Haps and mishaps of a tour in Europe

Front matter

HAPS AND MISHAPS OF A TOUR IN EUROPE. B Y GRACE GREENWOOD. EIGHTH THOUSAND BOSTON : TICKNOR, REED, AND FIELDS. M DCCC Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1833, by LEANDER K. LIPPtNCOTT, In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the Tistrict of Massachusetts STEREOTYPED AT THE BOSTON 8TERE0TYPE FOUNDRY. DEDICATION. To my publishers and my dear friends, William D. Ticknor and James T. Fields, of Boston, and to their friend and mine, Francis Bennoch, of London, I gratefully and heartily dedicate this volume. GRACE GREENWOOD. •m; CONTENTS.

Chapter I. Paoe

The Voyage out. — Jenny Lind. — Captain West. — Custom House. — Landing — The Country. — Liverpool. — Mr. Martineau. — Birmingham. — Joseph Sturge. — Warwick Castle. — Stratford on Avon. .— Coventry 1

Chapter II

Nottingham. — Lincoln. — Newstead. — Hucknall. — Kenilworth. — London. — Barry Cornwall. — Westminster Abbey. — The City. — Mr. Cobden. — Hyde Park. — Houses of Parliament. — Lord Carlisle. — Mary Howitt. — Prorogation of Parliament. — The Queen. — Martin Tupper. — Miss Mitford 21

Chapter III

Newgate. — Model Prisons. — Mr. Dickens. — Walter Savage Landor. — Charles Kemble. — English Hospitality. — Mr. and Mrs. Hall. — M VI CONTENTS. Joseph Mazzini. — Albert Smith. — Zoological Gardens. — British Museum. — Windsor Castle. — Stafford House. — Bridgewater Gal lery.—Mr. Kingsley. — A Literary Party.— Astley's. — The Docks. — The Tower. — Greenwich. — The Opera. — Grisi. — Mario. — The Tomb of Milton, 4S

Chapter IV

Wales. — Irish Channel. — Dublin. — Cork. — Blarney Castle. — The Blarney Stone. — The Country. — The People. — Monks. own. — En Route for Killarney. — Glengariff. — A Character. — Killamey. — Excursions. — Ascent of Mangerton. — The dark-bearded Tourist. — Ross Castle. — " Paddy Blake." — The Shannon. — Limerick. — Dublin. — Sir Philip Crampton. — Model Prison. — Lunatic Asylum. — Donnybrook Fair. — Dublin Society 76

Chapter V

Wicklow. — Vale of Avoca. — Devil's Glen. — Valley of the Seven Churches. — St. Kevin. — Lough Bray. — Sir Philip Crampton. — Giant's Causeway. — Castle of Dunluce. — North of Ireland. — Belfast. — Lough Neagh. — Eeligious and Political Questions. — Anecdote 101

Chapter VI

Ayr. — Alloway. — The Birthplace of Burns. — Tho Monument. — Mrs. Begg. — Glasgow. — Loch Long. — Loch Goil. — Inverary. — Tarbet. — Ascent of Ben Lomond. — Loch Lomond. — Loch Katrine. Stirling. — Edinburgh. — Holyrood. — Melrose. — Abbotsford. — Dry- CONTENTS. VII burgh.— Newcastle upon Tyne. — York. — The Minster. — London. — Hampton Court, Ug

Chapter VII

Paris — The Louvre. — The Madeleine. — Place de la Concorde. — Chapel of St. Ferdinand. — Neuilly. — Hotel des Invalides. — Tomb of Napoleon. — Notre Dame. — Pere La Chaise. — Versailles. — Avignon — Papal Palace. — Inquisition, — Pont de Gard. — Vaucluse. — Marseilles. — Voyage to Genoa. — Genoa. — Cornice Eoad. — Pisa. — Voyage from Leghorn to Civita Vecchia. — Kome. — The Coliseum. — The Catacombs. — Tomb of Cecilia Metella. — Appian Way. — Baths of Caracalla.— Columbaria. — Capitol. —Via Sacra, . 141

