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is an old country, and one of our most valuable pieces of inheritance is the ancient asset of good roads penetrating every corner of the island. New countries may have fine railways, but though, and perhaps because, they have fine railways they have not, and never will have, roads equal to ours. And it is not only an ancient, it is also a well-preserved asset. It is the duty of any one who uses the roads of Great Britain for motor-cars to express his gratitude perhaps to the ancient Romans, certainly to the old turnpike trustees and to their modern successors the county councils, and I say this the more emphatically in the hope of encouraging the county councils to persevere in their good work. These roads are the sphere of the motor-car, and my belief is that, could we consult our friends the horses, there would be whatever in the case of horses corresponds to a plebiscite in favour of utilising it to the fullest extent.

Many persons did, and, I am afraid, some persons do still, accuse us of a love of too rapid progression. I feel inclined myself to plead guilty to the limited extent of acknowledging that there is a glorious exhilaration in the mere motion of a motor-car, strong, unwearying, unresting, with no drawback of regret for strain of exertion on man or beast. The mere sense of motion is a delightful thing; the gallop of a horse over elastic turf, the rush of a bicycle down-hill with a suspicion of favouring wind, the rhythmical swing of an eight-oar, the trampling progress of a four-in-hand, the striding swoop on skates