In Wiltshire from the car-window I caught sight of a distant down on which, the substratum of chalk showing through the turf skilfully cut away, appeared the figure of a gigantic white horse, the memorial of an old Saxon battle; thence passing near Glastonbury and skirting the haunts of ancient Druids in the Mendip Hills, I was attuned for a meeting with a scholar who more than any other man of the time had aroused interest in the old life of England.  I alighted at Wells where a trap was waiting, and drove between hedgerows for two miles to the secluded mansion.  It lay back from the road, a roomy manor house thickly surrounded by groves and gardens.  I was put at ease at once by the friendly welcome of Mrs. Freeman, a charming hostess who met me at the door.  Freeman soon entered, a veteran of sixty, his florid English face set off by a long beard, and hair rather dishevelled, tawny, and streaked with gray.  Like Gardiner he was of vigorous mould and we presently strode off together through the lanes of the estate with the sweet landscape all about us.  His talk was animated and related for the most part to the objects which we passed and the points that came into view on the more distant hills.  It was rather the talk of a local antiquary than of a historian in a comprehensive sense, though now and then a quickly uttered phrase linked a trifling detail with the great world movement; the spirit was most kindly.  Returning to the house he stooped to the ground and picked up a handsome peacock’s feather which he gave with a bow as a souvenir of the walk.  At dinner we met Miss Freeman, an accomplished daughter.  There was only one guest besides myself, a man whom I felt it was good fortune to meet.  It was the Rev. William Hunt, since that time well known as a large contributor to Leslie Stephen’s great Dictionary of National Biography, President of the English Historical Society, and author of many valuable works.  It so happened that a few weeks before, my Life of Samuel Adams had come under his notice and gained his approval, which he had expressed in a cordial fashion in the Saturday Review by an article which had caused me much satisfaction.  An evening followed full of interesting things.  Miss Freeman played the piano for us with much skill, and then came a most animated talk which, though genial, was critically pungent.  The United States was often sharply attacked and I was put to all my resources to parry the prods that were directed at our weak places.  I did not escape some personal banter.  Feeling that I was in a congenial atmosphere I announced with warmth my persistent love for England, though my stock had been fixed in America since 1635.  I spoke of a cherished tradition of my family.  The chronicler, Florence of Worcester, describes an ancient battle in the year of 1016 between Edmond Ironside and the Danes.  The battle was close and the Danes at one point had taken captive a Saxon champion who looked very much like the king.  By cutting off his head