may 24th.—day before yesterday i had a call at the consulate from one of the potentates of the earth,—a woolly-haired negro, rather thin and spare, between forty and fifty years of age, plainly dressed; at the first glimpse of whom, i could readily have mistaken him for some ship's steward, seeking to enter a complaint of his captain. however, this was president roberts, of liberia, introduced by a note from mrs. o'sullivan, whom he has recently met in madeira. i was rather favorably impressed with him; for his deportment was very simple, and without any of the flourish and embroidery which a negro might be likely to assume on finding himself elevated from slavery to power. he is rather shy, reserved, at least, and undemonstrative, yet not harshly so,—in fine, with manners that offer no prominent points for notice or criticism; although i felt, or thought i felt, that his color was continually before his mind, and that he walks cautiously among men, as conscious that every new introduction is a new experiment. he is not in the slightest degree an interesting man (so far as i discovered in a very brief interview), apart from his position and history; his face is not striking, nor so agreeable as if it were jet black; but there may be miles and miles of depth in him which i know nothing of. our conversation was of the most unimportant character; for he had called merely to deliver the note, and sat only a few minutes, during which he merely responded to my observations, and originated no remarks. intelligence, discretion, tact—these are probably his traits; not force of character and independence.

the same day i took the rail from the little street station for

manchester,

to meet bennoch, who had asked me thither to dine with him. i had never visited manchester before, though now so long resident within twenty miles of it; neither is it particularly worth visiting, unless for the sake of its factories, which i did not go to see. it is a dingy and heavy town, with very much the aspect of liverpool, being, like the latter, built almost entirely within the present century. i stopped at the albion hotel, and, as bennoch was out, i walked forth to view the city, and made only such observations as are recorded above. opposite the hotel stands the infirmary,—a very large edifice, which, when erected, was on the outskirts, or perhaps in the rural suburbs, of the town, but it is now almost in its centre. in the enclosed space before it stands the statue of peel, and sits a statue of dr. dalton, the celebrated chemist, who was a native of manchester.

returning to the hotel, i sat down in the room where we were to dine, and in due time bennoch made his appearance, with the same glow and friendly warmth in his face that i had left burning there when we parted in london. if this man has not a heart, then no man ever had. i like him inexpressibly for his heart and for his intellect, and for his flesh and blood; and if he has faults, i do not know them, nor care to know them, nor value him the less if i did know them. he went to his room to dress; and in the mean time a middle-aged, dark man, of pleasant aspect, with black hair, black eyebrows, and bright, dark eyes came in, limping a little, but not much. he seemed not quite a man of the world, a little shy in manner, yet he addressed me kindly and sociably. i guessed him to be mr. charles swain, the poet, whom mr. bennoch had invited to dinner. soon came another guest whom mr. swain introduced to me as mr. ———, editor of the manchester examiner. then came bennoch, who made us all regularly acquainted, or took for granted that we were so; and lastly appeared a mr. w———, a merchant in manchester, and a very intelligent man; and the party was then complete. mr. swain, the poet, is not a man of fluent conversation; he said, indeed, very little, but gave me the impression of amiability and simplicity of character, with much feeling.

mr. w——— is a very sensible man. he has spent two or three years in america, and seems to have formed juster conclusions about us than most of his countrymen do. he is the only englishman, i think, whom i have met, who fairly acknowledges that the english do cherish doubt, jealousy, suspicion, in short, an unfriendly feeling, towards the americans. it is wonderful how every american, whatever class of the english he mingles with, is conscious of this feeling, and how no englishman, except this sole mr. w———, will confess it. he expressed some very good ideas, too, about the english and american press, and the reasons why the times may fairly be taken as the exponent of british feeling towards us, while the new york herald, immense as its circulation is, can be considered, in no similar degree or kind, the american exponent.

we sat late at table, and after the other guests had retired, bennoch and i had some very friendly talk, and he proposed that on my wife's return we should take up our residence in his house at blackheath, while mrs. bennoch and himself were absent for two months on a trip to germany. if his wife and mine ratify the idea, we will do so.

the next morning we went out to see the exchange, and whatever was noticeable about the town. time being brief, i did not visit the cathedral, which, i believe, is a thousand years old. there are many handsome shops in manchester; and we went into one establishment, devoted to pictures, engravings, and decorative art generally, which is most perfect and extensive. the firm, if i remember, is that of the messrs. agnew, and, though originating here, they have now a house in london. here i saw some interesting objects, purchased by them at the recent sale of the rogers collection; among other things, a slight pencil and water-color sketch by raphael. an unfinished affair, done in a moment, as this must have been, seems to bring us closer to the hand that did it than the most elaborately painted picture can. were i to see the transfiguration, raphael would still be at the distance of centuries. seeing this little sketch, i had him very near me. i know not why,— perhaps it might be fancied that he had only laid down the pencil for an instant, and would take it up again in a moment more. i likewise saw a copy of a handsome, illustrated edition of childe harold, presented by old john murray to mr. rogers, with an inscription on the fly-leaf, purporting that it was a token of gratitude from the publisher, because, when everybody else thought him imprudent in giving four hundred guineas for the poem, mr. rogers told him it would turn out the best bargain he ever made.

