But all things must end in this mortal life, and our voyage was near its termination, when we were becalmed on the Southern coast of England and could not make more than one knot an hour.  When within sight of the distant shore, a pilot boat came along and offered to take anyone ashore in six hours.  I was so delighted at the thought of reaching land that, after much persuasion, Mr. Stanton and Mr. Birney consented to go.  Accordingly we were lowered into the boat in an armchair, with a luncheon consisting of a cold chicken, a loaf of bread, and a bottle of wine, with just enough wind to carry our light craft toward our destination.  But, instead of six hours, we were all day trying to reach the land, and, as the twilight deepened and the last breeze died away, the pilot said:  “We are now two miles from shore, but the only way you can reach there to-night is by a rowboat.”

As we had no provisions left and nowhere to sleep, we were glad to avail ourselves of the rowboat.  It was a bright moonlight night, the air balmy, the waters smooth, and, with two stout oarsmen, we glided swiftly along.  As Mr. Birney made the last descent and seated himself, doubtful as to our reaching shore, turning to me he said:  “The woman tempted me and I did leave the good ship.”  However, we did reach the shore at midnight and landed at Torquay, one of the loveliest spots in that country, and our journey to Exeter the next day lay through the most beautiful scenery in England.

As we had no luggage with us, our detention by customs officers was brief, and we were soon conducted to a comfortable little hotel, which we found in the morning was a bower of roses.  I had never imagined anything so beautiful as the drive up to Exeter on the top of a coach, with four stout horses, trotting at the rate of ten miles an hour.  It was the first day of June, and the country was in all its glory.  The foliage was of the softest green, the trees were covered with blossoms, and the shrubs with flowers.  The roads were perfect; the large, fine-looking coachman, with his white gloves and reins, his rosy face and lofty bearing and the postman in red, blowing his horn as we passed through every village, made the drive seem like a journey in fairyland.  We had heard that England was like a garden of flowers, but we were wholly unprepared for such wealth of beauty.

In Exeter we had our first view of one of the great cathedrals in the Old World, and we were all deeply impressed with its grandeur.  It was just at the twilight hour, when the last rays of the setting sun, streaming through the stained glass windows, deepened the shadows and threw a mysterious amber light over all.  As the choir was practicing, the whole effect was heightened by the deep tones of the organ reverberating through the arched roof, and the sound of human voices as if vainly trying to fill the vast space above.  The novelty and solemnity of the surroundings roused all our religious emotions and thrilled every nerve in our being.  As if moved by the same impulse to linger there a while, we all sat down, silently waiting for something to break the spell that bound us.  Can one wonder at the power of the Catholic religion for centuries, with such accessories to stimulate the imagination to a blind worship of the unknown?