Bethesden, Biddenden and Lamberhurst all attract our attention. The second has a very quaint old inn on the market square, with a queer little ivy-covered tower; but Lamberhurst hardly merits the extravagant praise given it by William Cobbett in his "Rural Rides"--"one of the most beautiful villages that man ever set eyes upon." Still, it may have altered somewhat since his time; there are few red-brick villas among the older cottages. It is, none the less, a pleasant place, rich with verdure and bright with flowers, and picturesquely situated on a gently rising hill. Coming on this road, one gets the best conception of the really magnificent situation of Tunbridge Wells, and cannot wonder that it has gained such popularity. The main part of the town lies in a depression in the undulating downs, its villas, houses and streets all set down on a liberal scale with plenty of room for trees, in whose luxuriant foliage the place is half hidden. All around stretches the wavelike succession of the hills, diversified with forest and bright with heather and gorse. Thackeray was very fond of Tunbridge Wells and his enthusiastic words in "Round About Papers" breathe much of the spirit of the place: "I stroll over the common and survey the beautiful purple hills around, twinkling with a thousand bright villas which have sprung up over this charming ground since first I saw it. What an admirable scene of peace and plenty! What a delicious air breathes over the heath, blows the cloud-shadows across it, and murmurs through the full-clad trees! Can the world show a land fairer, richer, more cheerful?" We pause at the excellent though rather unpretentious Grand Hotel for our late luncheon; and as a final adieu to the pleasant town, drive through its commons with their strange wind-worn stones, before setting out Londonward. We pass on into Sussex as far as Grinstead and there strike the direct London road through Epsom, where we have a glimpse of the famous racing downs. The quiet, staid-looking old town gives no hint of the furor that possesses it on Derby days. A few miles farther we enter the outskirts of London. XVIII FROM DUBLIN TO CORK We are off for the Emerald Isle. There was much of interest in the three days between London and Dublin, but I will not follow our journey here; in a later chapter I will endeavor to gather some of the scattered threads. We reach Ludlow the first night, one hundred and forty-eight miles in six hours--very speedy going for us--but a day from Ludlow to Barmouth and another to Holyhead is more in keeping with our usual leisurely progress.