From “Pen Sketches.”

VILLAGE after village, quaint and beautiful, lie along the margin of the Avon; the keen eye will notice whence Shakespeare drew his choicest descriptions of nature; the longest summer day will not be too long to loiter around the vicinity of Stratford. One of the best proofs that Avon River flows through rich and lovely country is the multitude of monastic institutions which have left their names to the villages, with here and there a noble tower and graceful gateway. Founders of abbeys loved a pleasant river flowing through fertile meadows; salmon and trout and eels for fast days were as important as beeves and deer for festivals. So there are more conventual remains between Naseby and Tewkesbury than in almost any equal distance of which I have knowledge; and the glory of those old ecclesiastic foundations is peculiarly realized as the noble bell-tower of Evesham Abbey rises above the town. The great monastery had lasted more than a thousand years when the ruthless hand of Henry VIII. fell upon it. The bell-tower and a most delightful old gateway are the only relics of it left.

  The pilgrim through the beautiful vale of Evesham comes upon another battlefield, where, six hundred years ago, fell a famous leader of the Commons against the Crown. Simon de Montfort fought for the right, so far as we can judge at this remote period; but his antagonist was the greatest general of the day, and afterwards became England’s greatest king. He was but twenty-six when he won the immortal victory known as the murder of Evesham. If Montfort gave England its first Parliament, Edward gave us Wales and Scotland, and made the priests pay taxes in defiance of the Pope. A poetic prince, as well as a gallant; for did he not, when Eleanora the Castilian died in Lincolnshire, cause Peter l’Imagineur to build a stately cross wherever her corpse rested on its way to Westminster? Thanks to the poetry of a railway company, London is to see the last and stateliest of those crosses rebuilt in what was once the quiet village of Charing.

  There was another abbey at Pershore, which takes its name from its abundant pear trees. Bredon Hill, not far from this town, is worth climbing for its fine view towards the Malverns. At the village of Strensham the author of “Hudibras” was born. I must not be retarded by reminiscences of that most humorous writer of wonderful doggerel; but pass on to Tewkesbury, last of the towns on the Avon, which here falls into the wide and shining Severn. Tewkesbury had also its abbey and its famous battle; it has, moreover, its legend of that unfortunate gentleman, Brihtric of Bristol.

  Farewell, beautiful Avon, with all thy poetic and historic memories; thy great abbeys and bloody battlefields; thy golden dream of Shakespeare the divine. As I stand in the bloody meadow at Tewkesbury and look at the meeting of the waters, my chief thought is how many great men have fought in tented field—have written famous books—how many strange and terrible events have occurred—ere this England could become what it is,—