there was a new picture by millais, the distinguished pre-raphaelite artist, representing a melancholy parting between two lovers. the lady's face had a great deal of sad and ominous expression; but an old brick wall, overrun with foliage, was so exquisitely and elaborately wrought that it was hardly possible to look at the personages of the picture. every separate leaf of the climbing and clustering shrubbery was painfully made out; and the wall was reality itself, with the weather-stains, and the moss, and the crumbling lime between the bricks. it is not well to be so perfect in the inanimate, unless the artist can likewise make man and woman as lifelike, and to as great a depth, too, as the creator does.

bennoch left town for some place in yorkshire, and i for liverpool. i asked him to come and dine with me at the adelphi, meaning to ask two or three people to meet him; but he had other engagements, and could not spare a day at present, though he promises to come before long.

dining at mr. rathbone's one evening last week (may 21st), it was mentioned that

borrow,

author of the bible in spain, is supposed to be of gypsy descent by the mother's side. hereupon mr. martineau mentioned that he had been a schoolfellow of borrow, and though he had never heard of his gypsy blood, he thought it probable, from borrow's traits of character. he said that, borrow had once run away from school, and carried with him a party of other boys, meaning to lead a wandering life.

if an englishman were individually acquainted with all our twenty-five millions of americans, and liked every one of them, and believed that each man of those millions was a christian, honest, upright, and kind, he would doubt, despise, and hate them in the aggregate, however he might love and honor the individuals.

captain ——— and his wife oakum; they spent all evening at mrs. b———'s. the captain is a marblehead man by birth, not far from sixty years old; very talkative and anecdotic in regard to his adventures; funny, good-humored, and full of various nautical experience. oakum (it is a nickname which he gives his wife) is an inconceivably tall woman,— taller than he,—six feet, at least, and with a well-proportioned largeness in all respects, but looks kind and good, gentle, smiling,—and almost any other woman might sit like a baby on her lap. she does not look at all awful and belligerent, like the massive english women one often sees. you at once feel her to be a benevolent giantess, and apprehend no harm from her. she is a lady, and perfectly well mannered, but with a sort of naturalness and simplicity that becomes her; for any the slightest affectation would be so magnified in her vast personality that it would be absolutely the height of the ridiculous. this wedded pair have no children, and oakum has so long accompanied her husband on his voyages that i suppose by this time she could command a ship as well as he. they sat till pretty late, diffusing cheerfulness all about them, and then, "come, oakum," cried the captain, "we must hoist sail!" and up rose oakum to the ceiling, and moved tower-like to the door, looking down with a benignant smile on the poor little pygmy women about her. "six feet," did i say? why, she must be seven, eight, nine; and, whatever be her size, she is as good as she is big.

june 11th.—monday night (9th), just as i was retiring, i received a telegraphic message announcing my wife's arrival at

southampton.

so, the next day, i arranged the consular business for an absence of ten days, and set forth with j——-, and reached birmingham, between eight and nine, evening. we put up at the queen's hotel, a very large establishment, contiguous to the railway. next morning we left birmingham, and made our first stage to leamington, where we had to wait nearly an hour, which we spent in wandering through some of the streets that had been familiar to us last year. leamington is certainly a beautiful town, new, bright, clean, and as unlike as possible to the business towns of england. however, the sun was burning hot, and i could almost have fancied myself in america. from leamington we took tickets for oxford, where we were obliged to make another stop of two hours; and these we employed to what advantage we could, driving up into town, and straying hither and thither, till j——-'s weariness weighed upon me, and i adjourned with him to a hotel. oxford is an ugly old town, of crooked and irregular streets, gabled houses, mostly plastered of a buff or yellow hue; some new fronts; and as for the buildings of the university, they seem to be scattered at random, without any reference to one another. i passed through an old gateway of christ church, and looked at its enclosed square, and that is, in truth, pretty much all i then saw of the university of oxford. from christ church we rambled along a street that led us to a bridge across the isis; and we saw many row-boats lying in the river,—the lightest craft imaginable, unless it were an indian canoe. the isis is but a narrow stream, and with a sluggish current. i believe the students of oxford are famous for their skill in rowing.

to me as well as to j——- the hot streets were terribly oppressive; so we went into the roebuck hotel, where we found a cool and pleasant coffee-room. the entrance to this hotel is through an arch, opening from high street, and giving admission into a paved court, the buildings all around being part of the establishment,—old edifices with pointed gables and old-fashioned projecting windows, but all in fine repair, and wearing a most quiet, retired, and comfortable aspect. the court was set all round with flowers, growing in pots or large pedestalled vases; on one side was the coffee-room, and all the other public apartments, and the other side seemed to be taken up by the sleeping-chambers and parlors of the guests. this arrangement of an inn, i presume, is very ancient, and it resembles what i have seen in the hospitals, free schools, and other charitable establishments in the old english towns; and, indeed, all large houses were arranged on somewhat the same principle.

