But though it is now evident that a very great deal may be done for the preservation of rural England by the exercise of legislative powers which local authorities already possess, and by pressure on corporate bodies and private landowners of the best type, the ultimate success of the new crusade will depend on its ability to influence public opinion. Two kinds of opinion are involved, that of the country dwellers themselves, and that of the urban invaders of the countryside. Probably most young people now employed in remote villages and on farms would give their skin to get away from what they regard as the monotony of rural life, and one must sympathise with that view. The introduction of wireless and cinemas will make their existence less irksome, and the phenomenal increase of motor-bus facilities allows them to travel cheaply and frequently to the nearest town, with its shops and bright streets. But none of these things will teach them to prize the country, rather the reverse, for many of the films they see show them uglification at its worst--in the ricketty shacks of Western America. It might be possible to teach them to admire their own heritage by occasional lectures at the village institutes on town-planning and architecture; not the architecture of great cathedrals and of foreign buildings like the Parthenon, but the simple homely architecture of the village church, the village barn, and the village cottage. A competent lecturer accustomed to such an audience, avoiding like the plague all sentimental talk about the glory of country life, might explain the beauty of old bridges and mills, the simple skill of old craftsmen, in such a way that his hearers would be less anxious to substitute suburban vulgarities for everything that their rude forefathers of the hamlet had made. Recently there was organised, in my own village, an exhibition of drawings, engravings, maps, old documents, etc., illustrating the history and development of the district. It was visited by a large number of people, including many children, and undoubtedly it aroused much interest in things that had hitherto passed unnoticed. The urban motorist, whether he travels in a Rolls-Royce or a charabanc, often provides an equally difficult problem. He may be a superior person of great wealth, who avoids the hackneyed resorts of trippers because he objects to the sight of beer-bottles and paper bags on the heather, but, as a humorous artist recently reminded us, he probably goes to a more secluded common and instructs his chauffeur to leave the champagne bottles and disembowelled lobsters under a gorse-bush there, for he has the soul and breeding of the tripper, and litter does not offend him. The beach X---- in Romney Marsh, already mentioned, was littered from end to end with newspapers, cigarette packets, and confectioners’ debris, when last I saw it.