BEMERTON—WINCHESTER—READING—NEWBURY.

In sight of Salisbury Cathedral, and but two miles away, is Bemerton, an ideal spot, combining those qualities that go to make up one of the best specimens of a rural hamlet of Old England,—clean roads, well built walls, highly cultivated land, beautiful trees, grounds with no evidences of poverty or want. A spot that does not appear to have been at all interfered with by any outside trouble, is this little municipality; and how fit a place for "Holy George Herbert" to live and die in. Whoever remembers the hymn beginning,

Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright,
The bridal of the earth and sky,

will wish to see the place of the author's labors and final repose. He died here in 1632. Charles I. gave him the living; but only for the two years before his death was he rector of the parish. We rode down a quiet lane, and on the left found the miniature church, the smallest we had ever seen. We didn't measure it, but thought it to be about seventeen feet wide, forty feet long, including the chancel, and not more than ten feet high to the eaves. It is built of stone, with a moderately high roof, covered with old reddish tiles. Of Gothic architecture, it had a modest belfrey, a chancel at the east end, with a colored-glass east window, and all the altar appliances of a miniature church. It is built with its side to the lane, only a few feet back, with an entrance through a porch. There are two windows on each side. There are no pews, but the floor is partly occupied with high-backed, flag-bottomed chairs, of which there is room for but three on each side of the aisle. About the building is an old burial-ground, where "the rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep."

Here the sweet spirit of Herbert was at home; here from choice he did his work. "Having served his generation, by the will of God he fell on sleep," and beneath the altar his ashes repose. To this spot pilgrimages were made by distinguished men in the days of his rectorship, for he was one of the few not without honor in his own country. Sir Henry Wotton, Lord Bacon, Dr. John Donne,—the poet and Dean of St. Paul's at London, who died the year before Herbert,—these were among the companions who received inspiration from the humble rector of this little church. Honest Isaac Walton could not rest till he had written a biography of him, though it was not published till 1670, more than a third of a century after the good rector's decease.

How choice a place is the Bemerton parsonage. If holy ground anywhere exists, this spot has indisputable claims to the title. Across the road, not more than thirty feet away, is the house in which Herbert lived, much in its old condition, though somewhat enlarged. Humble and unpretentious, it is still the Bemerton parsonage, and occupied by Rev. Mr. Piggot, the present rector. The house is a story and a half high, standing sidewise to the road, and parallel to the church, which might be its twin. Mr. Piggot, a gentleman of means and taste, was absent; but with extreme courtesy his man-servant met us at the door, and cheerfully showed us over the house, especially into the study which makes it historic. The efforts he made for our pleasure, the permission granted us to walk at will over the old garden, indicated the present incumbent as one who would do honor to the memory of the sweet singer of that Israel. How charming that Eden! Walks and lawns are as they were in Herbert's day. There is the medlar tree he planted, now more than two hundred and fifty years old,—decrepit, and supported by props. The trunk, six or eight inches in diameter, is protected by thin metal plates, and cared for like an invalid or a pet child. It yet bears a little fruit, and is a living link between the centuries, bridging over the long chasm from George Herbert to ourselves. The little River Avon, at the rear of the garden and washing its banks, still runs as it did then, and every foot of the acre is sacred. In the immediate rear of the old house, opposite from the river, perhaps two hundred feet away, is a beautiful lawn. Vines climb the housewalls and flowering shrubs complete the picture. Inside the house, works of vertu and evidences of scholarly life abound. All is befitting to the dear memory of Herbert. Exquisite is the beauty of the road, and perfect the shade of the overhanging trees. What a charm seemed to permeate everything!

"Take it for all in all,

We shall not look upon its like again."

