deal of praise of this Minister of our old Queen Victoria. Gladstone was very much loved and admired by the people of Liverpool.

On the 29th May, ’05, we intend to continue our journey towards London. North Wales is very beautiful indeed, through its charming changes of landscape, wooded hills, sparkling streams and waterfalls, pure air, and a peaceful, contented population in their small rustic houses, built in the ancient funny Welsh style, throw a peculiar charm on the stranger. Nevertheless we are—for another change—glad for our cycling to leave for a time those troublesome and dangerous ups and downs behind us, and ride with a favorable north-east breeze along flat roads to other parts of England, in the direction towards London.

We conclude this letter with the reproduction of the following poetical lines which we, on our last farewell visit in Squire Yorke’s woodlands, found on a beautiful knoll overlooking a charming vale:

Stratford-on-Avon, Feb. 6th, 1905 [see note 26]

Journeying is constant change. Have we, in fine weather, seen all ins and outs of a new abode, we lose interest in the scenery; but it is different with people we learn to know, for the longer we stay the harder is the parting of fellowmen, with whom we got befriended. But we must part, for the sceneries, how charming they ever may be, and how beautiful the sun shines on the green leaves, these places appear to get an aspect of monotony.

Therefore we left Wrexham (North Wales) on Monday, 29th May. We travelled on our pretty heavily packed wheels slowly in the direction of Ruabon, south of Llangollen. On this day we had a magnificent parting view of the Valley of the Dee, spanned by two grand railway bridges of enormous height and length, one of 19 arches. This bridge has, in a time not long passed, been considered one of the “Seven wonders of Wales.” We reached first the little village of Chirck, noted for its old castle. Then the mountain chain of Wales in the far north-east took the appearance of a rugged grey wall, and the dusty and poor looking town of Oswestry came in view, where we lunched on bread, butter, eggs, and a pint of ale each. We had a long chat with one of Oswestry’s most enthusiastic captains of cricketers and sportsmen. The mountains of Wales we left behind, but our road nevertheless kept on leading not only agreeably down, but sometimes for a long, heavy pull uphill, which is, for cycle people, very sad. Leads our pilgrim way in life through a flat country with endless, straight, dreary roads, we growl about monotony, and wish for a nice changeable mountain country. But in such arrived, we wheel-people find soon: there are not only down, but also up, paths in life. Should our road always, day after day, be an agreeable spin downwards, and again downwards, we would probably, by and bye, arrive in a very, very hot place. Therefore we will enjoy the hard, slow, troublesome uphill work, in hope to be rewarded by a jolly spin down into a lovely vale. Such a spin brought us into the well tilled, blooming country of Shropshire, where we saw not only proud nobleman’s parks, and here and there a grand, proud hall, but here we saw real farms, ploughed fields growing grain, potato crops, etc., etc., jolly diligent farmers and manure heaps.

Then we came into the venerable old and highly beautiful and interesting town of Shrewsbury, with its ancient oak-wood carved houses of a very romantic old Saxon architecture, remainders of the fortifications of the early middle ages, and grim castles on the River Severn. This town reminds us of Chester, described in our last letter. We stopped at a very friendly restaurant for tea at 4 o’clock, and then pushed on to Wellington, through a very fertile and well-cared-for country. This first day was very warm and dry. As at close of the daily work in England, many people from the town go for fresh air into the country in motor cars, they, to save themselves against the clouds of dust raised by their own machines, cover their faces with glasses, veils and masks. For sensible tourists on foot or cycles it is advisable to seek night quarters in places far from motor roads early enough to get out of the enormous clouds raised by such “fresh air seeking gentry.” Such a quiet, modest place we found in Wellington, and started on our road towards Birmingham very early next morning.

The rural sceneries of England seemed on this day entirely to disappear. Up hill, and still up hill, in long, uninterrupted slow runs, we tugged along. Instead of high green trees, chimney stacks and smoke in all directions, also immense furnaces of iron smelting works and iron and coal mines, met our gaze. Instead of larks and nightingales’ songs, howling and screeching of machines. The air was laden with smoke and dust and poisonous dirt. With much up and down hill travelling, passing on by heavy traffic-cut roads, amongst dirty, rugged, discontented, and harsh-looking men, women and children, we passed Birmingham waterworks, and many miles of such scenes brought us to Wolverhampton. There was nothing pleasant, so we pushed on about 15 miles through Birmingham, with its broad streets, up and down hill.

