Although this silly and salacious legend still hangs around the
streets of Coventry, the borough itself appears as a microcosm of all that is most sane in English life. The steeple of St. Michael's raises its rose-coloured finger high above Warwickshire, recalling to the burghers and the yeo- men their continuity with the serious past, and indicating by the delicate power of its architecture that there do exist certain aspirations which are higher and more compelling than the petrol-laden tangle of our modern towns. Yet Coventry has other virtues. It is a classless city from which all snobbishness would seem to be absent. And it is expanding more rapidly and more sensibly than any other city in the realm. I should much like to be the Town Clerk of Coventry; yet I well know that this hope is unlikely to be fulfilled.
* • *
Previous page
