University of Virginia Library

43. CHAPTER XLIII.

Who that dwells in America has not heard of the bright
fields and green hedges of England, and longed to behold
them? Even so had it been with me; and now that I was
actually in England, I resolved not to go away without having
a good, long look at the open fields.

On a Sunday morning I started, with a lunch in my
pocket. It was a beautiful day in July; the air was sweet
with the breath of buds and flowers, and there was a green
splendor in the landscape that ravished me. Soon I gained
an elevation commanding a wide sweep of view; and meadow
and mead, and woodland and hedge, were all around
me.

Ay, ay! this was old England, indeed! I had found it
at last—there it was in the country! Hovering over the
scene was a soft, dewy air, that seemed faintly tinged with
the green of the grass; and I thought, as I breathed my
breath, that perhaps I might be inhaling the very particles
once respired by Rosamond the Fair.

On I trudged along the London road—smooth as an entry
floor—and every white cottage I passed, embosomed in honeysuckles,
seemed alive in the landscape.

But the day wore on; and at length the sun grew hot;
and the long road became dusty. I thought that some
shady place, in some shady field, would be very pleasant to
repose in. So, coming to a charming little dale, undulating
down to a hollow, arched over with foliage, I crossed over

toward it; but paused by the road-side at a frightful announcement,
nailed against an old tree, used as a gate-post—

In America I had never heard of the like. What could
it mean? They were not surely cannibals, that dwelt
down in that beautiful little dale, and lived by catching
men, like weasels and beavers in Canada!

“A man-trap!” It must be so. The announcement
could bear but one meaning—that there was something near
by, intended to catch human beings; some species of mechanism,
that would suddenly fasten upon the unwary rover, and
hold him by the leg like a dog; or, perhaps, devour him on
the spot.

Incredible! In a Christian land, too! Did that sweet
lady, Queen Victoria, permit such diabolical practices? Had
her gracious majesty ever passed by this way, and seen the
announcement?

And who put it there?

The proprietor, probably.

And what right had he to do so?

Why, he owned the soil.

And where are his title-deeds?

In his strong-box, I suppose.

Thus I stood wrapt in cogitations.

You are a pretty fellow, Wellingborough, thought I to
myself; you are a mighty traveler, indeed:—stopped on
your travels by a man-trap! Do you think Mungo Park
was so served in Africa? Do you think Ledyard was so
entreated in Siberia? Upon my word, you will go home
not very much wiser than when you set out; and the only
excuse you can give, for not having seen more sights, will be
man-traps—man-traps, my masters! that frightened you!

And then, in my indignation, I fell back upon first principles.
What right has this man to the soil he thus guards
with dragons? What excessive effrontery, to lay sole claim

to a solid piece of this planet, right down to the earth's axis,
and, perhaps, straight through to the antipodes! For a
moment I thought I would test his traps, and enter the forbidden
Eden. But the grass grew so thickly, and seemed
so full of sly things, that at last I thought best to pace off.

Next, I came to a hawthorn lane, leading down very
prettily to a nice little church; a mossy little church; a
beautiful little church; just such a church as I had always
dreamed to be in England. The porch was viny as an arbor;
the ivy was climbing about the tower; and the bees
were humming about the hoary old head-stones along the
walls.

Any man-traps here? thought I—any spring-guns?

No.

So I walked on, and entered the church, where I soon
found a seat. No Indian, red as a deer, could have startled
the simple people more. They gazed and they gazed; but
as I was all attention to the sermon, and conducted myself
with perfect propriety, they did not expel me, as at first I
almost imagined they might.

Service over, I made my way through crowds of children,
who stood staring at the marvelous stranger, and resumed
my stroll along the London Road.

My next stop was at an inn, where under a tree sat a
party of rustics, drinking ale at a table.

“Good day,” said I.

“Good day; from Liverpool?”

“I guess so.”

“For London?”

“No; not this time. I merely come to see the country.”

At this, they gazed at each other; and I, at myself;
having doubts whether I might not look something like a
horse-thief.