Carrying with us better influences than had come from the hills and on the great plain of Sarum and Stonehenge, we bade Bemerton farewell. Passing through Fisherton, a suburban village of Salisbury,—like Bemerton, watered by the Avon,—we reached Salisbury at noon, and at two o'clock took a train for

WINCHESTER,

where we arrived at four. This is historically of remarkable interest, and may be named as one of the few places the tourist cannot afford to miss. It is built mostly of brick, contains 16,336 inhabitants, and is pleasantly situated on the River Itchen, which, though not itself navigable, is used as a canal to the sea. While the buildings have a modern look, and especially the shop windows, one cannot walk far before he feels that he is in one of the old places of England. This was an important place in the days of the Britons, and the Romans are supposed to have built its walls. In the year 519 Cerdic, the Saxon chief, captured and made it the seat of government. Under the Danes it became the capital of England, and so remained till after the reign of Henry II., who died in 1189. It was at the height of its glory in the reign of Henry I., who died in 1135, but in the time of Henry VI. it had materially declined. He is believed to have been killed in the Tower at London, a. d. 1471.

Winchester was the principal residence of the sovereigns till the accession of George I., a. d. 1714. Henry III. was born here in 1207, and here Henry VIII. sumptuously entertained Charles V. In this place also Isaac Walton—author of the Complete Angler, and of celebrated biographies—was born Dec. 15, 1683. The atmosphere is surcharged with great events. Every foot of ground is classic, and in nearly every street may be found mementoes of something famous. We Americans, born and educated under new conditions, are poorly calculated to measure these ancient historic remains; yet by kindred and historic associations we are the very people to best get large and just impressions of England's worth.

At Worcester, Gloucester, Bath, Salisbury, we were richly entertained. At the mention of either place, memory is immediately roused to incidents crowding into reconsideration! Either of these places might take its position as chief! So now of grand old Winchester. How hard it is to write and not be intensely eulogistic. It has enough antiquity for a whole country. On one street is a monument commemorative of the plague of 1669. In the distance, a mile or so from the city, may be seen the hospital of St. Cross, founded in the reign of St. Stephen, who was crowned in 1135, and died 1154, nearly eight centuries ago. We come to the venerable St. Lawrence, the mother church of all in the city, into which each new bishop has, for a thousand years, made solemn entry when he took charge of the See.

At the time of the Reformation, there were ninety churches and chapels, besides monasteries where thousands, under a blind religious policy, were being supported at public expense; but the Reformation drove these drones from their seclusion, reduced the churches to but nine, broke up abbeys, and true progress began.

The city was formerly walled in, and had four gates, but all except the west gate have been removed; and that now stands sentinel-like in the midst of a commercial population, which all day, and late into the night, hurries through the old arch. Its durability, has apparently demanded few repairs.

For centuries upon centuries the chamber over it was the deposit for the national standards of weights and measures, as instituted under King Edgar, who died 975. Who has not heard of the Winchester Bushel? Nine hundred years old is the phrase, yet to-day the identical measures are in existence. We found that they had recently been removed from their long resting-place, to the museum of Guild Hall, a place of great interest. Our first request was to be shown the measures, and there before us was the famous bushel, resting on a low stand. It is of brass, or some similar composition, and dark bronze-like in appearance. We guessed it to be nearly a quarter of an inch thick, and, lifting it, found it to be quite heavy, weighing perhaps thirty pounds. It is in form like a shallow kettle, some sixteen inches in diameter, and eight inches deep, with straight sides, well rounded lower corners, the bottom slightly concave; it rests on three small feet, and has stiff pitcher-like handles on each side. The metallic weights are round, and deep as compared to their diameters. They are various in form and decoration, having been altered under different administrations. The measures of length are brass. All these relics are kept in glass cases.

In this museum are other rare antiques, among them exhumed Roman pottery, ancient proclamations, and rare documents,—among which was one relating to the practice of touching for cure of King's Evil, or scrofula. After reciting cures wrought, and the public press on the occasion, it makes proclamation of rules governing the operation, and naming certain times as set apart for the king's visit and work.

Next, we visit the banqueting-hall of the ancient castle, in which the first parliaments of England were held. While the building has been remodelled and extended, for judicial uses, this hall remains unchanged. It is elaborately finished in oak, which is now like ebony in appearance. The room is, perhaps, one hundred and twenty feet long, fifty feet wide, and forty feet high.

At one end, lying flat against the wall, some twenty feet from the floor, is the Round Table of King Arthur, who must have reigned as early as a. d. 525. Much as we dislike to spoil good stories, we ought to say that doubt exists whether this personage ever lived, for the balance is in favor of the theory that the entire story of King Arthur and his knights is only an English legend; but here is the table, and the only one that claims to be genuine. It appears like a dial,—a round wooden tablet, three inches thick, and eighteen feet in diameter. At the centre is a circle, some two feet in diameter, in which is painted a flower. From this lines radiate to the circumference, making twenty-four divisions. In one of them is a portrait of King Arthur; the other divisions are alternately white and green.

