THE MOTHER OF THE AMERICAN ATHENS
It was fit that on our way to Boston we should pause in passing through Cambridge. That was quite as we should have done at home, and I can only wish now that we had paused longer, though every moment that kept us from Boston, if it had been anywhere but in England, would have been a loss. There, it was all gain, and all joy, the gay September 24th that we went this divine journey. My companion was that companionable archaeologist who had guided my steps in search of the American origins in London, and who was now to help me follow the Pilgrim Fathers over the ground where they sojourned when they were only the Pilgrim Sons. At divers places on the way, after we left London, he pointed out some scene associated with American saints or heroes. We traversed the region that George William Curtis’ people came from, hard by Roxburgh, and Eliot’s, the Apostle to the Indians; again we skirted the Ralph Waldo Emerson country, with its big market town of Bishop’s Stortford; and beyond Ely, where we stopped for the Cathedral and a luncheon, not unworthy of it, at the station, he startled me from a pleasant drowse I had fallen into in our railway carriage, with the cry: “There! That is where Captain John Smith was born.” “Where? Where?” I implored too late, looking round the compartment everywhere. “Back where those chickens were.”