“Take a seat,” said the landlord, a fat fellow, with his
wife's apron on, I thought.

“Thank you.”

And then, little by little, we got into a long talk: in the
course of which, I told who I was, and where I was from.
I found these rustics a good-natured, jolly set; and I have
no doubt they found me quite a sociable youth. They
treated me to ale; and I treated them to stories about
America, concerning which, they manifested the utmost
curiosity. One of them, however, was somewhat astonished
that I had not made the acquaintance of a brother of his,
who had resided somewhere on the banks of the Mississippi
for several years past; but among twenty millions of people,
I had never happened to meet him, at least to my knowledge.

At last, leaving this party, I pursued my way, exhilarated
by the lively conversation in which I had shared, and the
pleasant sympathies exchanged: and perhaps, also, by the
ale I had drunk:—fine old ale; yes, English ale, ale brewed
in England! And I trod English soil; and breathed English
air; and every blade of grass was an Englishman born.
Smoky old Liverpool, with all its pitch and tar was now far
behind; nothing in sight but open meadows and fields.

Come, Wellingborough, why not push on for London?—
Hurra! what say you? let's have a peep at St. Paul's!
Don't you want to see the queen? Have you no longing to
behold the duke? Think of Westminster Abbey, and the
Tunnel under the Thames! Think of Hyde Park, and the
ladies!”

But then, thought I again, with my hands wildly groping
in my two vacuums of pockets—who's to pay the bill?—
You can't beg your way, Wellingborough; that would never
do; for you are your father's son, Wellingborough; and you
must not disgrace your family in a foreign land; you must
not turn pauper.

Ah! Ah! it was indeed too true; there was no St.
Paul's or Westminster Abbey for me; that was flat.

Well, well, up heart, you'll see it one of these days.

But think of it! here I am on the very road that leads

to the Thames—think of that!—here I am—ay, treading
in the wheel-tracks of coaches that are bound for the metropolis!—It
was too bad; too bitterly bad. But I shoved my
old hat over my brows, and walked on; till at last I came
to a green bank, deliciously shaded by a fine old tree with
broad branching arms, that stretched themselves over the
road, like a hen gathering her brood under her wings.
Down on the green grass I threw myself and there lay my
head, like a last year's nut. People passed by, on foot and
in carriages, and little thought that the sad youth under the
tree was the great-nephew of a late senator in the American
Congress.

Presently, I started to my feet, as I heard a gruff voice
behind me from the field, crying out—“What are you doing
there, you young rascal?—run away from the work'us, have
ye? Tramp, or I'll set Blucher on ye!”

And who was Blucher? A cut-throat looking dog, with
his black bull-muzzle thrust through a gap in the hedge.
And his master? A sturdy farmer, with an alarming
cudgel in his hand.

“Come, are you going to start?” he cried.

“Presently,” said I, making off with great dispatch.
When I had got a few yards into the middle of the highroad
(which belonged as much to me as it did to the queen
herself), I turned round, like a man on his own premises,
and said—“Stranger! if you ever visit America, just call
at our house, and you'll always find there a dinner and a
bed. Don't fail.”

I then walked on toward Liverpool, full of sad thoughts
concerning the cold charities of the world, and the infamous
reception given to hapless young travelers, in broken-down
shooting-jackets.

On, on I went, along the skirts of forbidden green fields;
until reaching a cottage, before which I stood rooted.

So sweet a place I had never seen: no palace in Persia
could be pleasanter; there were flowers in the garden; and

six red cheeks, like six moss-roses, hanging from the casement.
At the embowered door-way, sat an old man, confidentially
communing with his pipe: while a little child,
sprawling on the ground, was playing with his shoe-strings.
A hale matron, but with rather a prim expression, was
reading a journal by his side: and three charmers, three
Peris, three Houris! were leaning out of the window close
by.

Ah! Wellingborough, don't you wish you could step in?

With a heavy heart at this cheerful sight, I was turning
to go, when—is it possible? the old man called me back,
and invited me in.