Not far from this hall was the palace, built for Charles II.,—a tame structure of light-reddish stone, three stories high, and of Italian architecture. The old courtyard is now a gravelled parade-ground, and the palace is used for barracks:—

"To what base uses we may yet return."

The music and revelry of the festive board, conspicuous in which perhaps was the fascinating voice of Nell Gwynn, are now supplanted by the notes of the ear-piercing fife and startling bugle, the clatter of arms and the beat of the drum. The courtly king is two hundred years dead. New people walk these grounds, few ever giving thought to the fact that here the highest of the land once dwelt.

"The cathedral," says the reader, "what of that?" Of course it had an early visit, the first hour after our arrival, and it lives in most pleasant recollection. We have said understandingly what has been written of cathedrals before. We have needed all the adjectives of the language, but at times have felt the poverty of words to express our meaning when a cathedral was under consideration.

Winchester Cathedral! How futile will be the attempt to speak worthily of it; but the reader should have some facts concerning it. The longest of all the twenty-nine cathedrals, it has the finest nave in the kingdom, and a history of more than nine hundred years. It is another of the architectural wonders of Great Britain. The lawn and great trees furnish a befitting environment, and a genuine cathedral atmosphere envelops the venerable ecclesiastical residences near by. The ruins of the monastery and abbey lend their charm, and the grand cathedral stands solemn and majestic in their midst. Founded in 648, in 980 the stones were refashioned into their present forms, which have continued to this day. Centuries have now passed since all was complete; and save for the repair of a crumbling stone, or a restoration of some portions to original conditions, nothing needs to be done. It is 527 feet in length, seven more than Quincy Market in our Boston, and 186 feet wide at the transepts. The low demure-looking tower, only 26 feet taller than the roof, is 130 feet high. In color, it is much like Salisbury Cathedral,—a dark indistinct gray, with thin moss-patches. Parts of the exterior are very rich in decoration, and a feeling akin to admiration is inspired as one gazes at the turreted walls. We enter the nave. This part was built under the administration of William of Wykeham, who was also the architect. He was made bishop of the See in 1366, and died in 1404. It is imposing in its proportions; and simple, though gracefully elegant, is the decoration of columns, arches, and ceiling. White throughout as new-fallen snow, every moulding and carving is of such admirable size as to be clear and distinct in outline. The interior is more than one hundred feet high. The light is solemnly toned down, and everywhere there is an impression of vastness. And how can pen or tongue adequately picture the great reredos, the strange monuments, and the countless mementoes of departed worth? Again comes the impression, this is the cathedral.

Here sleeps Isaac Walton. Wood, the historian, says of him: "In his last years he lived mostly in families of eminent clergymen of England, of whom he was much beloved." Dec. 15, 1683, at the age of ninety, he died in Winchester, at the residence of his son-in-law. Who that reads his "Complete Angler, or the Contemplative Man's Recreation," does not admire the sweet temper and good sense, the cheerful disposition and honest purpose of the old saint, enthusiastic in his devotion to his pastime and calling? Nature and his spirit were in remarkable harmony. A large flat stone tells us that here his dust was deposited nearly three centuries ago, but the bookstores of England and America prove that, like the great Webster, he still lives.

"So works the man of just renown,
On men when centuries have flown;
For what a good man would attain,
The narrow bounds of life restrain;
And this the balm of Genius gives:
Man dies, but after death he lives."

On a marble pedestal reposes the effigy of Wykeham, once painted in gaudy colors,—perfect yet in every line of his benignant countenance, of his stole and his canonical robe. Beneath this monument has rested his revered dust for nearly five hundred years.

Forty-three years after the burial of the great bishop, on the 13th of April, 1447, the solemn stillness was disturbed by a procession to deposit the remains of Henry of Beaufort, the successor of Wykeham in 1404, afterward made cardinal of St. Eusebius, by Martin V. This is he of whom Shakespeare said, "He died and made no sign." How unlike John Knox, of whom Carlyle says: "When he lay a-dying it was asked of him, 'Hast thou hope?' He spake nothing, but raised his finger and pointed upward, and so he died."