Heartily glad we were towards evening to reach the sweet-smelling, fresh, green country again on our road towards Coventry. The business hours being over, dozens of motor cars on the roads, to and fro, began to make in the afternoon the dust on the dry beautiful level roads fly; therefore we went off towards a small village called Elmsdene, where we had a very substantial supper and bed.

We intended going to Coventry, once a pretty little town, celebrated for its silk and ribbons manufacturing trade; but hearing it is now a motor car manufacturing centre (at present our pet abomination) we decided to leave it five miles on our left, and go to Kenilworth, so well known through Sir Walter Scott’s novels. We saw the fine old ruins, and all the pretty rustic old-fashioned houses in this small town, sat long under its beautiful gigantic shady thousands of years old oak trees, and took it easy, as we only had about 25 miles through a beautiful country to go to reach Stratford that day. From Kenilworth to Warwick, and on to Stratford, are plenty of green fields and cultivation of all sorts, also lucerne, and one very large area of broad beans. Just before reaching Warwick we saw the River Severn, here navigable, as a large barge was moving along. Warwick is very old and interesting. We will see this ancient town again, and also the town of Leamington. We went through to reach Stratford-on-Avon in good time, as we intend staying in this latter place for a longer period.

As Stratford is at times visited by great crowds of very rich tourists from all parts of the globe, partly because it is the birthplace of Shakespeare and partly because it is very beautiful, the hotels are extremely high in their charges. We rented a neat private furnished residence, where we can cook for ourselves. So, in leisure, we proceeded to explore this historic old place, made famous by William Shakespeare. Stratford, in the county of Warwick, is situated on the River Avon, which is here a fine, broad and beautiful stream, with low, grassy banks on each side, and meadows studded with flower beds. We made first for the theatre, built in memory of Shakespeare, and opened in 1879. It is a picturesque building, situated close to the river, and comprises a picture gallery, library, tower, and theatre. The picture gallery contains many valuable works of art on Shakespearean subjects, including “Othello’s Return,” by Stothand; “Titania Reposing,” by G. Romney; “Macbeth and the Witches,” by Sir Joshua Reynolds, etc. The now famous Droeshout original portrait of Shakespeare has been added to the collection. The stair windows are adorned with stained glass windows of “the seven ages of man,” with portraits of Queen Elizabeth and Shakespeare at top and bottom. The “Life of Shakespeare,” painted, interested us much: First his baptism and marriage, then the poaching of a stag by William Shakespeare in the park of the squire, and his being brought by keepers before Sir Thomas Lucy; next his parting from his wife and children when going to London; then his playing before Queen Elizabeth; and, after six years, his return and enthusiastic reception by his townsmen at Stratford. The library is composed of all the known editions of the poet’s writings and works associated with his name.

In the grounds around this fine building is a grand statue, representing the poet with pen in hand, while four life-size allegorical figures surround him below, representing “Tragedy,” by the figure of Lady Macbeth in the sleep-walking scene; “Comedy” by Falstaff; “Philosophy” by Hamlet, musing over Yorik’s skull; and “History” by Prince Hal assuming his father’s crown.

We next reach the old parish church, where Shakespeare and family are buried. One son died at 11 years of age, and two daughters, Susannah and Judith, who married, but whose children died without descendants. This church contains the entries of the baptism and burial of Shakespeare, an old chained Bible, a remarkable bust of the poet, his monument, and many ancient interesting relics. Under a famous old Shakespearean bust, on a slate let in the wall, are these lines:

“Good friend, for Jesu’s sake forbear
“To dig the dust enclosed here;
“Blest be the man that spares these stones,
“And cursed he that moves my bones.”

