Few English counties present greater attractions for the student of the past, the archæologist, the rambler, and the tourist than Warwickshire. Through it gently–flowing rivers, unagitated by sudden drops from highland sources, pass on their placid ways by rich pasture–land and fields of waving corn, or wind in tortuous convolutions through wide–spread parks, and past historic castles and mansions rich in traditions of the stirring times when the shire played its part in the affairs of national history. Warwickshire, although possessing few ranges of considerable hills, and no very high eminences, the chief ranges being on its north, eastern and south–eastern borders, has just that type of scenery which was so delightfully described by Mrs. Browning in “Aurora Leigh”:— The ground’s most gentle dimplement (as if God’s finger touched, but did not press, In making England!), such an up and down Of verdure—nothing too much up or down; A ripple of land; such little hills, the sky Can stoop to tenderly and the wheat fields climb; Such nooks and valleys, lined with orchises, Fed full of noises by invisible streams; And open pastures, where you scarcely tell White daisies from white dew; at intervals The mythic oaks and elm trees standing out Self–poised upon their prodigy of shade— I thought my father’s land was worthy too Of being my Shakespeare’s. Few better descriptions of the charms of this delightful county have ever been written, although many poets have sung them. An Elizabethan singer, Michael Drayton, said of his native shire, “We the heart of England well may call.” It was well, indeed, for English literature that such an one as the Bard of Avon should have been born and have lived in this land of pleasant pastures, leafy woodlands, and placid and beautiful streams, and should have treasured early memories of vagrant days amid her sylvan solitudes and river banks with which to gem his after work with sweet imageries of rural beauties, of flowers, and the songs of birds. Shakespeare loved his native town, and he put into almost all of his plays some glimpses or description of the natural and unfailing beauties of Stratford and its immediate surroundings. And still, in the meadows in which long ago he loved to muse and wander, are found those “daisies pied,” “pansies that are for thoughts,” the “blue–veined violets,” and “ladies’ smocks all silver white,” of which Shakespeare’s maidens often sing. And there are also the willow–hung brooks, and the orchards in spring beauteous in white and pink blossom, and in autumn rich with sun–kissed fruit.