Shortly after leaving the town, the ascent of a two-mile hill brought us to a stretch of upland road which ran for several miles along a tableland lying between pleasantly diversified valleys sloping on either side.  From this a long, gradual descent led directly into Farnham, the native town of William Cobbett.  The house where he was born and lived as a boy is still standing as “The Jolly Farmers’ Inn.”  One may see the little house which was the birthplace of the Rev. Augustus Toplady, whose hymn, “Rock of Ages,” has gained world-wide fame.  On the hill overlooking the town is the ancient castle, rebuilt in the Sixteenth Century and from that time one of the palaces of the bishops of Winchester.  Here, too, lingers one of the ubiquitous traditions of King Charles I, who stopped at Vernon House in West Street while a prisoner in the hands of the Parliamentarians on their way to London.  A silk cap which the king presented to his host is proudly shown by one of the latter’s descendants, who is now owner of the house.

One must be well posted on his route when touring Britain or he will pass many things of note in sublime ignorance of their existence.  Even the road-book is not an infallible guide, for we first knew that we were passing through Chawton when the postoffice sign, on the main street of a straggling village, arrested our attention.  We were thus reminded that in this quiet little place the inimitable Jane Austin had lived and produced her most notable novels, which are far more appreciated now than in the lifetime of the authoress.  An old woman of whom we inquired pointed out the house—­a large square building with tiled roof, now used as the home of a workingmen’s club.  Less than two miles from Chawton, though not on the Winchester road, is Selborne, the home of Gilbert White, the naturalist, and famed as one of the quaintest and most retired villages in Hampshire.

But one would linger long on the way if he paused at every landmark on the Southampton road.  We had already loitered in the short distance which we had traveled until it was growing late, and with open throttle our car rapidly covered the last twenty miles of the fine road leading into Winchester.

From an historical point of view, no town in the Kingdom surpasses the proud old city of Winchester.  The Saxon capital still remembers her ancient splendor and it was with a manifest touch of pride that the old verger who guided us through the cathedral dwelt on the long line of kings who had reigned at Winchester before the Norman conquest.  To him, London at best was only an upstart and an usurper.  Why,

    “When Oxford was shambles
    And Westminster was brambles,
    Winchester was in her glory.”