ards the elder country. Harry Warrington had his chart laid out.
Before London, and its glorious temples of St. Paul's and St. Peter's;
its grim Tower, where the brave and loyal had shed their blood, from
Wallace down to Balmerino and Kilmarnock, pitied by gentle hearts;
before the awful window of Whitehall, whence the martyr Charles
had issued, to kneel once more, and then ascend to Heaven;--before
Playhouses, Parks, and Palaces, wondrous resorts of wit, pleasure, and
splendour;--before Shakspeare's Resting-place under the tall spire which
rises by Avon, amidst the sweet Warwickshire pastures;--before Derby,
and Falkirk, and Culloden, where the cause of honour and loyalty had
fallen, it might be to rise no more:--before all these points of their
pilgrimage there was one which the young Virginian brothers held even
more sacred, and that was the home of their family,--that old Castlewood
in Hampshire, about which their parents had talked so fondly. From
Bristol to Bath, from Bath to Salisbury, to Winchester, to Hexton, to
Home; they knew the way, and had mapped the journey many and many a
time.

We must fancy our American traveller to be a handsome young fellow,
whose suit of sables only made him look the more interesting. The plump
landlady from her bar, surrounded by her china and punch-bowls, and
stout gilded bottles of strong waters, and glittering rows of silver
flagons, looked kindly after the young gentleman as he passed through
the inn-hall from his post-chaise, and the obsequious chamberlain bowed
him upstairs to the Rose or the Dolphin. The trim chambermaid dropped
her best curtsey for his fee, and Gumbo, in the inn-kitchen, where the
townsfolk drank their mug of ale by the great fire, bragged of his young
master's splendid house in Virginia, and of the immense wealth to which
he was heir. The postchaise whirled the traveller through the most
delightful home-scenery his eyes had ever lighted on. If English
landscape is pleasant to the American of the present day, who must needs
contrast the rich woods and glowing pastures, and picturesque ancient
villages of the old country with the rough aspect of his own, how much
pleasanter must Harry Warrington's course have been, whose journeys had
lain through swamps and forest solitudes from one Virginian ordinary
to another log-house at the end of the day's route, and who now lighted
suddenly upon the busy, happy, splendid scene of English summer? And the
highroad, a hu