by and by two or three young men came in, in wide-awake hats, and loose, blouse-like, summerish garments; and from their talk i found them to be students of the university, although their topics of conversation were almost entirely horses and boats. one of them sat down to cold beef and a tankard of ale; the other two drank a tankard of ale together, and went away without paying for it,—rather to the waiter's discontent. students are very much alike, all the world over, and, i suppose, in all time; but i doubt whether many of my fellows at college would have gone off without paying for their beer.

we reached southampton between seven and eight o'clock. i cannot write to-day.

june 15th.—the first day after we reached southampton was sunny and pleasant; but we made little use of the fine weather, except that s——- and i walked once along the high street, and j——- and i took a little ramble about town in the afternoon. the next day there was a high and disagreeable wind, and i did not once stir out of the house. the third day, too, i kept entirely within doors, it being a storm of wind and rain. the castle hotel stands within fifty yards of the water-side; so that this gusty day showed itself to the utmost advantage,—the vessels pitching and tossing at their moorings, the waves breaking white out of a tumultuous gray surface, the opposite shore glooming mistily at the distance of a mile or two; and on the hither side boatmen and seafaring people scudding about the pier in waterproof clothes; and in the street, before the hotel door, a cabman or two, standing drearily beside his horse. but we were sunny within doors.

yesterday it was breezy, sunny, shadowy, showery; and we ordered a cab to take us to clifton villa, to call on mrs. ———, a friend of b———'s, who called on us the day after our arrival. just, as we were ready to start, mrs. ——— again called, and accompanied us back to her house. it is in shirley, about two miles from southampton pier, and is a pleasant suburban villa, with a pretty ornamented lawn and shrubbery about it. mrs. ——— is an instructress of young ladies; and at b———'s suggestion, she is willing to receive us for two or three weeks, during the vacation, until we are ready to go to london. she seems to be a pleasant and sensible woman, and to-morrow we shall decide whether to go there. there was nothing very remarkable in this drive; and, indeed, my stay hereabouts thus far has been very barren of sights and incidents externally interesting, though the inner life has been rich.

southampton is a very pretty town, and has not the dinginess to which i have been accustomed in many english towns. the high street reminds me very much of american streets in its general effect; the houses being mostly stuccoed white or light, and cheerful in aspect, though doubtless they are centuries old at heart. the old gateway, which i presume i have mentioned in describing my former visit to southampton, stands across high street, about in the centre of the town, and is almost the only token of antiquity that presents itself to the eye.

june 17th.—yesterday morning, june 16th, s——-, mrs. ———, and i took the rail for salisbury, where we duly arrived without any accident or anything noticeable, except the usual verdure and richness of an english summer landscape. from the railway station we walked up into salisbury, with the tall spire (four hundred feet high) of the cathedral before our eyes. salisbury is an antique city, but with streets more regular than i have seen in most old towns, and the houses have a more picturesque aspect than those of oxford, for instance, where almost all are mean-looking alike,—though i could hardly judge of oxford on that hot, weary day. through one or more of the streets there runs a swift, clear little stream, which, being close to the pavement, and bordered with stone, may be called, i suppose, a kennel, though possessing the transparent purity of a rustic rivulet. it is a brook in city garb. we passed under the pointed arch of a gateway, which stands in one of the principal streets, and soon came in front of

the cathedral.

i do not remember any cathedral with so fine a site as this, rising up out of the centre of a beautiful green, extensive enough to show its full proportions, relieved and insulated from all other patchwork and impertinence of rusty edifices. it is of gray stone, and looks as perfect as when just finished, and with the perfection, too, that could not have come in less than six centuries of venerableness, with a view to which these edifices seem to have been built. a new cathedral would lack the last touch to its beauty and grandeur. it needs to be mellowed and ripened, like some pictures; although i suppose this awfulness of antiquity was supplied, in the minds of the generation that built cathedrals, by the sanctity which they attributed to them. salisbury cathedral is far more beautiful than that of york, the exterior of which was really disagreeable to my eye; but this mighty spire and these multitudinous gray pinnacles and towers ascend towards heaven with a kind of natural beauty, not as if man had contrived them. they might be fancied to have grown up, just as the spires of a tuft of grass do, at the same time that they have a law of propriety and regularity among themselves. the tall spire is of such admirable proportion that it does not seem gigantic; and indeed the effect of the whole edifice is of beauty rather than weight and massiveness. perhaps the bright, balmy sunshine in which we saw it contributed to give it a tender glory, and to soften a little its majesty.

when we went in, we heard the organ, the forenoon service being near conclusion. if i had never seen the interior of york cathedral, i should have been quite satisfied, no doubt, with the spaciousness of this nave and these side aisles, and the height of their arches, and the girth of these pillars; but with that recollection in my mind they fell a little short of grandeur. the interior is seen to disadvantage, and in a way the builder never meant it to be seen; because there is little or no painted glass, nor any such mystery as it makes, but only a colorless, common daylight, revealing everything without remorse. there is a general light hue, moreover, like that of whitewash, over the whole of the roof and walls of the interior, pillars, monuments, and all; whereas, originally, every pillar was polished, and the ceiling was ornamented in brilliant colors, and the light came, many-hued, through the windows, on all this elaborate beauty, in lieu of which there is nothing now but space.

