refractory car. I hardly know to this minute what ailed the thing, but
it suddenly started off blithely, and this was the only exhibition of
sulkiness it gave, for it scarcely missed a stroke in our Midland trip
of eight hundred miles--mostly in the rain. Nevertheless, the little
circumstance, just at the outset of our tour, was depressing.

We stopped for lunch at the Red Lion in the old town of St. Albans,
twenty miles to the north of London. It is a place of much historic
interest, being a direct descendant of the ancient Roman city of
Verulamium; and Saint Albans, or Albanus, who gave his name to the town
and cathedral and who was beheaded near this spot, was the first British
martyr to Christianity of whom there is any record. The cathedral
occupies the highest site of any in England, and the square Norman
tower, which owes its red coloring to the Roman brick used in its
construction, is a conspicuous object from the surrounding country. The
nave is of remarkable length, being exceeded only by Winchester. Every
style of architecture is represented, from early Norman to late
Perpendicular, and there are even a few traces of Saxon work. The
destruction of this cathedral was ordered by the pious Henry VIII at the
time of his Reformation, but he considerately rescinded the order when
the citizens of St. Albans raised money by public subscription to
purchase the church. Only an hour was given to St. Albans, much less
than we had planned, but our late start made it imperative that we move
onward.

Our route for the day was over the old coach road leading from London to
Holyhead, one of the most perfect in the Kingdom, having been in
existence from the time of the Romans. In fact, no stretch of road of
equal distance in our entire tour was superior to the one we followed
from St. Albans to Coventry. It was nearly level, free from sharp turns,