The house where Shakespeare was born still stands, though constantly renovated, and is a very picturesque old building. It is used as a museum for old relics. In the fine old garden surrounding it an attempt is made to grow every tree and plant mentioned in Shakespeare’s works. In another quarter of the town, called “The New Place,” is a public garden on a piece of land, which Shakespeare bought after his return from London, and here the foundation of the original ground (later on filled up) is on parts laid bare; also an old well which supplied the house with water. This garden contains a very ancient mulberry tree, grown from a slip, which was planted originally by Shakespeare himself at the time when silk culture was newly started in Europe, and encouraged also in England. In this garden is an ancient colossal monument of Shakespeare, and a stone pillar of the Town Hall at Stratford at the time when Shakespeare lived there.

We went to the little farmers’ village of Shottery to see Anne Hathaway’s cottage, which is a pleasant walk through innumerable well thriving vegetable cultivation gardens and fields. The village of Shottery contains many such old cottages, with straw thatched roofs, like that where Shakespeare’s bride, Anne, used to live before her marriage. The old Anne Hathaway’s cottage is a well kept farm house, as they then all were in the time of Queen Bess, and have at present almost entirely disappeared. The central portion of this old cottage is still inhabited by descendants of the Hathaway family. Old Mrs. Baker will for 6d show visitors the old family Bible, with its entries, and many old pieces of furniture, bed linen, etc., said to be once in possession of Mrs. Shakespeare.

A Lord Trevelyan owns a large property N.E. from Stratford. He is at present in Paris, and we had a day’s walk right across this property, which is called Welcombe. Except a large garden and park, the whole lays in grass, and here and there is a large tree. The old fortification castle and, in the early middle ages, fortified town of Warwick, is eight miles from Stratford. This is a busy little old town, with clean but rather narrow and crooked streets and lanes. The many grim and beautiful carved old fortification gates, towers, and old-fashioned carved funny houses are very attractive to the eyes of the many tourists, and have a great interest to them, as they show how the forefathers lived in times when one of these many feudal lords waged war against the other, and made the poor people suffer. Three miles from Warwick, on the river Leam, is a new, up-to-date, nicely and healthily built town, with very broad, straight modern streets, and beautiful gardens and fine public walks, monuments, etc. This is the town of Leamington, which, together with Warwick, is the centre of a wealthy agricultural district. Leamington is a spa (mineral water spring) sanatorium, and said to be visited by many sick people who want to be cured.

The week of our stay at Stratford-on-Avon runs to a close, but we must not neglect to mention something of England’s very popular authoress of the present time, Miss Marie Corelli, who, eight years ago, bought at this place an ivy covered cottage, and resides here nearly all the year round. We had a look at her house in Church-street. Sitting in the public gardens near the Shakespeare Theatre, on the banks of the Avon River, we were watching the many motor-boats, little passenger and pleasure steamers, pulled by young ladies and gents, and plying gaily up and down the river, when we saw to our great surprise a real Venetian gondola gliding gracefully along, with an Italian gondolier in festive white costume, with the regulation scarlet sash of these boatmen round his waist, propelling the boat with his long singular oar Venetian fashion. And amongst the cushions of her gondola sat the petite form of Miss Corelli, clad in rose coloured costume, with sunshade of same colour. In a few minutes this picturesque scene floated under one of the huge arches of the old Clopton bridge and was lost to view. We were told that Miss (or recte Signorita) Corelli had recently purchased this genuine Italian built gondola and placed it on the Avon to remind her of her native Italian home.

London W. 15 Stanley-street, Paddington, 23/6/05.

A letter just received from our honoured friend, Mr. G. H. Varley, informs us that he and his wife and family have removed from Grafton to Sydney (from country to town?) No; from city to city; also for sanitary reasons. It appears to be strange that Sydney should be healthier than Grafton, but it is not strange. As I, in letters written decades ago, from my banana plantation near Coff’s Harbour, to this paper, stated: Grafton is—like Rome—built on a spot quite unsuitable for a town. I have now no time or space enough again to relate all the different reasons for this statement; but will only remind our readers of the fact: it is a pity we have not a railway towards the lovely mountain forest country between Woolgoolga and Coff’s Harbour, along the Pacific, to transport the enormous masses of faecal matter as welcome manure for the worn-out grass paddocks, sugar and maize fields, buried now in the yards of that unfortunate low lying spot of alluvial ground where the “city” of Grafton stands.