between the pillars that separate the nave from the side aisles, there are ancient tombs, most of which have recumbent statues on them. one of these is longsword, earl of salisbury, son of fair rosamond, in chain mail; and there are many other warriors and bishops, and one cross-legged crusader, and on one tombstone a recumbent skeleton, which i have likewise seen in two or three other cathedrals. the pavement of the aisles and nave is laid in great part with flat tombstones, the inscriptions on which are half obliterated, and on the walls, especially in the transepts, there are tablets, among which i saw one to the poet bowles, who was a canon of this cathedral. the ecclesiastical dignitaries bury themselves and monument themselves to the exclusion of almost everybody else, in these latter times; though still, as of old, the warrior has his place. a young officer, slain in the indian wars, was memorialized by a tablet, and may be remembered by it, six hundred years hence, as we now remember the old knights and crusaders. it deserves to be mentioned that i saw one or two noses still unbroken among these recumbent figures. most of the antique statues, on close examination, proved to be almost, entirely covered with names and initials, scratched over the once polished surface. the cathedral and its relics must have been far less carefully watched, at some former period, than now.

between the nave and the choir, as usual, there is a screen that half destroys the majesty of the building, by abridging the spectator of the long vista which he might otherwise have of the whole interior at a glance. we peeped through the barrier, and saw some elaborate monuments in the chancel beyond; but the doors of the screen are kept locked, so that the vergers may raise a revenue by showing strangers through the richest part of the cathedral. by and by one of these vergers came through the screen, with a gentleman and lady whom he was taking round, and we joined ourselves to the party. he showed us into the cloisters, which had long been neglected and ruinous, until the time of bishop dennison, the last prelate, who has been but a few years dead. this bishop has repaired and restored the cloisters in faithful adherence to the original plan; and they now form a most delightful walk about a pleasant and verdant enclosure, in the centre of which sleeps good bishop dennison, with a wife on either side of him, all three beneath broad flat stones. most cloisters are darksome and grim; but these have a broad paved walk beneath the vista of arches, and are light, airy, and cheerful; and from one corner you can get the best possible view of the whole height and beautiful proportion of the cathedral spire. one side of this cloistered walk seems to be the length of the nave of the cathedral. there is a square of four such sides; and of places for meditation, grave, yet not too sombre, it seemed to me one of the best. while we stayed there, a jackdaw was walking to and fro across the grassy enclosure, and haunting around the good bishop's grave. he was clad in black, and looked like a feathered ecclesiastic; but i know not whether it were bishop dennison's ghost, or that of some old monk.

on one side of the cloisters, and contiguous to the main body of the cathedral, stands the chapter-house. bishop dennison had it much at heart to repair this part of the holy edifice; and, if i mistake not, did begin the work; for it had been long ruinous, and in cromwell's time his dragoons stationed their horses there. little progress, however, had been made in the repairs when the bishop died; and it was decided to restore the building in his honor, and by way of monument to him. the repairs are now nearly completed; and the interior of this chapter-house gave me the first idea, anywise adequate, of the splendor of these gothic church edifices. the roof is sustained by one great central pillar of polished marble,—small pillars clustered about a great central column, which rises to the ceiling, and there gushes out with various beauty, that overflows all the walls; as if the fluid idea had sprung out of that fountain, and grown solid in what we see. the pavement is elaborately ornamented; the ceiling is to be brilliantly gilded and painted, as it was of yore, and the tracery and sculptures around the walls are to be faithfully renewed from what remains of the original patterns.

after viewing the chapter-house, the verger—an elderly man of grave, benign manner, clad in black and talking of the cathedral and the monuments as if he loved them—led us again into the nave of the cathedral, and thence within the screen of the choir. the screen is as poor as possible,—mere barren wood-work, without the least attempt at beauty. in the chancel there are some meagre patches of old glass, and some of modern date, not very well worth looking at. we saw several interesting monuments in this part of the cathedral,—one belonging to the ducal family of somerset, and erected in the reign of james i.; it is of marble, and extremely splendid and elaborate, with kneeling figures and all manner of magnificence,—more than i have seen in any monument except that of mary of scotland in westminster abbey. the more ancient tombs are also very numerous, and among them that of the bishop who founded the cathedral. within the screen, against the wall, is erected a monument, by chantrey, to the earl of malmesbury; a full-length statue of the earl in a half-recumbent position, holding an open volume and looking upward,—a noble work,—a calm, wise, thoughtful, firm, and not unbenignant face. beholding its expression, it really was impossible not to have faith in the high character of the individual thus represented; and i have seldom felt this effect from any monumental bust or statue, though i presume it is always aimed at.

