of the Pilgrims in 1620 and continued, with
little interruption, until our last great quarrel with her,
which ended with the arbitration at Geneva. Yet I am a passionate
lover of England. Before I ever went abroad, I longed to
visit the places famous in her history, as a child longs to
go home to his birthplace.

I have visited Europe six times. On each occasion I devoted
the largest part of my time to Great Britain. The desire
to see England again has increased with every visit. Certainly
there is nothing like England, and there never has been anything
like England in the world. Her wonderful history, her wonderful
literature, the beauty of her architecture, the historic and
poetic associations which cluster about every street and river
and mountain and valley, her vigorous life, the sweetness
and beauty of her women, the superb manhood of her men, her
navy, her gracious hospitality, her courage and her lofty
pride--although some single race of people may have excelled
here in a single particular--make up a combination never equalled
in the world. I am, of course, not to be understood to bring
my own country into the comparison.

The first time I went abroad was in 1860. I had for a companion
my friend from infancy, George M. Brooks, of Concord. We
travelled like a couple of Bohemians, never riding where we
could walk; lunching or dining where he happened to find ourselves
when we were hungry; taking second or third class carriages
on the railroads, and getting into conversation with anybody
who would talk to us. I doubt whether I shall ever have in
this world, or in another, a sensation more delicious than
that I had when the old steamer, "America," steamed up the
Channel toward the mouth of the Mersey, with the green shores
of Ireland on one side and England on the other. I am afraid
if I were to relate the story of that journey, it would be
only to please myself by reviving its recollections, and not
for the delight of my readers, so many of whom have a similar
memory of their own.

We heard John Bright and Lord John Russell and Lord Palmerston
in a great debate in the House of Commons on the paper duties,
and saw Lord Brougham walking backward and forward on the
terrace by Brougham Castle, near Penrith. We saw Edinburgh
and the Trosachs, and Abbotsford and Stirling. I had been
a loving reader of Scott from my childhood, and was almost
as much at home in Scotland as if I had been born in the Can