Beaufort was a remarkable man. He was president of the court when Joan of Arc was on trial; by his countenance and aid she was sentenced to death. What influence this dust once had on kings! Out of Beaufort's vast cathedral revenues, $150,000 was advanced to his nephew, Henry V. To the infant Henry VI., who was brought up under his immediate care, he advanced $50,000. But we must not play the historian now, and only call attention to the fact that, in the play of Henry VI., Shakespeare represents him as dying in great remorse. As a redeeming quality be it said, that when spirit and body must part companionship, the good angel of charity took possession of him, and his great property went to works of charity. The hospital of St. Cross speaks for him more eloquently than monumental stone, or the chantry where he ministered in the great cathedral itself.

Here too is kingly dust, that of William II., son of the Conqueror,—William Rufus, as they called him, because of his red hair. Shot in the New Forest in the year 1100, by Walter Tyrrel, Lord of Poix, he died instantly, at the age of forty-four, and for 783 years his royal body has been mouldering here. But he is only one of many, for over each side range of the choir stalls are oak chests,—containing what? Records of the church or important papers of State? Jewels of deceased bishops, or their robes? No; but the mortal remains of Wessex and Saxon kings. Each chest is perhaps three feet long, eighteen inches square, and bears on its side the name of its occupant. These bones were once buried in the crypt, between the years 1126 and 1171, but were put into these chests by order of Bishop De Blow. Three hundred and eighty-four parishes pay their homage to the Bishop of Winchester. No See in all England is as rich in its revenues as this.

As we pass to other visits the thought comes that, like Newton, we have picked up but a few pebbles on a limitless shore. As the immortal Sumner said, "the description is, to the reality, as a farthing candle held up to the sun." At 12 m. we leave for the old city of Newbury, but on our way to take a look at

READING,

where we arrive May 10, after a pleasant ride of two hours. We found a modern city, more than usually American in general appearance. There are, however, examples of antiquity, and one learns that he is in no new place, but in one modernized from the old. There are 32,324 inhabitants. It is an important railroad and canal centre, and is noted for the manufacture of Reading Biscuits, even now to be found in the large stores of America. Before the days of Bond at Wilmington, Kennedy at Cambridgeport, and the Pearsons at Newburyport, these crackers were common in New England, and in fact all over the United States. Reading is a market for the sale of velvets, silks, and agricultural products and implements, and from it, large exportations are made. The seed-gardens and conservatories of Sutton & Sons are well known throughout Great Britain. On visiting their conservatories we saw the finest collection of calceolaries and primroses that we have ever seen, or ever expect to see. The air of England is especially adapted to the development of these plants, and the firm has made them a specialty. The finely shaded and wide avenues, and the large number of comfortable dwelling-houses with their gardens, and the general look of the business portions, fully reminded us of Worcester, Mass., though unlike the latter, it is built on level ground. Reading has three ancient parish churches, and a grammar school founded by Henry VIII.; also the remains of an abbey founded by Henry I., who died 1135. The ancient grounds now contain a fine public walk. Parliaments were held here as early as the thirteenth and fifteenth centuries, and so the place was notable as being frequently visited by kings and nobles.

An item of interest is that Archbishop Laud, the notorious persecutor of the Non-conformists, who was executed on Tower Hill, London, Jan. 10, 1645, was born here Oct. 7, 1573. One of his infamous deeds was to cause Dr. Leighton, a Presbyterian pastor of Scotland (the author, in 1628, of a book entitled "Sion's Plea against the Prelacy"), to be condemned to pay a fine of $50,000; be twice publicly whipped and pilloried in Cheapside, London; to have his ears cut off, his nostrils split open, and his cheeks branded S. S. (Sower of Sedition); and, in addition, to be imprisoned ten years in the Fleet Prison. This was an exceptional example of his cruelty, but even his mild rule was barbaric. He was the son of a wealthy clothier of Reading, and held offices as follows: President of St. John's College at Oxford, 1611, at the age of thirty-eight; Dean of Gloucester, 1616; Prebend of Westminster, 1620; Bishop of St. David's, 1621; Bishop of Bath and Wells, 1626; Bishop of London, 1628; Archbishop of Canterbury, 1633. A reaction in public sentiment took place. The cruelties of the church, instigated by him, had an effect similar to that of the Fugitive Slave Law in the United States. The poison carried with it an antidote. Immediately after the Long Parliament, he was impeached for high treason, and presently we find the archbishop of the realm languishing in the Tower. An imprisonment of three years followed before he was brought to wearisome trial, when he defended himself with distinguished ability, but received a sentence that, in the light of patient investigation, is pronounced unjust and illegal.

