T must be with an unavoidable pang of disappointment that the sentimental traveller alights at Warwick and finds engrafted on the old town so much that is new and prosaic. The pictures of it that he has seen have never confessed to the modernization; they have shown him only the open-framed, red-tiled, or thatched Elizabethan houses, with latticed windows and projecting gables; the bastions, escarpments, and skyward towers of the castle; the ruined bridge across the Avon, with the disabling lapses in its span; the well-preserved antiquity of Lord Leicester's Hospital. He has forgotten how artists separate what they desire from any commonplace environment, and he has thought of Warwick, and seen it through the eye of anticipation, as a place made up of ancient buildings and ancient streets, a sleepy town, stealing down through time with an unchanged front and owing nothing to later days and later fashions. Alas! though these historical monuments are still there, many of their surroundings are not in keeping with them, but have the freshness, the unromantic and unmellowed properties of our own times. To what is new they seem to bear much the same proportion as the ancestral brooch and other trinkets which a woman attaches to a costume that in its other features is exclusively

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modern-though this is only so long as our initiatory disappointment is allowed to prejudice our observation. It requires a spirited imagination to restore to those streets the Elizabethan procession which throngs out of the pages of "Kenilworth "-the courtiers and swashbucklers, Dick Hostler and Jack Pudding, Wayland Smith and Flibbertigibbet, the gay-hearted Raleigh and the dark-browed Varney. The pressure of innovation comes to oppose their return, not only in the modernization of the streets, but in the intrusion at every point of assiduous, trifle-hunting tourists.

Of these tourists there are probably two Americans to one Englishman. "Bless you, sir! I don't know 'ow we could get hon without them," the waiter at the "Warwick Arms" will tell you, after wofully recounting the various causes of the decline in the town's prosperity.

All summer long you hear them scurrying through the streets toward the Castle, or the Hospital, or St. Mary's Church, with guide-books tucked under their arms and their satchels swelled by new souvenirs of travel in the shape of photographs, or paper-weights and ink-pots cast in the image of Leicester's famous cognizance of the Bear and Ragged Staff. Their pursuit leaves no moment unmarked by achievement. Yesterday morning it was the Customhouse and the landing stage at Liverpool, and since then they have been to Chester and Shrewsbury. To-day they