- end_line
- 8353
- extracted_at
- 2026-01-30T20:48:14.842Z
- extracted_by
- structure-extraction-lambda
- start_line
- 8266
- text
- 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, deliriously 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.
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- Chunk 2