Chapter VIII

St. Peter's. — Statues. — Sistine Chapel. — High Mass. — The Pope. — Aspect of the City. — Of the People. — Peasants. — Beggars. — Soldiers.— Priests. — Works of Art. — The Apollo. — The Dying Gladiator. —The Cenci. — Villa Borghese. — Tivoli. — A6cent of St. Peter's. — The Coliseum by Moonlight. — The English Burying Ground. — Graves of Keats and Shelley. — A Religious Procession. — Albano. — A Ride on the Campagna 1G9

Chapter IX

Christmas and New Year's Ceremonies. — The Holy Cradle. — High Mass at St. Peter's. — The Pope. — Cardinal Antinelli. — Te Deum at the Gesu. — Jewish Synagogue. — The Campagna. — Doria and contents. Corsini Palaces. — Portrait of Lucrezia Borgia. — Monastery of St. Onofrio.— Tomb of Tasso. — Propagandist CoUege. —Art.— Modern Artists. — Overbeck. — Tenerani. — Steinhauser. — Gibson. — Miss „ 195 Hosmer

Chapter X

American Artists. — Crawford. — His Washington Monument.— Mr. Story. — Mr. Greenough. — Mr. Mozier. — Mr. Page. — Blessing of the Beasts.— The Carnival. — Races. — The Mocoli.— Ball.— Roman Nobility. — King of Bavaria. — Meeting the Pope. — Veii.— Storms 219

Chapter XI

Washington's Birthday. — The Emeute at Milan. — Italian Freedom. — The Papal Supremacy. — Beggars. — Models. — Tableaux Vivants. — Guido's Aurora. —The Colonna. — The Quirinal. — Drive on the Appian Way.— -Peasant Boys. — Cardinals' Receptions. — The Spring Time in Italy. — Character of the Italians, political and religious. — Ceremony at St. Peter's. — High Mass at the Sistine, 243 77,

Chapter XII

A Gallop on the Campagna. — The Church of the Cappuccini. — The under-ground Cemetery. — Visit to the Galleries of the Vatican by Torchlight. — Holy Week. — Palm Sunday. — The Miserere in the Sistine Chapel. — Sceno at the Entrance. — The Ceremonies of Holy Thursday. —The Crowd and Crush. — The Pope waits upon the Apoacontents. IX ties at the Table. — Miserere in St. Peter's. — Washing the Al tar, and Exhibition of the Relics. — Scene at the Trinita dei Pellegrini 264

Chapter XIII

Holy Friday. — The Scala Santa, at St. John Lateran. — The Three Hours' Agony. — Miserere in the Choral Chapel . — Ceremony of Baptism at St. John Lateran. — The Benediction ofthe Pope. — The Hlumination of St. Peter's. — Fireworks on the Pincio. — Fair at Grotta Ferrata. — Peasants. — Costumes. — Frascati. — The Tomb of Charles Edward. — A Donkey Ride to ancient Tusculum. — Spada Palace. — Statue of Pompey, 290

Chapter XIV

Last Days in Rome. — Set out for Naples. — The Pontine Marshes. — Terracina. — Mola di Gaeta. — St. Agata. — Capua. — Vesuvius. — Neapolitan Beggars. — Naples. — A Row on the Bay. — The Museum. — Herculaneum. — Pompeii. — Salerno. — Pæstum. — Amalfi. — La Luna. — The " Tarantella." — Sorrento. — Unfortunate Trip to Capri. —Return to Naples 308