One can hardly read the history of these English towns, or walk through their streets, however modern they may appear, and not discover that he is in Old England and not in Young America. We carried away pleasant memories of this place. The modernish brick and stone buildings, with their tiled roofs, many of them new and of a bright-red color; the Avon Canal, with its slowly moving Bristol boats; the sluggish rivers Thames and Kennet, affording avenues of transportation like our great railways,—all conspired to make us think of home; but St. Mary's Church, half a thousand years old, with Norman columns and arches on one side of the nave, and Early English on the other,—with its neat and quaint burial-ground about it,—made us realize anew that we were yet in Old England.

At 4.30 p. m. we took train for Newbury. There was never a more desirable country to ride over, or a more delightful season at which to see England to best advantage. What our country shows at this season of the year is here also to be seen.

A general absence of fruit-trees is painfully apparent. A small part of the land only is devoted to cultivated crops. Grass prevails. Beef, mutton, and dairy products absorb the attention. No modern buildings of any kind are to be seen. In the cities are red-tiled roofs, while a few are slated; but thatched roofs abound in the country. The surface of the land is undulating. General comfort prevails; and the impression is that in his way, the English farmer is working to his own advantage and is satisfied. He has no fences to keep in repair,—only hedges as land divisions. When we saw cattle and horses, and even sheep, restrained by these often apparently thin barriers, we got the impression that the animals were more easily managed than are ours in America. It is possible they inherit these traits of obedience. It may be that the long training of their sires and dams has made their offspring tractable also, for like begets like, the world over.

NEWBURY.

This is aside from the main road between Reading and London, and is reached by a short passage over the Hungerford branch. On arrival we went immediately to the Jack House tavern. The present building is a part of the dwelling-house once owned and occupied by the famous Jack of Newbury, who figured in English history. He was a celebrated clothier, or cloth manufacturer, and born at Winchcomb, in Gloucestershire, about 1470. On a slab, in the floor of the parish church of St. Nicholas, are brass effigies and the following inscription:—

Off yo charitie pray for the soule of John
Smalwade, alias Winchcom,
And Alys his wife. John Dydd the XV day
of February mcccccxix.

He espoused the cause of Henry VIII., and at his own expense equipped 200 men and sent them towards Flodden Field. When the company arrived at Stoney Stratford they were met and reviewed by Queen Catharine, who complimented them in the highest terms; but immediately news came from the Earl of Surrey that the soldiers might be dismissed, for a victory had been gained over the Scots, whose king had been slain in battle. Jack was much disappointed, but his feelings were relieved by the promise of a visit from his Majesty, which was made at a later day. We are told that he much enjoyed "showing the king his factory, and that the floor of the room wherein the banquet was held was covered with broadcloth instead of rushes." Jack was very generous, and did much for the poor and for public institutions. The tower of the church, and a large part of its nave, were paid for by him.

In the year 1811 an extraordinary feat was accomplished here. Two sheep were sheared; the wool was carded, spun, warped, loomed, and woven; the cloth was burred, milled, dyed, dried, sheared, and pressed; a coat was made by White of Newbury, and worn by Sir J. Throgmorton, in the presence of five thousand spectators,—all within thirteen hours and twenty minutes. The widow of Mr. Coxter, who had charge of the exploit, completed her one hundredth year, January 1, 1875.

