The writer of this book undertook his pleasant task, with a light and happy heart, more than four years ago. He had known Shakespeare's country for nearly forty years, and wandered about in it, whenever he could, in many a holiday. He looked forward to setting down, very quickly, what he had seen, and should see, for the first time or again, of the heart of England, that he might, if he had good fortune, hand on to others something of the pleasure which had been his for so many years. But new work came to him unexpectedly, and only at long intervals could he take up again his travels or his pen. For a long time a bookcase has been stored with the literature of his subject, from the immortal Dugdale down, through the Rev. Thomas Cox, of 1700, to the latest voyager on the banks of Avon, and the Warwickshire table has been the name of a desk consecrated to his task. At last it is finished; but it is with a sigh that the pen is laid down, the books put away, the feet no longer turned towards Warwick ways.The writer cannot hope, for all his care, for all the years he has spent in reading and travelling, to have escaped error: he will only say that he knows well that even to describe what one has seen, or to summarise ones conclusions where others have thought and written too, is no easy thing.
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