But man is—as we all know—a very strange animal: knows all other creatures better than his own species. Our forefathers—like the ancient Romans—selected a spot as a camping ground, in spite of the unhealthy low situation, merely for the reason that there was plenty of good grass for their cattle and water in the rivers Clarence, Tiber, Thames, etc. And there we are, and there our progeny stop and build their definite homes. The villages grow into towns, the towns to cities, grow and grow, gather riches from all parts of the globe, destroy foreign nations, lay waste old civilisations, for the glory of Babylon, Rome, London, for our home, for glory, and so on, until the air in the crowded, badly situated city gets foul, and creates its own or fosters the imported fungi of that man and all animal life destroying bacillus.

But, thank God, Grafton is not so risen in population as Babylon, Rome or London. Grafton can stop and bethink itself, and shift by slow degrees to near, more reasonable and more healthy quarters; in fact to a landscape which, concerning healthiness, beauty, and facility to deep sea navigation, can scarcely be surpassed by any land in the wide world. Go, therefore, to our sea coast mountain lands, young men; pitch your tents at Woolgoolga or Coff’s Harbour, which latter harbour, connected by rail with the fertile flats of the Clarence, the Orara, the Bellinger, and with the Don Dorrigo tablelands, is destined by providence to become the port of Grafton, and this destination appears only to be kept back at present by a scheming congregation of steamship company shareholders.

A letter from Mr. Varley encourages us—wife and I—to continue to give to the readers of this valuable paper descriptive reports of our journeys and our observations in foreign and home lands.

On the 8th June we left the beautiful and happily situated birthplace of our great Shakespeare, Stratford on Avon, from where our last letter, on the 7th of this month, was sent to the “C. and R. Examiner.” We rode on cycles via Shipton on Stour (once a celebrated, grand, but at present a decaying, little old village), and reached Chipping Norton. The roads were very good, but hilly, showing all the way well cultivated fields, and the nearer we approached Oxford the more the crops improved. The number of small farmers increase; but I think none of them owns freehold, but have, besides duty towards their parishes and Government, heavy ground rent for their 99 years lease to pay to their aristocratic landlords. About 8 miles north of Oxford we came to Woodstock, an historical old place, where the celebrated English statesman and field marshal, the Duke of Marlborough (of Blenheim, Oudenarde and Malplaquet renown), was born and used to reside.

While taking a drink at a fine old ornamental well, we had a chat with some old local people, who told us this very superior water, which constantly runs out of a rock, was decorated by the great Marlborough (pronounced by these local people Mulberry) with this artificial sculpture. They also showed us the monument of Marlborough in brass on a huge stone pillar.

Close to the new town of Woodstock we saw the entrance gates to the ducal estate, and a splendid avenue of grand old trees leading up to the family mansion. We were told that for 1s each we would be allowed to inspect the inside of the palace, etc., but we said we thought the present young Duke had enough American dollars after his marriage with a Yankee millionaire’s daughter without adding to them our few shillings; but these local people said: “No, the young Mulberry is always hard up; the Duchess will not let him touch her millions; therefore he sells lots of his property straight off to the Jews so far as it is not entailed.”

The landscape towards Oxford grew more and more beautiful, and intense and very careful cultivation of the fine lands shows what can be made out of a piece of ground if the worker has an earnest interest in it. We saw here enormous fields of potatoes, beans, carrots, and all sorts of vegetables, far stretching nurseries of fruit trees, extensive acres of strawberries, rhubarb, etc. We passed fine and highly elegant garden hostelries, extensive sporting places, playgrounds, etc., for the enormous masses of young students.