Chapter XV

Ascent of Vesuvius. — Museum. — Group of the Farnese Bull. — Bronzes from Herculaneum. — Pompeian Curiosities. — Virgil's Tomb. — Grotto of Posilippo. — Pozzuoli. — Lake Avernus. — Cuma. — Baia. — Temple of Mercury. — Lake Fusaro, the ancient Styx. — contents. X The Elysian Fields. — Baths of Nero. — Grotto of the Sibyl. — Beg gars. — Festa of San Gennaro. — The Miracle. — The Lazzaroni. — The Churches of Naples. — Grotta del Cane. — Aspect of Naples. — The Solfatara. — Last Visit to tho Museum. — The Balbus Family. — Pompeian Works of Art.— Tho Catacombs. — The New Cemetery. — The Pits. — A Drive through the Haunts of the Lazzaroni. — The Prisons, 332

Chapter XVI

Voyage to Leghorn. — Leghorn. — Florence. — The Uffizi. — The Tribune. — The Venus de Medici. — The Fornarina. — The Pitti Palace. — Fiesole. — House of Michael Angelo. — Dante's Stone. — The Cascini. — Charles Lever. — Mr. and Mrs. Browning. — Hiram Powers, his Studio. — Group of the Niobe. — The Grand Duke. — The Santa Croce. — The Mcdicean Chapel. — Michael Angelo's monumental Groups. — Last Drive in the Cascini. — Adieu to Florence. — Journey through Tuscany. — Bologna Gallery. — Ferrara. — Cathedral. — The Castle. — Cells of Ugo and Parisina. — Prison of Tasso. — House of Ariosto. — An Adventure at the Custom House. — Padua, its Clocks and Sights, 352

Chapter XVII

Arrival at Venice. — The grand Canal. — The Square of St. Mark, the Church. — Palace of the Doges. — The Dungeons. — Bridge of Sighs. — Academy of Fine Arts. — Titian's great Works. — The Churches of Venice. — Evening in the Piazza. — The Manfrini Palace. — Byron's Palace. — Venice by Moonlight. — The Rialto. — The Arsenal. — Thc Armenian Convent. — The Gondola. — Festa of Corcontents. XI pus Domine. — Hospital of San Servolo. — The Civil Hospital and Madhouse. — Sequel of the Adventure of Santa Maria Maddalena. — Verona. — House of Juliet. — Milan. — Cathedral. — Chapel of San Carlo. — The Brera. — The Biblioteca Ambrosiana. — Lock of Luerezia Borgia's Hair. — Theatre. — Condition of Milan. — Air of the People. — Austrian and Hungarian Troops. — Public Drives and Promenades, 372

Chapter XVIII

Lake Maggiore. — Isola Bella. — Sanctuario of the Virgin. — Lake Como. — Villa D'Este. — The Pliniana. — Prince Belgioso. — Pasta's Cottage. — Taglioni's. — Churches. — Bornieo. ■ — Ascent of the Alps. — Pass cf the Stelvio. — The Ortler Spitz. — Glaciers. — Mais. — The Tyrol. — Pass of the Finstermunz. — A Shooting Match. — Costumes and Manners of the Tyrolese Peasants. — Innsbruck and its Sights. — Tagernsee. — Floods. — Women working in thc Fields. — Munich. — The Royal Palace. — Pictures. — Lola Montes. — Galleries and*" Churches. — Colossal Statue of Bavaria. — The Opera. — The King and Queen, 401

Chapter XIX

Strasbourg, the Cathedral. — Paris. — Annual Exhibition of Painting and Sculpture. — The Emperor and Empress. — Abdcl K*fder. — London. — A Tale of a Hat. — Frederic Freiligrath. — Sir Henry Bishop. — Mr. and Mrs. S. C. Hall. — Runnymcad. — The Camp at Chobham. — Pontooning at Virginia Water. — Conversazione at the Lord Mayor's. — Distinguished Guests. — contents. The Duchess of Sutherland. — Crystal Palace at Sydenham. — Ascent of St. Paul's. — Consumption Hospital. — German Play. — Emil Devrient. —A Farewell Visit to Kossuth. — Mazzini. — 423 Adieux,