i am weary of trying to describe cathedrals. it is utterly useless; there is no possibility of giving the general effect, or any shadow of it, and it is miserable to put down a few items of tombstones, and a bit of glass from a painted window, as if the gloom and glory of the edifice were thus to be reproduced. cathedrals are almost the only things (if even those) that have quite filled out my ideal here in this old world; and cathedrals often make me miserable from my inadequacy to take them wholly in; and, above all, i despise myself when i sit down to describe them.

we now walked around the close, which is surrounded by some of the quaintest and comfortablest ecclesiastical residences that can be imagined. these are the dwelling-houses of the dean and the canons, and whatever other high officers compose the bishop's staff; and there was one large brick mansion, old, but not so ancient as the rest, which we took to be the bishop's palace. i never beheld anything—i must say again so cosey, so indicative of domestic comfort for whole centuries together,—houses so fit to live in or to die in, and where it would be so pleasant to lead a young wife beneath the antique portal, and dwell with her till husband and wife were patriarchal,—as these delectable old houses. they belong naturally to the cathedral, and have a necessary relation to it, and its sanctity is somehow thrown over them all, so that they do not quite belong to this world, though they look full to overflowing of whatever earthly things are good for man. these are places, however, in which mankind makes no progress; the rushing tumult of human life here subsides into a deep, quiet pool, with perhaps a gentle circular eddy, but no onward movement. the same identical thought, i suppose, goes round in a slow whirl from one generation to another, as i have seen a withered leaf do in the vortex of a brook. in the front of the cathedral there is a most stately and beautiful tree, which flings its verdure upward to a very lofty height; but far above it rises the tall spire, dwarfing the great tree by comparison.

when the cathedral had sufficiently oppressed us with its beauty, we returned to sublunary matters, and went wandering about salisbury in search of a luncheon, which we finally took in a confectioner's shop. then we inquired hither and thither, at various livery-stables, for a conveyance to stonehenge, and at last took a fly from the lamb hotel. the drive was over a turnpike for the first seven miles, over a bare, ridgy country, showing little to interest us. we passed a party of seven or eight men, in a coarse uniform dress, resembling that worn by convicts and apparently under the guardianship of a stout, authoritative, yet rather kindly-looking man with a cane. our driver said that they were lunatics from a neighboring asylum, out for a walk.

seven miles from salisbury, we turned aside from the turnpike, and drove two miles across salisbury plain, which is an apparently boundless extent of unenclosed land, treeless and houseless. it is not exactly a plain, but a green sea of long and gentle swells and subsidences, affording views of miles upon miles to a very far horizon. we passed large flocks of sheep, with the shepherds watching them; but the dogs seemed to take most of the care of the flocks upon their own shoulders, and would scamper to turn the sheep when they inclined to stray whither they should not; and then arose a thousand-fold bleating, not unpleasant to the ear; for it did not apparently indicate any fear or discomfort on the part of the flock. the sheep and lambs are all black-faced, and have a very funny expression. as we drove over the plain (my seat was beside the driver), i saw at a distance a cluster of large gray stones, mostly standing upright, and some of them slightly inclined towards each other, —very irregular, and so far off forming no very picturesque or noteworthy spectacle. of course i knew at once that this was

stonehenge,

and also knew that the reality was going to dwindle wofully within my ideal, as almost everything else does. when we reached the spot, we found a picnic-party just finishing their dinner, on one of the overthrown stones of the druidical temple; and within the sacred circle an artist was painting a wretched daub of the scene, and an old shepherd —the very shepherd of salisbury plain sat erect in the centre of the ruin.

there never was a ruder thing than stonehenge made by mortal hands. it is so very rude that it seems as if nature and man had worked upon it with one consent, and so it is all the stranger and more impressive from its rudeness. the spectator wonders to see art and contrivance, and a regular and even somewhat intricate plan, beneath all the uncouth simplicity of this arrangement of rough stones; and certainly, whatever was the intellectual and scientific advancement of the people who built stonehenge, no succeeding architects will ever have a right to triumph over them; for nobody's work in after times is likely to endure till it becomes a mystery as to who built it, and how, and for what purpose. apart from the moral considerations suggested by it, stonehenge is not very well worth seeing. materially, it is one of the poorest of spectacles, and when complete, it must have been even less picturesque than now,—a few huge, rough stones, very imperfectly squared, standing on end, and each group of two supporting a third large stone on their tops; other stones of the same pattern overthrown and tumbled one upon another; and the whole comprised within a circuit of about a hundred feet diameter; the short, sheep-cropped grass of salisbury plain growing among all these uncouth bowlders. i am not sure that a misty, lowering day would not have better suited stonehenge, as the dreary midpoint of the great, desolate, trackless plain; not literally trackless, however, for the london and exeter road passes within fifty yards of the ruins, and another road intersects it.

