A ring at the door brought a maiden, who let us into the chapel (for it is nothing more), — the tiniest of parish churches. But there was naught to see, for every inch of the nave was freshly dug and boarded over. So soon are we forgot, unless, indeed, something less material and perishable than our mortal part keeps memory green! Yet though, after a venerated life, the peaceful changes of time, in a spot little disturbed by wars and their rumors, have thus mingled his undistinguished dust, dear old George Herbert, the Church's best-loved poet, has left that behind him which will never die.

Our last English dinner had been previously ordered, and we came back to it tired and hungry; but it proved a failure. The English evidently neither like, approve of, nor encourage the relishes and kickshaws on which Americans rely. This we had already learned; but it did seem strange to find that such trifles as griddle-cakes were quite "too good for human nature's daily food;" or that, if one really does desire to gratify a taste for ice-cream, he must go to a confectioner, wait for it to be made, and consume it on the premises! Whether for this reason

or not, it is true that Atlantic steamers running to English ports carry with them from New York a double supply of this delectable article, for use on the return as well as on

the outward trip. The homeward voyage had now become the burning (or shall I say, the watery) question with us; and on the morrow we saw Salisbury's spire disappear behind us as, somewhat retracing our steps, we sped toward the steamer. We skirted the New Forest (strange survival, like many others, of this adjective which was apposite when William the Norman bestowed it eight centuries ago), one of England's most extended wooded tracts, and largely a crown domain, and in less than two hours were in Southampton.

It had not seemed that we should associate history in great degree with this busy seaport, so rapidly acquiring favor as the point of more direct and speedy connection with America, between which and Waterloo Station, London, rapid and special trains convey the traveller in a couple of hours. But the location of the steamship office is in Canute Road,-the name a constant memorial of the Danish king and his obsequious courtiers on the shores.

of Southampton Water. And the city has seen strange comings and goings, traders to and from Venice, Coeur-de-Lion's departure for the Holy Land, the invasions of France by Edward III. and Henry V., the landing of Philip of Spain, the coming of the "Speedwell" with the Pilgrims from Delfthaven and their departure for Plymouth. Here, too, Cambridge, Scrope, and Grey are buried, who forfeited their lives to Henry V.'s righteous wrath for base conspiracy against his own; and here was the birthplace of pious Isaac Watts, whose statue is in the park. But all this by the way, for at the Empress Dock floats the great steamer which is to bear us across the waste of waters that lies between us and home; and aboard of her are our belongings, that have long preceded us from London. Her great hull looms up before us as we thankfully climb the steep gangway in the last hour of bustle and excitement; and as our eyes look aloft they proudly discern the starry banner of our country that once more floats above our heads.

0°

X

HOMEWARD BOUND

CEAN passenger steamships leave their piers with a promptness which railway trains may well emulate. The motion of the enormous mass is for some time scarcely perceptible, but at the precise moment advertised it begins to move. To the onlooker, and how much more to the traveller, the final moments are full of exciting interest: the rapid arrival of luggage, hoisted in long chutes by pulleys; the motley crowd in the steerage forward; the decks and passageways densely thronged with friends to say good-bye; the constant passing and repassing of deck-hands and stewards; the passengers themselves, some feeling all the thrill of a first voyage, others philosophical old-stagers bent only on securing prospective comforts for the trip; the mingled displays of affection, solicitude, conventionalism, selfishness; the final letters at the steward's office; the choice of seats at table; the hurried search

for mislaid baggage; the rapid inspection of staterooms; the impressive respect for orderly authority everywhere present, from the dignified captain on the bridge to the grimy stokers far beneath the water line; the casting-off of hawsers and hauling in of lines; the last warning signals to go ashore; the withdrawal of the gang-plank; the waving handkerchiefs and cheery or sobbing farewells on the pier, and the answering adieus from the vessel; the parting floral tokens, and the last wistful glances; as the unseen engineer touches the lever, and the resistless machinery sets the screws in motion, and the monster that bears such precious freight separates so quietly from terra firma and glides out into the stream, all these are everyday sights and sounds somewhere, but how unfailing their interest and how deep their import!

Dinner comes promptly in to restore a practical balance; and, even if we were not seated in the dining-saloon of the "New York," Netley Abbey, which we are passing, is too far away to be readily seen from the deck, and so is Portsmouth's great naval station, where the "Royal George" went down in Spithead Harbor with brave Kempenfeldt in command and