Chapter I

The Voyage out. — Jenny Lind. — Captain West. — Custom House. — Landing. — The Country. — Liverpool. — Me.. Martineau. — Birmingham. — Joseph Sturge. — Waevyick Castle. — Stratford on Avon. — Coventry. Liverpool, June 10, 1852. The gallant steamer Atlantic, on which I came out pas senger, sailed from New York on Saturday, the 29 th of May, a sunny and quiet day. As Jenny Goldschmidt and her husband were on board, an immense concourse of people were assembled at the landing, on the docks and vessels near by, to see them off. They stood on the wheel house with Captain West, bowing, smiling, and waving their grateful farewell. As with a parting gun we bounded from the shore, the heart gave one last, wild, agonized throb for friends and home, then sunk into depths of dread unknown before. Yet that thronged and beautiful city, that magnificent harbor, white with countless sails, ploughed and overswept with busy life, was a glorious sight, seen even through tears.

As we approached Sandy Hook, the atmosphere grew hazy, and before we were out at sea we were enveloped in a dense fog, and obliged to come to anchor, where we remained some fifteen hours. We passed this time very pleasantly, in ex ploring the ship, chatting, writing letters to send back by the pilot, eating and sleeping. I awoke late the next morning, and found we were at sea in earnest. I remember very little more of that morning, except it be the incident of my finding out, as by instinct, the use of a queer little utensil of painted tin, a sort of elongated spittoon, which stood by my washstand. 1 Oi haps and mishaps op I performed my toilet as speedily as circumstances would allow, and hurried on deck, where I soon found myself quite well. The day was delicious beyond what words may tell.

The air was fresh, yet the sea tranquil, and the sunshine rich and warm. There seemed a sort of strife of beauty, a rival ship of brightness, between the heaven above and the waters below, and the soul of the gazer now went floating off on the green undulations of the waves, to where they seemed to break against the sky, or dreamed itself away into the fathomless blue, in a sort of quiet, wordless ecstasy — " the still luxury of delight." Then came on the night — our first night at sea. The wind had freshened, the sails were set, the ship shot through the gleaming waves, scattering the diamond spray from her prow, and the moon was over all. As it went up the sky, its course was marked by a long reach of tremulous radiance on the deep. It seemed to me like the love of the dear ones I had left, stretching out towards me.

But there came a yet higher thought — that such a path of brightness must have shone under the feet of Jesus when he " walked on the water" toward the perilled ship. Two pleasant days and nights followed, during which many agreeable acquaintances were formed among the passengers. My seat at table was on the left of Captain West, and oppo site the Goldschmidts. Otto Goldschmidt, husband of Jenny Lind, impressed me, not only as a man of genius, but of rare refinement and nobility of character. He is small, and deli cately formed, but his head is a remarkably fine one, his face beautiful in the best sense of the term. He is fair, with hair of a dark, golden hue, soft, brown eyes, thoughtful even to sadness. I have never seen a brow more pure and spiritual than his. Yet, for all its softness and youthfulness, Mr. Gold schmidt's face is by no means wanting in dignity 'and manli ness of expression.

There is a maturity of thought, a calm strength of character, a self-poise about him, which impress you more and more. The pure and graceful Greek column makes no solid or de fiant show of strength, like the unchiselled stone or the jagged rock, yet it may be as strong in its beauty and perfect propor tions, and were decidedly pleasantcr to lean against. I believe that Jenny Lind in her marriage followed not alone the im pulses of her woman's heart, but obeyed the higher instincts of her poetic and artistic nature. For the first few days of our voyage, she seemed singularly shy and reserved. I have seen her sit hour after hour by her self, in some unfrequented part of the vessel, looking out over the sea. I often wondered if her thoughts were then busy with the memories of her glorious career — if she were living over her past triumphs, the countless times when the cold quiet of the highest heaven of fashion broke into thunders of acclamation above her, and came down in a rain of flowers at her feet.