Another important personage here was Rev. Dr. Twiss, rector of St. Nicholas. He was the presiding officer, or prolocutor, of the Assembly of divines at Westminster, when the famous catechisms were compiled, though they were not adopted till after his death. The Larger Cathechism was sent to the House of Commons, October 22, 1647, and the Shorter on November 25 of the same year; but for some reason they were not adopted till July, 1648, two hundred and thirty-five years ago. The shorter catechism soon found its way to New England, and was printed in the New England Primer,—a little educational, but somewhat proselyting work, asserting that "In Adam's fall, we sinnÈd all." It became the principal instruction book in New England families and in some of the public schools. In spite of its old and heavy theology, it was the most comprehensive schoolbook then published, and, with all the light and advance of the nineteenth century, has never been excelled. The hot-house system of cramming was not then known; but this concise handbook, well understood, did a masterly work which we can never expect to see excelled, till the child is treated as a human being, and tasks not exacted (irrespective of intellectual capacities) at which parents and teachers would themselves rebel.

Speaking of students,—Mr. Benjamin Woodbridge, of our American Newbury, Mass., the first graduate of Harvard College, went to Newbury, England, and became rector of St. Nicholas, after the death of the celebrated Dr. Twiss, so that our town has double honors. Mr. Woodbridge remained rector more than twenty years,—a learned and eloquent preacher,—till at last, in consequence of his strongly non-conformist doctrines, imbibed partly in New England, he was driven from his pulpit, and suffered great persecution. After this he was an independent preacher for twenty years, and died at the age of sixty-two, in the year 1685. In spite of his doctrines he was buried with honor in the church where he so long ministered. Speaking of him in connection with Harvard College, Cotton Mather says: "He was the leader of the whole company and ... a star of the first magnitude in his constellation." And the historian Calamy says: "He was a great man every way, ... the first graduate of the college, ... the lasting glory as well as the first fruits of the Academy."

Rev. John Cotton, one of the earliest pastors of the First Church in Boston, dying in 1652, was, at the time he left England for America (and had been for twenty years before) the Vicar of St. Botolph's, the great parish church of Boston, England,—a fact that gave our Boston its name. Woodbridge was the personal friend of Cotton, and wrote the following epitaph on the latter's tombstone; and this doubtless suggested to Benjamin Franklin the celebrated epitaph he prepared for himself.

A Living Breathing Bible; Tables where
Both Covenants, at Large, engraven were;
Gospel and Law, in 's Heart, had Each its Column;
His Head an Index to the Sacred volume;
His very name a Title Page; and next,
His life a Commentary on the Text.
O What a Monument of Glorious Worth,
When in a New Edition, he comes forth,
Without Erratas may we think he'l be
In Leaves and Covers of Eternity!

The town is situated on the River Kennet, which runs through the centre of the business part, and is crossed by a single-arched stone bridge. There are 6,602 inhabitants. It has but few streets, which are well paved, but quiet lanes abound. There is picturesqueness everywhere, and especially in the vicinity of the old St. Nicholas Church, where the grouping of roads, river, canal, meadows, trees, peculiar buildings, produce an effect seldom excelled. The Lombardy poplar is conspicuous, as it often is in these landscapes.

One place of note is Donnington Castle, once the home of the poet Chaucer, to which he retired in 1397. As he died Oct. 25, 1400, this was probably his residence at the time of his decease. The Shaw House, completed in 1581, an elegant structure in the Elizabethan style of architecture, is still standing, with its ample grounds, now as it was nearly three hundred years ago. It was the headquarters of Cromwell during his campaign in the neighborhood, battles being fought here in 1643 and 1644.

A couple of curious incidents are connected with the parish church of St. Nicholas. Some hundreds of years ago a person bequeathed a sum of money, the income to be used for purchasing bread for the poor. While we were in the church on Saturday, the baker brought the lot for distribution on Sunday; and on the morrow, during service, the new bread being piled on a table in the great room, the fragrance of this charity, like sweet incense, permeated the place. The work will continue preaching about "the bread of life" and the practical part of Christianity. This custom is not peculiar to this church. We saw it in some of the old churches of London also, the glass case on the vestibule wall being filled on Saturday, to be delivered on the next day to the worthy poor.

