Poor little motherless children!
On Sunday afternoon we took a delightful walk. I think we made a
circuit of five miles, if not more. We went over Dacre Hill, from
which a sweet, tranquil landscape is seen; and onwards, down a lovely
lane. These lanes are all bordered with hedges of hawthorn, ivy, and
holly; and one of them abounded in lovely harebells, with stems so
delicate that I found it very difficult to see and seize them, so as
to pluck them. These hedges had not walls before them, and were not
too high, so that we could look over into the fields. A well-worn path
led from the harebell lane along the edge of a field; and very
convenient stone steps led over the walls. When we got to the street,
it seemed a very ancient place. This region was once the kingdom of
Mercia. The road seemed hewn out of stone. I cannot tell you how much
the cottages seemed like the first dwellings that ever were made. . . .
When I called on Mrs. Squarey, we found her a pleasant lady, and
Una thought she looked like Miss Maria Mitchell, and therefore Una
liked her. Our call was extremely agreeable. Mr. Hawthorne insists
upon calling her Mrs. Roundey. When Mr. Hawthorne came home this
afternoon, he said he met on the other side the children of the
Industrial School just landed. He saw them face to face, and he said
their faces were uncomely to the last degree. He said he never
imagined such faces,--so irredeemably stupid and homely. I do not
think I have realized the sin of the Old World in any way so much as
in a few faces I saw in Liverpool.
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