after we had been there about an hour, there came a horseman within the druid's circle,—evidently a clerical personage by his white neckcloth, though his loose gray riding pantaloons were not quite in keeping. he looked at us rather earnestly, and at last addressed mrs. ———, and announced himself as mr. hinchman,—a clergyman whom she had been trying to find in salisbury, in order to avail herself of him as a cicerone; and he had now ridden hither to meet us. he told us that the artist whom we found here could give us more information than anybody about stonehenge; for it seems he has spent a great many years here, painting and selling his poor sketches to visitors, and also selling a book which his father wrote about the remains. this man showed, indeed, a pretty accurate, acquaintance with these old stones, and pointed out, what is thought to be the altar-stone, and told us of some relation between this stone and two other stones, and the rising of the sun at midsummer, which might indicate that stonehenge was a temple of solar worship. he pointed out, too, to how little depth the stones were planted in the earth, insomuch that i have no doubt the american frosts would overthrow stonehenge in a single winter; and it is wonderful that it should have stood so long, even in england. i have forgotten what else he said; but i bought one of his books, and find it a very unsatisfactory performance, being chiefly taken up with an attempt to prove these remains to be an antediluvian work, constructed, i think the author says, under the superintendence of father adam himself! before our departure we were requested to write our names in the album which the artist keeps for the purpose; and he pointed out ex-president fillmore's autograph, and those of one or two other americans who have been here within a short time. it is a very curious life that this artist leads, in this great solitude, and haunting stonehenge like the ghost of a druid; but he is a brisk little man, and very communicative on his one subject.

mr. hinchman rode with us over the plain, and pointed out salisbury spire, visible close to stonehenge. under his guidance we returned by a different road from that which brought us thither,—and a much more delightful one. i think i never saw such continued sylvan beauty as this road showed us, passing through a good deal of woodland scenery,—fine old trees, standing each within its own space, and thus having full liberty to outspread itself, and wax strong and broad for ages, instead of being crowded, and thus stifled and emaciated, as human beings are here, and forest-trees are in america. hedges, too, and the rich, rich verdure of england; and villages full of picturesque old houses, thatched, and ivied, or perhaps overrun with roses,—and a stately mansion in the elizabethan style; and a quiet stream, gliding onward without a ripple from its own motion, but rippled by a large fish darting across it; and over all this scene a gentle, friendly sunshine, not ardent enough to crisp a single leaf or blade of grass. nor must the village church be forgotten, with its square, battlemented tower, dating back to the epoch of the normans. we called at a house where one of mrs. ———'s pupils was residing with her aunt,—a thatched house of two stories high, built in what was originally a sand-pit, but which, in the course of a good many years, has been transformed into the most delightful and homelike little nook almost that can be found in england. a thatched cottage suggests a very rude dwelling indeed; but this had a pleasant parlor and drawing-room, and chambers with lattice-windows, opening close beneath the thatched roof; and the thatch itself gives an air to the place as if it were a bird's nest, or some such simple and natural habitation. the occupants are an elderly clergyman, retired from professional duty, and his sister; and having nothing else to do, and sufficient means, they employ themselves in beautifying this sweet little retreat—planting new shrubbery, laying out new walks around it, and helping nature to add continually another charm; and nature is certainly a more genial playfellow in england than in my own country. she is always ready to lend her aid to any beautifying purpose.

leaving these good people, who were very hospitable, giving tea and offering wine, we reached salisbury in time to take the train for southampton.

june 18th.—yesterday we left the castle hotel, after paying a bill of twenty pounds for a little more than a week's board. in america we could not very well have lived so simply, but we might have lived luxuriously for half the money. this castle hotel was once an old roman castle, the landlord says, and the circular sweep of the tower is still seen towards the street, although, being painted white, and built up with modern additions, it would not be taken for an ancient structure. there is a dungeon beneath it, in which the landlord keeps his wine.

j——- and i, quitting the hotel, walked towards shinley along the water-side, leaving the rest of the family to follow in a fly. there are many traces, along the shore, of the fortifications by which southampton was formerly defended towards the water, and very probably their foundations may be as ancient as roman times. our hotel was no doubt connected with this chain of defences, which seems to have consisted of a succession of round towers, with a wall extending from one to another. we saw two or three of these towers still standing, and likely to stand, though ivy-grown and ruinous at the summit, and intermixed and even amalgamated with pot-houses and mean dwellings; and often, through an antique arch, there was a narrow doorway, giving access to the house of some sailor or laborer or artisan, and his wife gossiping at it with her neighbor, or his children playing about it.

after getting beyond the precincts of southampton our walk was not very interesting, except to j——-, who kept running down to the verge of the water, looking for shells and sea-insects.

june 29th.—yesterday, 28th, i left liverpool from the lime street station; an exceedingly hot day for england, insomuch that the rail carriages were really uncomfortable. i have now passed over the london and northwestern railway so often that the northern part of it is very wearisome, especially as it has few features of interest even to a new observer. at stafford—no, at wolverhampton—we diverged to a track which i have passed over only once before. we stopped an hour and a quarter at wolverhampton, and i walked up into the town, which is large and old,—old, at least, in its plan, or lack of plan,—the streets being irregular, and straggling over an uneven surface. like many of the english towns, it reminds me of boston, though dingier. the sun was so hot that i actually sought the shady sides of the streets; and this, of itself, is one long step towards establishing a resemblance between an english town and an american one.

