AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A PENNSYLVANIAN
on which he wrote his initials and gave it to me and promised that he would see to it that I should find my trunk in the baggage room in Liverpool.
Coventry is a most interesting old town, though Americans go to Leamington in preference, redolent with the memories of the Lady Godiva, mystery plays, tournaments in which knights errant in the days of chivalry fought for the favor of fair women, Sherwood Forest with its tales of Robin Hood and his merry men, battles of kings for their thrones and, in later days, of George Fox the Quaker. Here may be seen the walls and gates which shut out the enemy and stranger, ancient tapestries, curiously built houses and the three spires which impressed Tennyson. We drove to Kenilworth, rich in its traditions, but found little there save the merest remnants of a ruined castle and a field of oats, the half of which appeared to be Canada thistle. This thistle, protected by the hedges, has overrun the whole island and must be a serious drawback to agriculture. At Leicester hospital we were shown some needlework attributed to the unfortunate Amy Robsart. We inspected Warwick Castle, with its portrait of Henry VIII, and since my lineage has been traced to the Kingmaker, with a faint reflection of proprietorship. At Stratford we saw the birthplace of Shakespeare, a house insignificant and mean in all of its suggestions. The church was being repaired and I secured a bit of old worm-eaten wood which had been removed from above the famous inscription.
At Liverpool I went to the man in charge of the baggage room and sought my trunk. He looked over his books and said he had no record of it. He sent men over the building who hunted and returned reporting that it could not be found.
“You must find it,” I said with some indignation. “We leave in the boat for America tomorrow and I must have my trunk.”
“Perhaps it is in the lost department,” said he.
