We left Chorley Wood through meandering byways, and threading our way among the Burnham beeches, soon came into the main Oxford road. It would be difficult, indeed, to describe the sylvan loveliness of the country through which we passed. The great trees overarched the narrow winding lanes, which were bordered with tall ferns in places, and often a clear rivulet ran alongside. The somber yew, the stately oak and the graceful birches were interspersed here with a bit of lawn and there with a tangle of flowering shrubs. Out of this we came into the main road, broad and white, and teeming with vehicles--the first hint that London with its ceaseless turmoil is only twenty miles away. Farther on the road toward the city we came to Uxbridge, another town where the new is crowding the old. Fortunately, the famous Treaty Inn has escaped. Here the emissaries of Charles I. met the representatives of Parliament in a vain effort to compromise the dispute that had plunged the nation into civil war. The room where the commissioners met, with its paneling reaching to the ceiling and its wealth of antique carving, is little changed, though it has been divided by a partition into a writing- and a dining-room. The excellent luncheon served was one of the surprises often met in these dilapidated and often unprepossessing old hostelries. In the time of the Parliamentary unpleasantness, this hotel was known as the "Crown," and among its relics is an immense crown of solid oak weighing two or three hundred pounds, which was engaging the attention of an English party, one of whom ironically asked if this were the identical crown worn by Charles at the council. "Indeed it was," replied another humorist in the party, "and thus originated the expression, 'Uneasy lies the head which wears a crown.'" Near Uxbridge, but lying a quarter of a mile off the main road, is the village of Denham. Here we came one fine Sunday afternoon, following the recommendation of an English friend. The village has no historic attraction and no famous man's name has ever been associated with it. Neither has it mention in the books. Yet Denham is a delight--a sequestered little place nestling under a group of towering trees just far enough from the highroad to miss the dust and noise. The ancient half-timbered houses which border the street are redolent with the spirit of old-time England. The fine unrestored old church stands at the head of the street and the churchyard about it shows evidence of painstaking care. What a delight, it seemed to us, it would be to live in Denham--at least in English June time. One would have rural quiet, even somnolence, and might lie for hours on the turf under the great trees, meditating and looking at the sky; and if he should weary of so secluded and eventless a life, London, with all its mystery and charm, is less than an hour away--London, the most fascinating city in the world, despite its preponderance of bad weather and its world-famed fogs.