There is a row of cottages opposite to the ruins of the castle, in which contentment seems to have made her home. The ivy embowers them. The roses cluster around their little windows. The greensward slopes away, in front, from big, flat stones that are embedded in the mossy sod before their doors. Down in the valley, hard by, your steps stray through an ancient graveyard--in which stands the parish church, a carefully restored building of the eleventh century, with tower, and clock, and bell--and past a few fragments of the Abbey and Monastery of St. Mary, destroyed in 1538. At many another point, on the roads betwixt Warwick and Kenilworth and Stratford, I came upon such nests of cosy, rustic quiet and seeming happiness. They build their country houses low, in England, so that the trees overhang them, and the cool, friendly, flower-gemmed earth--parent, and stay, and bourne of mortal life--is tenderly taken into their companionship. Here, at Kenilworth, as elsewhere, at such places as Marlowe, Henley, Richmond, Maidenhead, Cookham, and the region round about Windsor, I saw many a sweet nook where tired life might be content to lay down its burden and enter into its rest. In all true love of country--a passion that seems to be more deeply felt in England than anywhere else upon the globe--there is love for the literal soil itself: and surely that sentiment in the human heart is equally natural and pious which inspires and perpetuates man's desire that where he found his cradle he may also find his grave. Illustration: "Old Inn."