Most of us prefer to spend our holiday tours away from our own country. There is a feeling of mild adventure when the land we behold is unknown to us, and when the language we hear filters into our questioning minds through an interpreter's suavity and chatter. And if we go to Switzerland we may earn even a reputation for intrepid pluck among the friends who listen to us on our return home, while the unlucky guides, who found for our trembling feet a pathway around each danger, will amuse their families during the winter with little tales at our expense, told with rough satire and with short, gruff peals of laughter resembling the noise of a crackling ice-sheet when it begins to slip downhill.

No doubt, heroism on the hillside has a vast attraction to brave, fearless hearts like our own; but we should find, here in our own country, quite as much adventure as is good for us, and quite as much novelty also, if only we could bring ourselves to believe that knowledge of native scenes and traditions does not come to us in baptism or by virtue of our birth as British folk. If you ask a friend whether he knows the Border Country, he will probably answer yes, and then go on to say that he when a lad at school was a great reader of Scott, and thank heaven! his memory is a good one. Push the matter further, ask whether he has verified the truth of Scott's descriptions by a visit to the places described, and you will probably hear that your friend would rather dream of the North Pole or be bitten fiercely by the swarms of lively insects treasured throughout Brittany in every cottage and hotel.

All this being somewhat commonplace, you may wish to get closer to this subject, and your friend at last, driven to bay, comes to the real point that pricks and distresses him. "You see," he will say, "a holiday tour at home is such a dickens of a gamble. You can't say how much it will cost. The only thing at all certain about it is that the cost will be more than you can afford. Wherever you go you become a goose to be plucked."

Let us rebel against this iniquity! It is not a question of cheating, it is a trait of the national character. In Great Britain, as among the Americans, the gift of long sight in business has become very common, and few persons think it worth their while to see the practical good things within easy reach of the blessed short sight of common sense. Our chief aim is not to keep a market open and steady, but to glut it with over-production or to block it with excessive prices. "Here is a holiday-tripper, so let us make him pay!" That seems to be the unconquerable maxim at all seaside resorts and in every place where tired workers seek rest and health. I have known a week's holiday in the New Forest to cost as much as a tour of three weeks in the beautiful and bracing Ardennes. The Belgian is content to draw his customers back to him, while the Englishman grasps all he can get and sends us away discontented.

It is true that the railway companies are doing all in their power to make holidays at home welcome and inexpensive. Their enterprise in this respect has no limits. But we cannot live on cheap railway tickets alone, whether single or return. Something should be done—and the newspapers could help—to establish in all attractive districts a reasonable tariff for board and lodging. It is only thus that Great Britain will be made popular during the holiday season, and that the great stream of gold—the holiday-making Pactolus—will be drawn from the Continent to nourish our own country sides and rural folk.

It seems to be certain that, during the reign of the old stage coach, life in rustic England was cheaper than it is to-day. At any rate we must account in some way or other for the immense number of county histories and illustrated topographical books which teemed from the press from the middle of the eighteenth century to the time of J. M. W. Turner. To study these works is to be sure that our forefathers took the greatest delight in their own country, and that huge sums of money were spent in procuring fine sketches and adequate engravings. Side by side with these books on British topography were volumes on foreign travel, like those by William Alexander, who in 1792 accompanied Lord Macartney's embassy to China, where he made many exquisite sketches, brimful of humour and playful observation. John Webber, R.A., in 1776, accompanied Captain Cook on his third and last voyage, and made a drawing of Cook's death, which Byrne and Bartolozzi engraved. Two other Royal Academicians, Thomas and William Daniell, made India their sketching-ground, and in their great work on "Oriental Scenery," published in 1808, they devoted six volumes to a subject as fascinating as it was unhackneyed. Many other artists, too, travelled and made sketches for books, ranging from Girtin's Paris Views to Turner's "Rivers of France," and from Sir David Wilkie's Eastern sketches, reproduced in lithography by Nash, to the familiar work of Prout, Harding, J. F. Lewis, R.A., and Louis Haghe.

But these books on foreign travel, admirable as they were, did not eclipse the many volumes on British scenery and landscape antiquities. All the ablest men among the earlier water-colour painters—Hearne, Malton, Dayes, Girtin, Turner, Francia, Havell, De Wint, David Cox, Cotman—made topographical sketches for illustrations, and lucky is he who "finds" their earliest efforts. To-day, happily, there are signs of renewed life in the old taste for picture books on the beauty and romance of our own country. It is a taste that invigorates, storing the mind with tonic memories and filling the eyes with beautiful scenes and colours; and we may be sure that it needs for its gratification books which are easy to carry and to read. The great folio of other days, as heavy almost as a country squire, is rightly treasured in the British Museum, like the remains of the Neolithic Man discovered in Egypt.

The subject of the present book—the Border Country—should set us thinking, not of one holiday, but of many; and he who has once tasted the Border's keen rich air will long to return both to it and to the traditions that dwell among the vast landscapes and in the ruined castles. The distinguished connoisseur and painter whose sketches are here reproduced, has gone back to the Border Country a dozen times and more, always to find there a renewal of his first pleasure and a host of fresh subjects, that form a delightful connecting-link between each to-day and the armoured epochs of the long ago.

And if the Border Country, with its enchanted places and memories, delights a landscape-painter, it is equally attractive to students of architecture, to lovers of folk-lore and literary history, to writers of romance in search of traditions and local colour, and to those of us also who indulge a passion for collecting either as botanists or as geologists. The rivers and streams have a rare fascination, and anglers, having made their choice, can come by all the sport which they desire. As to the hills, they have a certain modesty of height deceptive to the unwary, for although they have not won for themselves a reputation for fatalities to be described as Alpine, they are yet so dangerous when a mist gathers about them and thickens, that a climber may lose his life there quite comfortably, and without enjoying more than the customary amount of rashness or inexperience. Briefly, men may find in the Border Country nearly all their hobbies, and nearly all their professional studies.

In this book the historical notes are written by one who lives by the Tweed, and whose name is associated with Border subjects. Mr. Crockett's work is filled with the Past, while the outdoor sketches by Mr. Orrock are at once so faithful topographically, and so much in sympathy with the classic traditions of English Water-Colour, that they show us what the Border Country is to-day, when seen through the medium of a painter's observation and knowledge.

W. SHAW SPARROW.