english railway carriages seem to me more tiresome than any other; and i suppose it is owing to the greater motion, arising from their more elastic springs. a slow train, too, like that which i was now in, is more tiresome than a quick one, at least to the spirits, whatever it may be to the body. we loitered along through afternoon and evening, stopping at every little station, and nowhere getting to the top of our speed, till at last, in the late dusk, we reached

gloucester,

and i put up at the wellington hotel, which is but a little way from the station. i took tea and a slice or two of ham in the coffee-room, and had a little talk with two people there; one of whom, on learning that i was an american, said, "but i suppose you have now been in england some time?" he meant, finding me not absolutely a savage, that i must have been caught a good while ago. . . .

the next morning i went into the city, the hotel being on its outskirts, and rambled along in search of the cathedral. some church-bells were chiming and clashing for a wedding or other festal occasion, and i followed the sound, supposing that it might proceed from the cathedral, but this was not the case. it was not till i had got to a bridge over the severn, quite out of the town, that i saw again its tower, and knew how to shape my course towards it.

i did not see much that was strange or interesting in gloucester. it is old, with a good many of those antique elizabethan houses with two or three peaked gables on a line together; several old churches, which always cluster about a cathedral, like chickens round a hen; a hospital for decayed tradesmen; another for bluecoat boys; a great many butcher's shops, scattered in all parts of the town, open in front, with a counter or dresser on which to display the meat, just in the old fashion of shakespeare's house. it is a large town, and has a good deal of liveliness and bustle, in a provincial way. in short, judging by the sheep, cattle, and horses, and the people of agricultural aspect that i saw about the streets, i should think it must have been market-day. i looked here and there for the old bell inn, because, unless i misremember, fielding brings tom jones to this inn, while he and partridge were travelling together. it is still extant; for, on my arrival the night before, a runner from it had asked me to go thither; but i forgot its celebrity at the moment. i saw nothing of it in my rambles about gloucester, but at last i found

the cathedral,

though i found no point from which a good view of the exterior can be seen.

it has a very beautiful and rich outside, however, and a lofty tower, very large and ponderous, but so finished off, and adorned with pinnacles, and all manner of architectural devices,—wherewith these old builders knew how to alleviate their massive structures,—that it seems to sit lightly in the air. the porch was open, and some workmen were trundling barrows into the nave; so i followed, and found two young women sitting just within the porch, one of whom offered to show me round the cathedral. there was a great dust in the nave, arising from the operations of the workmen. they had been laying a new pavement, and scraping away the plaster, which had heretofore been laid over the pillars and walls. the pillars come out from the process as good as new,—great, round, massive columns, not clustered like those of most cathedrals; they are twenty-one feet in circumference, and support semicircular arches. i think there are seven of these columns, on each side of the nave, which did not impress me as very spacious; and the dust and racket of the work-people quite destroyed the effect which should have been produced by the aisles and arches; so that i hardly stopped to glance at this part, though i saw some mural monuments and recumbent statues along the walls.

the choir is separated from the nave by the usual screen, and now by a sail-cloth or something of that kind, drawn across, in order to keep out the dust, while the repairs are going on. when the young woman conducted me hither, i was at once struck by the magnificent eastern window, the largest in england, which fills, or looks vast enough to fill, all that end of the cathedral,—a most splendid window, full of old painted glass, which looked as bright as sunshine, though the sun was not really shining through it. the roof of the choir is of oak and very fine, and as much as ninety feet high. there are chapels opening from the choir, and within them the monuments of the eminent people who built them, and of benefactors or prelates, or of those otherwise illustrious in their day. my recollection of what i saw here is very dim and confused; more so than i anticipated. i remember somewhere within the choir the tomb of edward ii. with his effigy upon the top of it, in a long robe, with a crown on his head, and a ball and sceptre in his hand; likewise, a statue of robert, son of the conqueror, carved in irish oak and painted. he lolls in an easy posture on his tomb, with one leg crossed lightly over the other, to denote that he was a crusader. there are several monuments of mitred abbots who formerly presided over the cathedral. a cavalier and his wife, with the dress of the period elaborately represented, lie side by side in excellent preservation; and it is remarkable that though their noses are very prominent, they have come down from the past without any wear and tear. the date of the cavalier's death is 1637, and i think his statue could not have been sculptured until after the restoration, else he and his dame would hardly have come through cromwell's time unscathed. here, as in all the other churches in england, cromwell is said to have stabled his horses, and broken the windows, and belabored the old monuments.

there is one large and beautiful chapel, styled the lady's chapel, which is, indeed, a church by itself, being ninety feet long, and comprising everything that appertains to a place of worship. here, too, there are monuments, and on the floor are many old bricks and tiles, with inscriptions on them, or gothic devices, and flat tombstones, with coats of arms sculptured on them; as, indeed, there are everywhere else, except in the nave, where the new pavement has obliterated them. after viewing the choir and the chapels, the young woman led me down into the crypts below, where the dead persons who are commemorated in the upper regions were buried. the low ponderous pillars and arches of these crypts are supposed to be older than the upper portions of the building. they are about as perfect, i suppose, as when new, but very damp, dreary, and darksome; and the arches intersect one another so intricately, that, if the girl had deserted me, i might easily have got lost there. these are chapels where masses used to be said for the souls of the deceased; and my guide said that a great many skulls and bones had been dug up here. no doubt a vast population has been deposited in the course of a thousand years. i saw two white skulls, in a niche, grinning as skulls always do, though it is impossible to see the joke. these crypts, or crypts like these, are doubtless what congreve calls the "aisles and monumental caves of death," in that passage which dr. johnson admired so much. they are very singular,—something like a dark shadow or dismal repetition of the upper church below ground.