Was it of those perishable wreaths, placed on her brow amid the glare and tumult of the great world, she mused — or of that later crowning of her womanhood, when softly and silently her brow received from God's own hand tlie chrism of a holy and enduring love ? Was it the happy, loving wife, or the great, world-renowned artiste, who dreamed there alone, looking out over the sea ? On Wednesday, our last really bright day, I espied a spent butterfly fluttering its brilliant wings on one of the ship's spars. It had been blown all that distance, the captain said. I could hardly have been more surprised if the spar on which it had lit had blossomed before my eyes. This day and the one following, many of the gentlemen and some of the ladies amused themselves with the game of " shuffleboard." We had among the passengers three right reverend bishops, one of whom joined heartily in this play.

I was amused by tbe style of address used toward him occasionally. " Now, bishop, it's your turn ! " " Go ahead, bishop ! " I think it were scarcely possible for a ship to take out a finer set of passengers than we had. Intelligent, agreeable, kindly, all seemed striving for the general enjoyment; and had the elements continued propitious, the entire voyage would have seemed like a pleasant social party, " long drawn out." On Thursday, woe's the day ! we were off the banks of Newfoundland — the fogs became chill and heavy, and towards night the sea grew rough. The next morning I found it quite impossible for me to remain on deck, even with overshoes, blankets, and shawls. The wind from the region of snows cut to one's very bones. It brought to mind strange pictures of se.als crawling from iceberg to iceberg, and of young polar bears diverting themselves by sliding down ice precipices three hun dred feet high.

I sought the saloon in despair, where, as wind and sea rose, and the ship lurched and rolled, I all too soon grew ready to admit our friend Horace Greeley to be the truest of sea prophets, the honestest of voyagers. A strange thing is this physical sympathy with elemental disturbance — the tumult without answered by "that which is most within us" — the surge and heave oceanic — the surge and heave stomachic and responsive — " deep calling unto d"ep." But we will not dwell on it. For three days and nights I was really a great sufferer, but I had plenty of companionship in my misery. Very few of the passengers escaped seasickness entirely, and many were very ill. Mr. Goldschmidt suffered severely ; his wife was not affected in the ordinary way, but underwent much from nervousness, restlessness, and fear.

Yet I saw the true love liness of her nature more than ever before. She went from one to another of the sick with a kind word and a sweet sad smile ; and for my part, I felt that such words and such smiles were not too dearly bought, eveu by a fit of seasickness. What lover could s.ay more ? My state room was too far aft for comfort ; I could not en dure it after the rough weather came on, but, day and night. occupied a sofa in the saloon, where, with blankets, cushions, and pillows, I was made as comfortable as circumstances would allow. I could not have had in my own father's house kinder or more constant attention, and a father could not have cared for me better than did Captain West. He more than answered my expectations — more than fulfilled the pledges and justified the praises of his friends.

A plain, honest, generous-hearted sailor, yet every inch a gentleman. I trust he will pardon, as I am sure that many, very many, will echo, my simple, involuntary expression of gratitude and esteem. On Tuesday morning, about ten o'clock, I was helped on deck to catch the first sight of land. The sea had " smoothed his wrinkled front," the wind had gone down somewhat, and the sun shone out fitfully. Every body was on deck — all, even the invalids, in high and eager spirits. At last the welcome cry was heard, and dimly through the mist was seen the high and rocky shore of Ireland — blessed old Ireland ! swate Ireland ! the gem of the sea ! No name seemed too fond or poetic to apply to it at that moment. Cape Clear for a long time belied its name ; but finally the fog lifted, and we saw coast, rocks, and lighthouses very distinctly.

The last dinner on board ship was very pleasant, though there were no speeches ; and Captain West, with character istic modesty, slipped out before his health could be proposed ; so we had no response from him. The approach to Liverpool has been often enough described. I will only say, that the shores, seen through a drizzling rain, and even the city, seen under a black cloud of coal smoke, were sights welcome and beautiful to my sea-wearied eyes. About twelve o'clock the custom-house officers came on board, and the examination of baggage commenced. Lady passengers, who had suffered throughout the voyage from a nervous dread of a stern official ransacking of carpet bags, 1* and from the belief that it is through much tribulation in the way of tumbled trunks and exposed nightcaps that we enter into the kingdom of Great Britain, were then most agreeably disappointed.

