Coventry, with its odd buildings and narrow, crowded streets, reminded Nathaniel Hawthorne of Boston—­not the old English Boston, but its big namesake in America.  Many parts of the city are indeed quaint and ancient, the finest of the older buildings dating from about the year 1400; but these form only a nucleus for the more modern city which has grown up around them.  Coventry now has a population of about seventy-five thousand, and still maintains its old-time reputation as an important manufacturing center.  Once it was famed for its silks, ribbons and watches, but this trade was lost to the French and Swiss—­some say for lack of a protective tariff.  Now cycles and motor cars are the principal products; and we saw several of the famous Daimler cars, made here, being tested on the streets.

Coventry has three fine old churches, whose tall needlelike spires form a landmark from almost any point of view in Warwickshire, and give to the town the appellation by which it is often known—­“The City of the Three Spires.”  Nor could we well have forgotten Coventry’s unique legend, for high up on one of the gables of our hotel was a wooden figure said to represent Peeping Tom, who earned eternal ignominy by his curiosity when Lady Godiva resorted to her remarkable expedient to reduce the tax levy of Coventry.  Our faith in the story, so beautifully re-told by Tennyson, will not be shaken by the iconoclastic assertion that the effigy is merely an old sign taken from an armourer’s shop; that the legend of Lady Godiva is common to half a dozen towns; and that she certainly never had anything to do with Coventry, in any event.

Leaving Coventry the next day about noon in a steady rain, we sought the most direct route to Manchester, thereby missing Nuneaton, the birthplace and for many years the home of George Eliot and the center of some of the most delightful country in Warwickshire.  Had we been more familiar with the roads of this country, we could have passed through Nuneaton without loss of time.  The distance was only a little greater and over main roads, whereas we traveled for a good portion of the day through narrow byways, and the difficulty of keeping the right road in the continual rain considerably delayed our progress.  We were agreeably surprised to find that the car did not skid on the wet macadam road and that despite the rain we could run very comfortably and quite as fast as in fair weather.  I had put up our cape top and curtains, but later we learned that it was pleasanter, protected by water-proof wraps, to dash through the rain in the open car.  English spring showers are usually light, and it was rather exhilarating to be able to bid defiance to weather conditions that in most parts of the United States would have put a speedy end to our tour.

A few miles farther brought us to Tamworth with its castle, lying on the border between Warwickshire and Staffordshire, the “tower and town” of Scott’s “Marmion.”  The castle of the feudal baron chosen by Scott as the hero of his poem still stands in ruins, and was recently acquired by the town.  It occupies a commanding position on a knoll and is surrounded by a group of fine trees.