By the Way: Travel Letters Written During Several Journeys Abroad

by Agness Greene Foster

I wonder if other people are moved to tears by grandeur in nature or in art? Do you recall how the tears would come the day I caught my first glimpse of the Pacific Ocean from Mt. Lowe? So today, while others were "ohing" and "ahing," I was dumb with joy; and if I have said once, I have said a hundred times, "If you were only here to enjoy it with me!"

As we left the embattled gateway we passed through a road deeply cut out of the solid rock, the walls of which were covered with vines. A sudden turn brought us abruptly into the vast open court, when there burst upon our vision a fortress, mighty and magnificent, and this was Warwick Castle! No matter how many embattled castles you see, the one seen first will be stamped forever upon your memory, and I hope it will be beautiful Warwick. We were shown through the state apartments, but they were as nothing compared with my first glimpse of the massive fortress of the feudal barons of Warwick—the old king-makers. After dinner we drove to Kenilworth and viewed the stately ruins by moonlight.

STRATFORD-ON-AVON:

The sun shone today, and it was a welcome sight. We came here to rest over the Sabbath, and we have wandered over the simple old town to all the haunts of the poet, where we met Americans, Germans, Frenchmen, Italians—all doing him honor. As we walked "Across the field to Ann" in the twilight, I recalled Dr. Richard Burton's beautiful poem of that title.

OXFORD:

Thackeray was certainly right when he said of Oxford, "It is a delight to enter, but despair to leave." Should you ask me to tell you candidly how long one should remain in Oxford in order to see it perfectly, I should reply, "A lifetime." It is charming. Of course the college buildings, with their quads and cloisters, the churches, the Sheldonian Theater and Bodleian Library, are all teeming with historic interest, but it is the beauty of the outdoor part of Oxford—of all England, in fact—that most appeals to me. Well may this be called the "Garden Route," for all nature is alive with flowers and foliage, with green of all shades, and odors sweeter than honey. Everything here is freely accessible to the visitor. No wonder the English women are good walkers. One cannot see the beauties of these glorious gardens, both public and private, unless one walks miles, as I have this day.

WINDSOR:

I have been repaid a thousandfold for that awful ocean voyage. The massive walls of Windsor Castle are just outside my window, and as I write, I count ten guards abreast upon them. It is the Queen's birthday, "God bless her!"

I was up with the lark and entered the embattled gateway as soon as it was open to visitors. The terraces, the grand parterre, the royal stables, St. George's Chapel where the royal marriages are celebrated, the State Apartments, the Round Tower, and Albert Memorial Chapel—all, all are beyond my power of description. It was with difficulty that I tore myself away, bade good-bye to Mr. and Mrs. W., caught the train for Paddington Station, reached London in time to take a cab to my bankers, where I found your blessed letters, and then went to my new home.