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would I exchange our national trait for that of the English, or at least, "go half and half.”

As for the snobbery which we charge upon Englishmen, I think I have heard of such a thing even in the model republic. Are all men modest in America? Are all delicately considerate and respectful of the rights of others? Have we no upstarts among us, vulgar and insolent, taking airs to themselves, and oblivious of their equals or their betters? Perhaps it is safer not to invite comparisons.

As for distinction of classes, we have none recognized by law, but have we no social distinctions? Just as truly as they have in England, only that the lines are not as broad, and the walls are not as high, and so the distinctions are not as permanent. They are founded also on other titles, whether higher or nobler it is for the world to judge. If it be unworthy of a great nation to give such distinction to the accident of birth, is it much more honorable in us to make a god of money? There is something to be proud of in a long line of noble ancestors, which may inspire a dignity in the character. But have we gained much by throwing down the idol of aristocracy, if we at once set up in its place a golden calf, to which we bid all men bow down and worship? It is much easier to abolish the name of distinctions in society than to get rid of the thing. And we need to look well to it, that in banishing a hereditary nobility, we do not supply its place by a more vulgar aristocracy.

Of the greater claims of England, to the respect of the world-to the honor, the love, and the gratitude of mankind, I need not speak. Her history, is it not written on the face of the whole earth? Nay, wherein we boast of our own greatness, do we not reflect glory upon her? For, after all, is not England our mother? Has not America, with all her youthful strength, and unbounded hope, come out of her loins? Let us, then, think kindly, nay, lovingly, and proudly, of that great people, in whose history our ancestors have borne a part, and to which we are still bound by the ties of one blood, one language, and one religion.

When I think of all that England is-of her intelligence, learning, and virtue; of her universities, founded centuries ago, and illustrated by great discoveries, and immortal names; of her men of science, and of letters; of her writers, who are the instructors, the delight, and the solace of all who speak the English tongue; of her widely diffused intelligence; of the general culture of mind, and refinement of manners; of the valor of her sons, and the loveliness of her daughters; of her ten thousands of happy, Christian homes-I think that this island is the very ark of the world, in which all that is most precious is enshrined.

CHAPTER V.

ENGLAND AND THE CONTINENT-NORMANDY-DIEPPE--THE CLIFF, THE CASTLE AND THE BEACH-ROUEN--PARIS.

AN American is not fairly in Europe until he reaches the Continent. England carries him back hundreds of years, far beyond the time of Columbus. Yet it has not quite the aspect of hoary antiquity with which it has been. clothed in his imagination. It is not ancient and mossgrown. It has too many "modern improvements," and in this is too much like his own country. And it is not until he has left the Island, and sets foot upon the solid Continent, that he finds himself in contact with the old, old world "the world before the flood." But once here, the illusion is perfect. Here are old walls and towers, old castles and cathedrals, which no rude hand of improvement, has been suffered to touch. Here they stand from century to century, grand and noble in their very decay, the mighty monuments of former generations.

This difference is acknowledged by intelligent Englishmen. Says Ruskin :

"I cannot find words to express the intense pleasure I have always in first finding myself, after some prolonged

stay in England, at the foot of the old tower of Calais church. The large neglect, the noble unsightliness of it; the record. of its years written so visibly, yet without sign of weakness or decay; its stern wasteness and gloom, eaten away by the Channel winds, and overgrown with the bitter sea grasses; its slates and tiles all shaken and rent, and yet not falling; its desert of brickwork full of bolts, and holes, and ugly fissures, and yet strong like a bare, brown rock; its carelessness of what any one thinks or feels about it, putting forth no claim, having no beauty, nor desirableness, pride nor grace; yet neither asking for pity; not, as ruins are, useless and piteous, feebly or fondly garrulous of better days; but useful still, going through its own daily workx-as some old fisherman beaten grey by storm, yet drawing his daily nets; so it stands, with no complaint about its past youth, in blanched and meagre massiveness and serviceableness, gathering human souls together underneath it; the sound of its bells for prayer still rolling through its rents; and the grey peak of it seen far across the sea, principal of the three that rise above the waste of surfy sand and hillocked shore, the lighthouse for life, and the belfry for labor, and this for patience and praise.

"I cannot tell the half of the strange pleasures and thoughts that come about me at the sight of that old tower; for, in some sort, it is the epitome of all that makes the Continent of Europe interesting, as opposed to new countries; and above all, it completely expresses

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that agedness in the midst of active life, which binds the old and the new into harmony. We in England have our new streets, our new inn, our green shaven lawn, and our piece of ruin emergent from it—a mere specimen of the middle ages put on a bit of velvet carpet to be shown, which, but for its size, might as well be on the museum shelf at once, under cover. But ou the Continent, the links are unbroken between the past and the present, and in such use as they can serve for, the grey headed wrecks are suffered to stay with men; while, in unbroken line, the generations of spared buildings are seen succeeding each in its place. And thus in its largeness, in its permitted evidence of slow decline, in its poverty, in its absence of all pretence, of all show and care for outside aspect, that Calais tower has an infinite of symbolism in it, all the more striking because usually seen in contrast with English scenes expressive of feelings the exact reverse of these."

In coming into France we had a wish to pass through the ancient province of Normandy. No part of the kingdom has been so closely connected with England from the time of the Conquest. The very coasts correspond, the white chalk cliffs standing face to face on either side of the Channel. So instead of the more direct route from London to Paris, by Boulogne, we came down on the Brighton railway to Newhaven, and crossed to Dieppe. We were not up to the quay before