ascending from the crypts, we went next to the cloisters, which are in a very perfect state, and form an unbroken square about the green grass-plot, enclosed within. here also it is said cromwell stabled his horses; but if so, they were remarkably quiet beasts, for tombstones, which form the pavement, are not broken, nor cracked, nor bear any hoof-marks. all around the cloisters, too, the stone tracery that shuts them in like a closed curtain, carefully drawn, remains as it was in the days of the monks, insomuch that it is not easy to get a glimpse of the green enclosure. probably there used to be painted glass in the larger apertures of this stone-work; otherwise it is perfect. these cloisters are very different from the free, open, and airy ones of salisbury; but they are more in accordance with our notions of monkish habits; and even at this day, if i were a canon of gloucester, i would put that dim ambulatory to a good use. the library is adjacent to the cloisters, and i saw some rows of folios and quartos. i have nothing else to record about the cathedral, though if i were to stay there a month, i suppose it might then begin to be understood. it is wicked to look at these solemn old churches in a hurry. by the by, it was not built in a hurry; but in full three hundred years, having been begun in 1188 and only finished in 1498, not a great many years before papistry began to go out of vogue in england.

from gloucester i took the rail for basingstoke before noon. the first part of the journey was through an uncommonly beautiful tract of country, hilly, but not wild; a tender and graceful picturesqueness,—fine, single trees and clumps of trees, and sometimes wide woods, scattered over the landscape, and filling the nooks of the hills with luxuriant foliage. old villages scattered frequently along our track, looking very peaceful, with the peace of past ages lingering about them; and a rich, rural verdure of antique cultivation everywhere. old country-seats—specimens of the old english hall or manor-house—appeared on the hillsides, with park-scenery surrounding the mansions; and the gray churches rose in the midst of all the little towns. the beauty of english scenery makes me desperate, it is so impossible to describe it, or in any way to record its impression, and such a pity to leave it undescribed; and, moreover, i always feel that i do not get from it a hundredth or a millionth part of the enjoyment that there really is in it, hurrying past it thus. i was really glad when we rumbled into a tunnel, piercing for a long distance through a hill; and, emerging on the other side, we found ourselves in a comparatively level and uninteresting tract of country, which lasted till we reached southampton. english scenery, to be appreciated and to be reproduced with pen and pencil, requires to be dwelt upon long, and to be wrought out with the nicest touches. a coarse and hasty brush is not the instrument for such work.

july 6th.—monday, june 30th, was a warm and beautiful day, and my wife and i took a cab from southampton and drove to

netley abbey,

about three or four miles. the remains of the abbey stand in a sheltered place, but within view of southampton water; and it is a most picturesque and perfect ruin, all ivy-grown, of course, and with great trees where the pillars of the nave used to stand, and also in the refectory and the cloister court; and so much soil on the summit of the broken walls, that weeds flourish abundantly there, and grass too; and there was a wild rosebush, in full bloom, as much as thirty or forty feet from the ground. s——- and i ascended a winding stair, leading up within a round tower, the steps much foot-worn; and, reaching the top, we came forth at the height where a gallery had formerly run round the church, in the thickness of the wall. the upper portions of the edifice were now chiefly thrown down; but i followed a foot-path, on the top of the remaining wall, quite to the western entrance of the church. since the time when the abbey was taken from the monks, it has been private property; and the possessor, in henry viii.'s days, or subsequently, built a residence for himself within its precincts out of the old materials. this has now entirely disappeared, all but some unsightly old masonry, patched into the original walls. large portions of the ruin have been removed, likewise, to be used as building-materials elsewhere; and this is the abbey mentioned, i think, by dr. watts, concerning which a mr. william taylor had a dream while he was contemplating pulling it down. he dreamed that a part of it fell upon his head; and, sure enough, a piece of the wall did come down and crush him. in the nave i saw a large mass of conglomerated stone that had fallen from the wall between the nave and cloisters, and thought that perhaps this was the very mass that killed poor mr. taylor.

the ruins are extensive and very interesting; but i have put off describing them too long, and cannot make a distinct picture of them now. moreover, except to a spectator skilled in architecture, all ruined abbeys are pretty much alike. as we came away, we noticed some women making baskets at the entrance, and one of them urged us to buy some of her handiwork; for that she was the gypsy of netley abbey, and had lived among the ruins these thirty years. so i bought one for a shilling. she was a woman with a prominent nose, and weather-tanned, but not very picturesque or striking.