“Come, come,” said he, “you look as if you had walked
far; come, take a bowl of milk. Matilda, my dear” (how
my heart jumped) “go fetch some from the dairy.” And the
white-handed angel did meekly obey, and handed me—me,
the vagabond, a bowl of bubbling milk, which I could hardly
drink down, for gazing at the dew on her lips.

As I live, I could have married that charmer on the spot!

She was by far the most beautiful rosebud I had yet seen
in England. But I endeavored to dissemble my ardent admiration;
and in order to do away at once with any unfavorable
impressions arising from the close scrutiny of my
miserable shooting-jacket, which was now taking place, I
declared myself a Yankee sailor from Liverpool, who was
spending a Sunday in the country.

“And have you been to church to-day, young man?” said
the old lady, looking daggers.

“Good madam, I have; the little church down yonder,
you know—a most excellent sermon—I am much the better
for it.”

I wanted to mollify this severe looking old lady; for even
my short experience of old ladies had convinced me that they
are the hereditary enemies of all strange young men.

I soon turned the conversation toward America, a theme
which I knew would be interesting, and upon which I could

be fluent and agreeable. I strove to talk in Addisonian English,
and ere long could see very plainly that my polished
phrases were making a surprising impression, though that
miserable shooting-jacket of mine was a perpetual drawback
to my claims to gentility.

Spite of all my blandishments, however, the old lady stood
her post like a sentry; and to my inexpressible chagrin, kept
the three charmers in the back ground, though the old man
frequently called upon them to advance. This fine specimen
of an old Englishman seemed to be quite as free from
ungenerous suspicions as his vinegary spouse was full of them.
But I still lingered, snatching furtive glances at the young
ladies, and vehemently talking to the old man about Illinois,
and the river Ohio, and the fine farms in the Genesee country,
where, in harvest time, the laborers went into the wheat
fields a thousand strong.

Stick to it, Wellingborough, thought I; don't give the
old lady time to think; stick to it, my boy, and an invitation
to tea will reward you. At last it came, and the old lady
abated her frowns.

It was the most delightful of meals; the three charmers
sat all on one side, and I opposite, between the old man and
his wife. The middle charmer poured out the souchong,
and handed me the buttered muffins; and such buttered
muffins never were spread on the other side of the Atlantic.
The butter had an aromatic flavor; by Jove, it was perfectly
delicious.

And there they sat—the charmers, I mean—eating these
buttered muffins in plain sight. I wished I was a buttered
muffin myself. Every minute they grew handsomer and
handsomer; and I could not help thinking what a fine
thing it would be to carry home a beautiful English wife!
how my friends would stare! a lady from England!

I might have been mistaken; but certainly I thought
that Matilda, the one who had handed me the milk, sometimes
looked rather benevolently in the direction where I sat.

She certainly did look at my jacket; and I am constrained
to think at my face. Could it be possible she had fallen in
love at first sight? Oh, rapture! But oh, misery! that
was out of the question; for what a looking suitor was Wellingborough?

At length, the old lady glanced toward the door, and
made some observations about its being yet a long walk to
town. She handed me the buttered muffins, too, as if performing
a final act of hospitality; and in other fidgety ways
vaguely hinted her desire that I should decamp.

Slowly I rose, and murmured my thanks, and bowed, and
tried to be off; but as quickly I turned, and bowed, and
thanked, and lingered again and again. Oh, charmers! oh,
Peris! thought I, must I go? Yes, Wellingborough, you
must; so I made one desperate congée, and darted through
the door.

I have never seen them since: no, nor heard of them;
but to this day I live a bachelor on account of those ravishing
charmers!

As the long twilight was waning deeper and deeper into
night, I entered the town; and, plodding my solitary way
to the same old docks, I passed through the gates, and
scrambled my way among tarry smells, across the tiers of
ships between the quay and the Highlander. My only resource
was my bunk; in I turned, and, wearied with my
long stroll, was soon fast asleep, dreaming of red cheeks and
roses.