Culloden, where the cause of honour and loyalty had fallen, it might be
to rise no more:--before all these points of their pilgrimage there was
one which the young Virginian brothers held even more sacred, and that
was the home of their family,--that old Castlewood in Hampshire, about
which their parents had talked so fondly. From Bristol to Bath, from Bath
to Salisbury, to Winchester, to Hexton, to Home; they knew the way, and
had mapped the journey many and many a time.

We must fancy our American traveller to be a handsome young fellow, whose
suit of sables only made him look the more interesting. The plump
landlady from her bar, surrounded by her china and punch-bowls, and stout
gilded bottles of strong waters, and glittering rows of silver flagons,
looked kindly after the young gentleman as he passed through the inn-hall
from his post-chaise, and the obsequious chamberlain bowed him upstairs
to the Rose or the Dolphin. The trim chambermaid dropped her best curtsey
for his fee, and Gumbo, in the inn-kitchen, where the townsfolk drank
their mug of ale by the great fire, bragged of his young master's
splendid house in Virginia, and of the immense wealth to which he was
heir. The postchaise whirled the traveller through the most delightful
home-scenery his eyes had ever lighted on. If English landscape is
pleasant to the American of the present day, who must needs contrast the
rich woods and glowing pastures, and picturesque ancient villages of the
old country with the rough aspect of his own, how much pleasanter must
Harry Warrington's course have been, whose journeys had lain through
swamps and forest solitudes from one Virginian ordinary to another
log-house at the end of the day's route, and who now lighted suddenly
upon the busy, happy, splendid scene of English summer? And the highroad,
a hundred years ago, was not that grass-grown desert of the present time.
It was alive with constant travel and traffic: the country towns and inns
swarmed with life and gaiety. The ponderous waggon, with its bells and