We reached the celebrated and highly beautiful University town Oxford at 4 o’clock by St. Giles’, and passed, in full admiration, slowly walking, wheels on hand, down a fine broad street. There were lots of grandest drinking establishments, but to get to a simple, homely tea house we had to pass into a quiet, clean lane, took refreshments, rested for an hour, had a chat with the good landlady, and then, with our cycles on the hand, walked slowly through the celebrated High-street, took stock of all the world-renowned college buildings, monuments, churches, etc., saw scholars, students and professors everywhere of almost all ages and sexes, some with their peculiar square caps, but mostly very comfortable, even without any covering on their heads, walking the streets; but mostly they were on the cricket and golf fields, or on cycles, with rackets in the hands, bound for the many tennis lawns. It seems very popular now for young gents to go bareheaded, and little girls to go without stockings or shoes, only a kind of sandals on their feet. Ten years ago, in spring and summer time, young Englishmen on the continent and at home showed themselves with short jackets, very wide, turned up trousers, shoes very pointed in front and broad and flat at heels, light caps on heads, and big clubs in hand. At present they all turn up with black stovepipe hats and long black tailcoats; ladies very tight laced and enormous fryingpan-like hats on.

We were told that there are 22 very venerably ancient, castle-like college buildings in Oxford, and we saw students of all colours and races, including Mongolians, jet black niggers, India men of all the many races from the palefaced, meek Hindoo to the fierce brown Malay.

In the middle of Oxford we saw for the first time the here noble and beautiful, between green meadows and forests, along charming promenades, flowing bright River Thames, studded with little rowing boats and punts of pleasure seekers and students, enjoying themselves with bodily exercise after a hard morning’s brain grind. The river, here not very broad, is spanned by a fine long high-level bridge, and we sat down for an hour to enjoy the view, and watch the nimble young cricketers on the oval below.

When the sun, which sets in this region of the world in summer time at about 9 p.m., began to sink somewhat low towards the horizon, we mounted our wheels, and, after a run of about five miles, reached the little old village of Dorchester, just as the rather dusty road began to fill with motor cars. Here we took a good supper, and found quarters ready for the night.

However smart one has finished a stiff day’s journey on cycles, one feels in the evening not at all tired to take a good walk; therefore, according to our habit, we walked through the many lanes of this interesting place. We saw in Dorchester a very large, beautiful antique church, of such dimensions apparently not fitting to this humble small village. After inquiry we were told that this large old church was once the smallest of four such churches, which were, together with almost the whole big town of Dorchester, stormed and laid in ashes during the wars in Cromwell’s time, when King Charles was beheaded. We had travelled that day 50 miles, and had just 50 miles to run to reach the outskirts of London the next day, so we retired to rest about 9 o’clock, when the evening began slowly to dawn, and the nightingales sung in the garden underneath our window.

June 9, 1905.—Reached London on a typical, dense foggy day, with intermediate sprinkling of rain, as by so many writers in their descriptions of London has been pictured. We and our wheels were bespattered with mud; but, in spite of the densely crowded streets, we were able to ride right into the city without mishap, and arrived in ugly condition at our destined room, recommended to us by friends in the country. Here we have a nice bedroom on the sunny side, rented to us by clean, decent good people, are at home in all comfort, and have time to leisurely see London, which is so enormous that it cannot be digested in a few days.

At first (11th June) we made for the Westminster Abbey service on Sunday morning. There fell a drizzling rain, and, it being a great distance from Paddington, we took a ‘bus. The ‘bus driver, seeing we were “Waybacks,” or strangers anyhow, took us a mile out of the way, and charged us 3d each instead of 2d; but a kind lady and gent, also passengers in this omnibus, directed us where to go, and how to get into the Abbey. We found this highly noble and venerable ancient church rather smaller than we expected, but it makes a deep impression on the human mind also through the many monuments of England’s great men exhibited therein. The acoustic in this church is excellent, so that we, although not at all near the preacher, heard the sermon distinctly, preached by the Right Rev. T. E. Wilkinson, D.D., Bishop Coadjutor for North Europe. After the service, which was choral, the anthems being very beautiful and perfectly sung, we walked round and looked at the Abbey, and then went to see the Parliament House (Westminster Hall) and Bridge, also Waterloo Bridge, and then went straight north to Tuffnell Park to visit friends and relatives. This walk through very interesting streets took us some hours, but we were rewarded by an utmost welcome reception. After a very pleasant evening, we went home by omnibus.

