every pillar box to collect the " post," which was carried by the driver in an open canvas bag. He explained to us that he was a little slow at it, for he was not the regular driver. "I'm going in his place to-day," he remarked confidentially, "because he's off burying his father." He spoke as if it were a pleasure trip or a holiday. We had observed the real driver the day before, and he was an ancient person with white hair. It certainly speaks well for the longevity of the inhabitants of Broadway that this venerable man's father had only just passed away!

It shows how small a pretext was needed in the middle ages for building a monastery, when one learns that Evesham was founded because of the vision of a swineherd named Eoves, under the Mercian king, Ethelred, in 701.

The Evesham bell tower is a charming structure, and one should make it a point to be there at noon and hear the chimes play old English airs. The bells are sweeter in tone and more delightfully played than any I have heard out of Normandy. "Drink to me only with thine eyes" is exquisite when so' rendered. When the bells begin even the workmen on the road stop and listen, and the whole town is spellbound for a minute.

Matthew of Westminster relates a sensational scene in Evesham in the year 1261. He says: "a most violent thunder storm, attended with incessant flashes of lightning, alarmed the country, and a thunderbolt falling at Evesham, hurled down a vast stone, which was placed in the edge of the corner of the upper part of the church tower, with such force that it fell down into the choir, and was broken to pieces by the violence, and penetrated into the ground, and the stone was nearly a foot long. And soon after, the roof of the tower was discovered to be on fire . . . the monks and the people coming up endeavoured to quench the fire.

But they laboured in vain until . . . a ray of sun streamed on the fire caused by the lightning, and so entirely put it out and extinguished it by the command of God." If this testimony does not sound convincing, do not hold me responsible; it does not convince me either. But it is a pretty story, and should be taken for what it is worth.

As one stands by the bell tower, one looks out over the field of the battle of Evesham. On the fourth of August, 1265, the Royalists, under Prince Edward, fought the barons, under Simon de Montfort. The barons were completely routed, and the tragic death, in this

battle, of their gallant leader put an end to the Baron's War.

There is a ballad in Norman French written on the occasion of the battle of Evesham, which has been translated by the scholar, Mr. George Ellis.

"On Evesham's plain is Montfort slain
Well skilled he was to guide,

Where streams his gore shall all deplore
Fair England's flower and pride.

"Ere Tuesday's sun its course had run
Our noblest chiefs had bled,

While rushed to fight each gallant knight
Their dastard vassals fled.

"Still undismayed with trenchant blade
They hewed their desperate way,
Not strength nor skill to Edward's will
But numbers give the day.

"Yet by the blow that laid them low
Brave Earl, one palm is given

Not less at thine than Becket's shrine
Shall rise our vows to heaven!

"Brave martyred chief, no more our grief

For thee or thine shall flow,

Among the blest in heaven you rest

From all your toils below.

"But for the few, the gallant crew

Who here in bonds remain,

Christ condescend their woes to end,

And break the tyrant's chain."

After the battle, the monks of the Abbey took the mangled body of Simon de Monfort, and buried it under the altar. He was later canonized, and his relics are said to have performed a suitable number of miracles.

I remember a Cotswold railway journey which we made, informally accompanied by a "school treat" of three hundred children and a brass band.

And now I will say to travellers, it is of no use trying to convert rushing tourists that Cirencester is one of the most attractive places in England. It is a Cotswold town of the larger sort, and is often spoken of as the Capital of the Cotswolds. Perhaps one reason for its unspoiled charm is the fact that it is little frequented. The name is pronounced "Sister" with a slight drag only. In "Richard II," Bolingbroke alludes to a conspiracy in which:

66 the rebels have consumed with fire

Our town of Cirencester in Gloucestershire."

When Henry VI was only thirteen, the boy king held court at Cirencester.

When we arrived there the whole place was wild over cricket- the only other guests at the King's Head Hotel (Charles I's head, by the way) were about twenty of the cricket

players, who were conducting a match and made a lively side issue at dinner time. The first evening one of the youths was called upon for a speech. He rose, on the strength of Moët et Chandon, and observed, with grandiloquence, "Dear friends, it gives me great pleasure this evening to omit making a speech to you." He sat down amidst cheers. Whereupon the Head of Our House arose, and, from our small sidetable, remarked, "Allow me to add these few words in the same spirit from the United States of America." Then the whole crowd arose and toasted us, cheered, and drank our health, singing, For they are jolly good fellows," and altogether behaved very well.

We went to the Park the next day to see them play cricket, -a restful game, it has always appeared to me. I never yet went to look on at a cricket match that it was not just time for the players to adjourn for light refreshments.

The King's Head is quite a historic house. Thrilling scenes have occurred there. In 1640, Lord Chandos was appointed on behalf of King Charles I to execute the "Commission of Auray." The mob, regarding him as a traitor, attacked him in the street, and it was with difficulty that his retainers were able to assist him to this inn. This skirmish was the first shed