Trunks were opened indeed, but by no means a minute examination made of their contents. A sealed package lay on the top of my trunk. The officer politely asked me what this contained. " An American book," I an swered. " Will you tell me its title ? " " Uncle Tom's Cab in," I replied. " O, we will pass ' Uncle Tom's Log Cabin,' " he answered, laughing. The tide not allowing the Atlantic to go into the dock, we were landed by a small steamboat. We left our beautiful ship and noble captain with a feeling of regret, and all hands and voices joined in three hearty cheers for both. The expected arrival of Madame Goldschmidt — the peo ple's Jenny Lind forever — had assembled a large crowd, but the presence of a strong police force kept down all enthusiastic demonstration. On landing, Liverpool first struck me as differing from our seaport towns, in having a vastly greater number of docks, vessels, police officers, ragged boys, red-faced men, barefooted women, and donkey carts.

The Adelphi, the best house in Liverpool, does not compare with our first-class hotels, either for comfort or elegance. The attendants are respectful and kindly enough, but provokingly slow. They are eternally " coming." Woolton, June 14. From Liverpool I came here, where I have spent some days, quietly,. but most delightfully. « Eose Hill," the resi dence of Dr. M , in whose family I am visiting, is quite apart from the village of Woolton, and is certainly one of the loveliest places I have ever seen. The house is approached by a winding road, through a dense little forest of beautiful trees, is surrounded by highly-cultivated grounds, and over looks a wide and varied extent of country. 0, the glorious old trees, the beautiful green hedges, the gorgeous flowers of England ! What words of mine would have power to set them whispering, and waving, and gleaming before you ?

I never shall forget the effect wrought upon me by the sight of the first flowers I saw, born of the soil and blossomed by the airs of Old England. It may be thought strange, but the first tears I shed after my last parting with my friends at New York fell fast on the fragrant leaves, and glistened in the rich, red heart of an English rose. In some mysterious depths of association, beyond the soundings of thought, lay the source of those tears. I have had a wet welcome to the land of mists and showers. It has rained every day since my arrival, yet every day we have had some hours of beautiful sunshine, and the sweet freshness of the air compensates for the unseasonable coolness. Strange and delightful to me are the long English twilights. Thinkof the sun hanging on till nearly nine o'clock, like a pleasantly-entertained visitor, reluctant to retire.

The nights here are deliciously cool and quiet. Then, no one, without the actual experience, can imagine the luxurious rest and "sweet release" of one, who, after having been cribbed up in the narrow berth of a steamship for a dozen or more nights, may " spread The loosened limbs o'er a wide English bed." As for me, aster four days and nights' toilsome occupancy of a narrow sofa, without the advantage of previous " practice on a clothes' line," recommended by my friend E , I really could not sleep at first, for the pleasure of the change. I tried one soft pillow, then another, in the very daintiness of repose. I made sundry eccentric excursions, explorations of the vast extent of unoccupied territory around me. I measured the magnificent length and breadth of the elastic mattress beneath me, and wrapped myself regally in the lavender-scented linen.

Owing to my continued indisposition, and the rainy weath er, I have as yet seen httle of Liverpool and its environs. Tbe docks are the great pride of the city. Fancy more than seven miles of continuous docks filled with shipping. St. George's Hall, a new building, is said to be one of the finest in the world ; I certainly have never seen any thing handsomer. Many of the churches here are elegant and impos ing structures, but none more tasteful, quaintly, and quietly beautiful than the Hope Street Unitarian Chapel, where Mr. Martineau preaches. I brought letters to this gentleman, and on Saturday was at his house. I found him, in personal appearance, all I looked for. The pure, fervid, poetic spirit, and the earnest eloquence which adapt his waitings alike to the religious wants, the devotional sense, the imagination and the taste of his readers, all live in his look, and speak in his familiar tones.

