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the man himself, 'nor could I find a man in Liverpool who knew anything about him, although Banastre and Tarleton streets are ancient thoroughfares in the city. Such is fame on the different sides of the Atlantic.

I think Liverpool is somewhat overlooked by American travelers. Doubtless, a prejudice exists because Liverpool was so strongly Southern in sympathy during the Rebellion, and the name of the Alabama is associated with that of Birkenhead, just across the Mersey. This should not, however, work injustice to a really interesting place, and one of the great seaports of the world.

It may be proper to say that I was placed under great obligations, while in Liverpool, to Mr. Joseph E. Worrall, a brother of Prof. Henry Worrall, of Topeka. This gentleman exercised a hospitality which could not possibly be exceeded on our side of the Atlantic; and as a proof that good qualities run in families, the writer will say that one of the brightest days of his life was spent in the old town of Chester with Walter Worrall, the son of one and nephew of the other of the Worralls aforesaid.



TALKING with a friend in Liverpool, one day, I said, “I

believe all Americans go to Chester ?“Yes," he responded, with truly British directness; "all who have any sense do.” Accordingly I decided to go to Chester.

We crossed by the railway boat to Birkenhead, and by railway, third-class, to Chester. It is time for some American tourist to arise and confess that while in England he did ride third-class, and did not stop at the Langham in London, and I will assume the responsibility.

Riding third-class, no "noble jukes” or members of the royal family were found in the compartments, but several very respectable-appearing men, and among them a manufacturer from one of the suburbs of Liverpool, who had a melancholy interest in America, from the fact that he had not long before lost a son in the wreck of the ill-fated Circassian, on the Long Island coast. To this gentleman I was much indebted for information during the first part of a long stroll in the quaint old town of Chester.

It is questionable if anybody knows the real age of Chester. I am quite sure I do not. For all I know to the contrary, Adam may have been one of the original town company. At any rate, it is very, very old. The Saxons had a town on this pleasant spot by the river Dee, and the Romans built a wall there, and the Normans came and ravaged around after their fashion; and all sorts of queer people, now happily dead, built queer houses for the Americans, the last race of men made, to come and look at.

An odd old town is Chester, with streets that crook every way; with black-faced old houses that lean over and look at you as you pass; with a great square-towered cathedral that lifts its highshouldered roof above everything else; and finally, with a famous old wall which circles around, in and out and everywhere crossing the streets on arches, keeping company for a while with a slow-going canal, then crossing the railroad, then passing under the walls of a castle, and so on “to the place of beginning."

Chester has three special objects of pride: “The Rows,” the cathedral, and the walls; but before seeing any of these we went to a place called the "Old Kitchen.” It seems that Chester had the bad taste to adhere to that “man of blood, Charles Stuart," who lost finally a head which appears to have been of very little service to him or to the kingdom. On the restoration of the Stuarts, in the person of Charles II- that exceedingly frisky monarch — there were “high jinks” in Chester, and the cavaliers met at this "Old Kitchen” to sing profane catches and glees, greatly to the disgust, doubtless, of the godly people who lived in a house not far off, on the front of which may be seen to this day the words, “God's Providence is Mine Inheritance.” The room is surrounded by high-backed oaken chairs, all side by side, where the convivial sat and sang, probably till a late hour, as the chairs are so contrived that it is difficult to fall out of them.

“The Rows" are a feature of Chester. For whole blocks the upper stories of the houses project over, precisely like a Western block-house. It is said that this style of building was adopted by the worthy burghers of Chester in order that they might the better pour down arrows, sticks, stones, hot water and other refreshments on the heads of the invading Welsh. Under the shadow of these overhanging houses you follow a wide stone pavement, not on a level, but up and down at all sorts of angles. The finest stores in Chester are situated along these arcades, and in rainy weather you can walk all over town without getting wet. Many of these houses are old, their beams black with time; others have been restored in the old form, but of new material, and are very handsome. There is an astonishing number of inns and drinking-places in Chester with old-fashioned names. Drovers are invited by the sign of "The Pied Bull;” pork packers “pass the rosy” at the "Pig and Whistle;” and there is a “White Lion” and an “Old Nag's Head.

The wall was built first, they say, by the Romans, and a few stones laid by them still remain; but endless changes have been made by subsequent builders, till it is like the famous American gun that had a new lock, stock and barrel, but still remained the same gun-in one particular. A broad stone walk runs around the inside of the breast-high parapet, and this walk has been for a long time the pride, the promenade and the play-ground of Chester. The wall follows no grade; it goes up and down, in and out; sometimes it runs under gnarled old trees, then it skirts along the crest of black rocks high above the canal. Sometimes you look down into people's chimneys, and green gardens, and then you have a noble prospect of a fine undulating country for many miles. For some distance it overlooks a broad, green meadow, beyond which is the river Dee, and then it skirts close to the river and you look down at the brown and brawling stream.

An American friend - the sun — shone briefly on us, as we, young Walter and I, made the circuit of this

and red old wall. How indescribably beautiful it was! No written description, no painter's brush, even, can give an idea of the vivid, velvety green of an English rural landscape, seen through an atmosphere, half sun, half haze. We passed by the tower from whence Charles I saw his army defeated at Rowton Moor, but near by a group of chubby English children were found in a state of great commotion on the wall. Two little girls were weeping, and several short-legged young Britons were running back and forth in bewildered excitement. A little girl's hat had blown “down and out” to the railroad track below, and nobody dared to go down and get it, for the majesty of English law which forbids walking on railroad tracks, stood between the lost hat and its weeping little owner. I am free to say that I cared more for the child and her lost hat than for Charles I and his lost battle. To go on with our walk: we passed under the walls of the castle, and looking up through the embrasures could see the red coats of Her Majesty's 106th Regiment at their drill — but we will talk of soldiers some other time. We passed near this the green meadow before mentioned, on which is situated the race-course of Chester, one of the most famous in the kingdom.

gray and green

The famous cathedral was vice visited - in the morning and the evening. It has been or is being “restored.” It is very old. The Saxons furnished some of the work, and several saints. with barbarous names. The Normans added to the pile, probably for piety and pillaging the Normans have never been surpassed. Cromwell took no stock in saints not enrolled in his own regiments. He preferred live saints in buff coats to saints in wood and stone, so everything inside of the building was whitewashed over; but now the whitewash is being scraped off and the old saints are coming up smiling. Many centuries of grease and dirt had accumulated on the curious oaken carvings of the choir,

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