These antediluvian ‘buses are an institution, about which we will later on speak and give the opinion of a colonial countryman, Mr. Jas. Lowrie, of Kangaroo Valley, South Coast of New South Wales, with whom we had the great pleasure to get acquainted at a visit to our Commercial Agent, Mr. C. Lance, here in London.

The following day—Whit Monday—we went to see the Tower of London. As the weather cleared up beautifully, we resolved to make also this tour on foot. Therefore we laid our route out, and walked from early in the morning through Hyde and Kensington Parks, which lay in S.E. direction close to our quarters, thence via Green Park, along Constitution Hill and Buckingham Palace, through St. James’ Park, through the Horse Guards to the Victoria Embankment, all along the Thames, where we saw Cleopatra’s Needle, till we reached Blackfriars Bridge, thence we went along Queen Victoria-street and Cannon-street, near the “Fire” Monument, through Great Tower-st., and into the Tower, which world renowned place we looked carefully all through. We saw, besides the Crown jewellery, all the cruel war instruments with which in olden times humanity with great trouble hacked one another into eternity. We saw the costly steel, gold inlaid, coats of mail, with which the “great men” tried to save themselves from being hacked. We saw also the blocks, axes and swords with which great kings and queens beheaded men and womenkind cold blooded; we saw nice instruments for torture, and, strange, but true, we saw the modern English humanity in enormous, dense crowds showing to these heartrending monuments of dark ages a much greater interest than to the instructive, elevating rare collections in grand museums and institutes, ordered liberally to be laid out by Her Majesty our late Queen Victoria. There must have been on that Whit Monday in the Tower 8 to 10 thousand visitors. We had to walk slowly, five abreast, for at least half an hour, before we came to the old Tower museum, and constantly, all the day, crowds of people streamed out and in, commandeered by the often described worthy “Royal Beef Eaters.”

It seems to us that it is in London so organised that strangers must in this town “for the good of their souls” fast on Sundays and holidays, as we found, after our tour to and through the Tower, besides other shops, hotels, also the restaurants closed. We had the greatest difficulty to get a cup of tea and a dinner even on that Whit Monday. At last, after another walk, we came to a small restaurant, which was open, close to London Bridge. Also few fruit shops we found open.

We were informed that it was not compulsory to close restaurants on Sunday and holidays, but waiters, etc., could not be got to assist or work on such days. They also appear to have trade unions amongst themselves. What will be the consequence of this? That everybody has by and by to cook for himself, like in times of Adam and Eve, or some allied coolie men from Asia may arrive to assist our white English workers.

As we live near Hyde Park and Rotten Row, we often go to see the grand people driving in their state carriages and motors on the Long Drive and riding in Rotten Row; but it appears to Mrs. F.R. that the ladies here do not sit their horses like Australian women and girls. The men mostly put their feet too far into the stirrups, trust and rest too much upon the stirrups, and their seat loses thereby our elasticity, etc. But there are also here excellent exceptions. The horses are, with very few exceptions, splendid.

We spent a whole day in the Imperial Institute, and were, besides with other items, very much satisfied with the grand display of timber exhibited in the N.S. Wales and Westralian courts, which are splendid advertisements of our hard as well as soft brush wood timbers. These grand buildings are meant for the instruction of the people, but these latter look more for sensational amusements. We were here on our visit kindly shown the manufacture of cotton goods by a Manchester firm. The spectator learns how the cotton seed is put into the ground, how the plant grows, blossoms, the capsules mature, how the cotton is picked by the Hindu children and women, cleansed from the seed, dried, packed, shipped, spun, woven, how velvet is made, how flowers and types are woven into the cloth, etc. It leads too far to describe what immense display of natural and industrial productiveness is laid before the eyes of the inhabitants of this gigantic city; but we observed, and heard it stated by experienced people, that this grand Imperial Institute is visited by comparatively small numbers, and these small numbers are almost entirely strangers and foreigners.

Emigration to Canada is in London at present boomed very intensely. Poor Australia is nowhere in the running, principally as here seems the fable to be purposely spread: Australia would not court immigration. All sorts of immigration stories are told about Australian customs officers refusing to let intending white English emigrants enter into the Australian States.

