How natural that some strong souls, with warm hearts and
the fire of genius in them, should go back to Romanism from its icy
presence!
November 8. Yesterday afternoon was beautiful, and we (Una, Julian,
and I) were quite rejoiced to find Mr. Hawthorne in the ferry-boat
when we returned from Liverpool. It was beautiful,--up in the sky, I
mean; for there never was anything so nasty as Liverpool. Thousands of
footsteps had stirred up the wetness and earth into such a mud-slush
as one can have no idea of in America. It was necessary to look aloft
into the clean heavens to believe any longer that mud was not eternal,
infinite, omnipresent. . . . I left you introduced into the Cathedral
cloisters in Chester, but I suppose you do not wish to stay there any
longer. We went upon the walls afterwards, as we had three hours upon
our hands. I had a great desire to plant my foot in Wales, and so we
crossed the river Dee. I stopped to look at the river Dee. It is a
mere brook in comparison to our great rivers, though the Concord is no
wider in some places. It was flowing peacefully along; and I
remembered that Edgar the Peaceable was rowed in triumph by eight
kings from his palace on the south bank to the monastery in 973. It
was too late to walk far into the immense grounds of Eaton Hall, the
seat of the Marquis of Westminster. He is a Norman noble. I told Mr.
Squarey that my father was of Welsh descent, and he asked me why I did
not fall down and kiss my fatherland.
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