The road from Oxford to Wantage is a splendid one, running through a beautiful country and bordered much of the way with ancient trees.  Wantage is a quiet town, lying at the foot of the hills, and is chiefly noted as the birthplace of the great Saxon king.  A granite statute of Alfred stands in the market square, representing the king with the charter of English liberties in one hand and a battle-ax in the other.  As he was born more than a thousand years ago, there are no buildings now standing that were connected with his history.  The church is probably the oldest building—­a fine example of early English architecture.  Near it is buried the wife of Whittington, “Lord Mayor of Londontown.”  Dr. Butler, the theologian and author of “The Analogy,” was born in the town and this house is still to be seen.

Leaving Wantage, the road to Reading runs along the crest of the hills, and on either side from the breezy uplands, the green fields, dashed with the gold of the ripening harvest, stretched away for many miles.  This was one of the few spots in England where the view was unobstructed by fences of any kind, and while the average English hedge-row is not unpleasing, the beauty of the landscape in this instance certainly did not suffer by its absence.  From Kingston-on-Thames, the perfectly kept road closely follows the river.  Reading has a population of about one hundred and twenty thousand and is a place of considerable business activity.  Though the city has a history stretching back to ancient times, most of the evidences of antiquity have disappeared in modern progress.  It was chosen as the seat of Elizabeth’s parliament when the plague was devastating London.  Fragments of the old abbey hall in which this parliament met still remain and the gateway was restored a few years ago.  Reading offered a stout resistance to the Commonwealth and suffered severely at Cromwell’s hands.  Its chief industries today are biscuit making and seed farming, which give employment to ten thousand people.

From Reading, a few miles through byways brought us to Eversley, a retired village five miles from a railway station, where the church and rectory of Charles Kingsley may be seen.  The church is picturesquely situated on the hillside, with an avenue of fine yew trees leading from the gate to the door.  The building has been altered a good deal since Kingsley was rector, but the pulpit from which he preached is practically the same.  The rectory, which is directly by the church, is a very old building, though it has been modernized on the side fronting the road.  It stands in the midst of a group of Scotch firs which were great favorites with Kingsley.  Their branches almost touch the earth, while their huge trunks form a strong contrast with the dense green of the foliage.  Kingsley and his wife are buried in the churchyard on the side nearest the firs.  The graves are marked by a simple Runic cross in white marble bearing the names, the date, and the legend, “God is Love.”  Eversley and its surroundings are thoroughly typical of rural England.  A quieter and more retired little place could hardly be imagined.  One wonders why the great novelist and preacher spent so many years of his life here.  It may have been that the seclusion was not a little conducive to his successful literary labors.