A new rector had been installed over St. Nicholas parish the week before, and the secular paper stated that on the arrival of the incumbent in the city the church bells were rung. On Saturday before the Sunday when he preached his first sermon, he (according to old custom) entered the church, locked the door, rang the large bell, and then unlocked the door and let in the vestrymen, delivering the key to them, and they in turn to the sexton. On the following day, Sunday, he formally read and subscribed to the Thirty-nine Articles. Whether he is to interpret them as would the Dean of Westminster, or the Archbishop of Canterbury, we are not able to say.

A few months ago, in making repairs to the chancel, some brass plates, or mural tablets, were found, which are now placed on the walls with others. Two of them read as follows:—

A memorial of my father, Mr. Hugh Shepleigh, sometimes Rector and Pastor of this Church and Town of Newbury, who was born at Prescott in Lancashire 1526 and bueried heere the third of maye 1596 aged 70 yeares.

Here lies the bodie of Francis Trenchard of Normantown in Coventie of Wilts Esquire, who departed this life the sixt of November 1635, leaving issue Elizabeth his only child.

Finally, a word concerning the old pulpit. It is of stone, octagonal in form, not very large or high, but of somewhat elaborate design. To protect it from injury in the time of Cromwell, the parish officers caused it to be whitewashed, thus making it appear to be a cheap affair and unworthy of attention. It remained in this condition till recently, when its true nature was accidentally discovered. Originally it was gilded in some parts, and painted in positive colors, as red, green, yellow. The wash has been removed, and it is now proposed to restore it to its former condition.

One attempts much when he begins to recite a few among the thousands of interesting facts connected with Old England. We have tried to be judicious, and are entitled to more credit for what we omit than for what we describe. Having gone down the western side of England (with regrets for having passed by Exeter and Wells, at both of which are cathedrals) we continue from the southern part northerly towards London, stopping by the way at Newbury and Reading. We at 10 a. m. on this same Sunday, having attended an early service at St. Nicholas's, take our start for the famed metropolis. Once more we rode over the Hungerford branch, back to

READING.

The day was warm. Probably the mercury stood at about 75 degrees. After a walk over the town we attended divine service. At 2 p. m. we were back in the station, waiting for the train. Having dined we had some time on our hands, and so we took out our notebook and wrote about what follows.

The sermon was extempore, though well thought out, and ingenious and unlooked-for in thought and expression. The elements of good preaching were there, but the theologic atmosphere was bad. There was too much East and too little West in it. The subject was the spies that went up to investigate the Canaan question. Most of the English preachers delight to talk about Moses, Caleb, and Jeremiah, forgetting, or not seeming to know, of men who have lived three thousand years later. It's easy to tell about what was, rather than to observe and investigate, and know what really is, and is surely to be. The best thing about this sermon was that the preacher discovered an inclination to look with leniency on opposing thinkers in the domain of theology, and to treat them as Christians. He didn't like the new ideas, but advised his hearers to accept the situation and trust that God would in time tire out the investigators, and so things would relapse into their ancient condition. He was oblivious that his Congregationalism was entirely indebted for its existence to the fact that, years ago, some people did the very thing he condemned, investigate theological questions and ascertain whether their "thus saith the Lord" was real or fancied,—that is to say, discover whether the interpretations of the Word were according to fact and true philosophy, or only traditional. The beam in his eyes disabled him from taking a mote from the eyes of others. He declared that the Israelites had the pillar of fire and the cloud, and so have we the Bible; but the propriety of investigating the true meaning of either was not to be tolerated.

At one o'clock we are just out of church. Have heard an old sermon in Old England,—a good one, however, of the kind. We go on our way rejoicing for many things, but not sorry that the long service is over, though sorry that in the light of the nineteenth-century thought, men of education, watchmen on the walls of Zion, do not better discern the signs of the times. We are, however, inclined to say with Ovid,—

Our bane and physic the same earth bestows,
And near the noisome nettle blooms the rose.

Our seat taken in the railway carriage, we are on our way to great London. We think over our roundabout way to the place, which most Americans reach the first or second day from Liverpool. A can't wait condition takes possession of them, and they hurry on. We landed at Queenstown twenty days ago. How long a time to get to London,—twice as long as a passage across the Atlantic Ocean! Yet what a vast experience in the three weeks! What sights we have seen, what thoughts conceived! What seeds of thought have been sown to bear fruit in the future! Into how many new channels has thought been turned! We ride in meditation thus over miles of this good country.