We spent a day in the Zoological Gardens (Regent Park), and saw specimens of nearly every animal on earth. We admired the gigantic elephants, carrying crowds of children, small and big, about. One of these giants was as big as the biggest we saw in Ceylon, on the Mahavely Ganga River, as described in our letters in this paper a few years ago, where we saw the “sacred elephants” belonging to the grand old Buddha Temple in Kandy bathing there. All the animals in London Zoo are very fine specimens, good, fat, well groomed and cared for. In London the Zoo has no free day. The entrance fee is 1s, but on Mondays 6d only.

The Albert Memorial, erected to the memory of her late Prince Consort at a cost of £120,000 by Queen Victoria, is one of the grandest monuments we ever saw. The whole was designed by Sir Gilbert Scott, and consists of a bronze gilt statue of the Prince Albert by Foley, under a Gothic canopy, and is surrounded by allegorical groups representing Europe, Asia, Africa, and America, and the pedestal contains in haut-relief the highly artificially executed marble figures of all great poets, composers, sculptors, painters, clerical and literary men of ancient and modern times.

The Kensington Museum is so enormous that we could see the whole only superficially, and even to describe such part of it which we have inspected closely, viz., the picture galleries, would lead too far. There is also a collection of interesting books out of the times when printing was just invented. But these are under glass, and can only be looked at from outside. There is also a collection of manuscripts of celebrated English authors, also Charles Dickens’ works. Amongst them is also the last page he had written of an unfinished novel shortly before his death.

About Australian butter we have found out that the English traders treat the Australian products as they have treated German and other foreign products: the superior Australian product is sold as English butter, and the inferior article is called Australian.

As we called on our N.S. Wales Commercial Agent, Mr. C. Lance, we found before his chambers in East Cheap, Nos. 33 and 35, on the footpath, another colonial, Mr. Jas. Lowrie, of Kangaroo Valley, South Coast, N.S. Wales, waiting for Mr. Lance. Mr. Lowrie is representing a South Coast butter factory, and we had a long and very agreeable chat together on the pavement before the office, East Cheap, Nos. 33 and 35, till at last a gentleman appeared, who was pointed out to me by Mr. Lowrie as the secretary of Mr. Lance. This gentleman is a Londoner, whose father was once in Bendigo (Victoria). We all four entered the office, and were soon in full swing of conversation about butter, timber and other colonial products, and when the comparison between the mother country, especially London, with the colony of N.S. Wales, came in question, Mr. Lowrie remarked and put it as an accomplished fact, that “London kept a hundred years behind the times.” From butter the topic changed to street traffic, and we three Australians upheld our opinion against this Londoner that the enormous unhealthy crowding of the streets of London is caused by the antediluvian system of slow overcharging horse trams, cabs, and omnibuses. The great multitude of omnibuses and horse trams molest everywhere the traffic, while cheap, quick, and in a more clean and healthy manner moving electric trams change the multitude of foot passengers by their very cheap fares into tram passengers, and swiftly absorb them from the streets. The underground railways, with their extremely unhealthy, smoky air, should in London, to our Australian opinion, only be used for the transport of goods, not of human beings. But the London gentleman spoke in favour of the old ‘bus system, as so many drivers and horses would lose their situations through the introduction of electric trams. Whereupon our side stated the opinion that it appeared to us England seemed to be governed by horse-breeding lords, etc., and by horsey men, as grooms, jockeys, cabbies, while the middle classes—agriculturists, artisans, traders and other free and independent citizens—could or would not lift up their heads, and therefore is governing in London this ultra-conservative spirit, upholding the interests of horses and horsey men against the common welfare of all. This rather wild and useless argumenting was suddenly interrupted by the entrance of the Commercial Agent for New South Wales, Mr. C. Lance, to whom we delivered our letter of introduction, and were very kindly received. We were invited to appear next Friday to accompany the secretary to the butter market, and thereby be enabled to take notes about our Australian, and specially our N.S. Wales, part of these great London transactions. The report of this, our intended visit will appear in our next letter.