He is somewhat slender in person, with a head not large, but compact and perfectly balanced. His perceptive organs are remarkably large, his brow is low and purely Greek, and his eyes are of a deep, changeful blue. There is much quietude in his face — native, rather than acquired, I should say — the repose of unconscious, rather than of conscious power. About his head, altogether there is a classical, chiselled look — the hair grows in a way to enchant an artist, and every feature of his face is finely and clearly cut. But the glow of the soul is all over. On Sunday morning I enjoyed a pleasure long hoped for and never to be forgotten, in hearing him preach one of those wonderful discourses in which his free but reverent spirit seems to sound the profoundest depths of the human soul to unveil the most solemn mysteries of being, and to reach those divine heights to which few have attained since Paul and John were caught up and rapt away from earth, in holy visions and heavenly trances.

We dined and spent the night yesterday at Seaforth Hall, an elegant seaside residence, belonging to a wealthy manufac turer of Liverpool. Here. I saw a pleasant water view, lofty rooms, beautiful conservatories and hothouses, pictures, and statuary ; and, what was better, very agreeable people, and genuine English hospitality. As far as the style of living and manners are concerned, I as yet have remarked little difference between Liverpool and Boston. Edgbaston, Birmingham, June 17. I left Liverpool on an afternoon of unusu<al brightness, but plunged immediately into a young night, in the shape of the longest tunnel I ever passed through. They tell me it is scarcely noticeable, compared with one between this place and London; but it will do to begin with. The English first class railway carriages are more luxurious than ours.

Sub stantially made, softly-cushioned and curtained, nothing can surpass them for comfort ; while they have a John Bull ex clusiveness about them, each carriage being calculated for six passengers, and no more. So rapid is tbe rate at which they run, and so smooth the rail below, such an absence is there of noise and dust, that it is even difficult to believe we are going at all. When I closed my eyes on the scene, I was really bewildered; but when I looked out on the whirling landscape, I was forced to the conclusion that either the trees and hedges were having a grand gallopade, a furious coun try dance together, and, what was more unlikely, venerable churches were recreating themselves with a wild steeple chase, or that we were under glorious headway. The country between Liverpool and Birmingham, as far as my dizzied sight would allow me to judge, seemed flat and HArS AND MISHAPS OF uninteresting.

But the glory of a most luxuriant summer greenness and bloom is over it all. A peculiar and constant joy to me is in remarking how every where the simplest cottages of the common people are built and adorned with taste, and kept with the utmost neat ness and care. Many of them are exquisite miniatures of the residences of the rich — with sweet little lawns, and flower plots, like children's playgrounds, diminutive hedges, tiny trellises, and gravel walks scarcely a foot wide. My friend Mr. Sturge met me at the Birmingham station, and drove me out to his place at Edgbaston. It rained hard, and the twilight was deepening, when I arrived : but I was received into the warmth and light of a pleasant little drawing room, opening into a conservatory of beautiful bright flowers. I was met with sweet words, and sweeter smiles of welcome, by the lovely young wife of Joseph Sturge, and by his fair children — quaint, Quaker specimens of child beauty, which is found in its rosy perfection in "merrie England."

I felt thoroughly at home and at rest from the first ; and then, that very night, after I had retired to my room, there was sent to me, all unexpectedly, a package of letters from America ! It were impossible for one to conceive, as for me to describe, my emotion on beholding these. I actually grew faint with excess of joy ; and aster having come safely over the salt seas, there was danger of their being rendered ille°i ble by a briny greeting on shore. And yet, I had been parted from the writers but seventeen days. Ah ! the poet is entirely correct — " Time is not of years." Mr. Sturge's place is retired, modest, and unpretending in every way, but very lovely. The smooth, closely-cut lawns are a perpetual pleasure to my eye ; next come the hedges, the ivies, the honeysuckles, the hollies, and glossy-leaved laurels.