So we saw Newstead Abbey.  The housekeeper insisted that we should stay to tea, and made us enter our names in the visitors’ book, and asked the Doctor to write his name on a card, saying, “I will send this to my mistress in South Africa.”

In the effort to remember many of the details of our stay in England and Scotland, I find it necessary to take refuge for information in my daughter’s diary.  It amused Dr. Talmage very much as he read it page by page.  I find this entry made in Manchester, where she was not well enough to attend church:—­

“Sunday, A.M.—­Doctor Talmage preached and I was disappointed that I could not go.  The people went wild about the Doctor, and he had to make an address after church out-of-doors for those who could not get inside.  Several policemen stood around the church door to keep away the crowd.  I saw the High Sheriff driving home from church.  He was inside a coach that looked as though it had been drawn out of a fairy tale—­a huge coach painted red and gold, with crowns or something like them at each of the four corners.  Two footmen dressed in George III. liveries were hanging behind by ribbons, and two on the box, all wearing powdered wigs.  To be sure, I didn’t see much of the Sheriff, but then the coach was the real show after all.”

Many of the details of the side trips which we made through England and Scotland have escaped my memory.  In looking over my daughter’s diary I find them amplified in the manner of girlhood, now lightly touched with fancy, now solemn with historical responsibility, now charmed with the glamour of romance.  Dr. Talmage thought so well of them that they will serve to show the trail of his footsteps through the gateways of ancestral England.

We went to Haddon Hall with Dr. Wrench, physician to the Duke of Devonshire.  We drove from Bakewell.  In this part of my daughter’s diary I read:—­

“It was a most beautiful drive.  Derbyshire is called the Switzerland of England.  The hills were quite high and beautifully wooded, and our drive lay along the river’s edge—­a brook we would call it in the States, but it is a river here—­and winds in and out and through the fields and around the foot of the highest hill of all, called the Peak of Derbyshire.  We passed picturesque little farmhouses, built of square blocks of rough, grey stone covered with ivy.  We drove between hawthorn hedges, through beautiful green fields and orchards.  From the midst of a little forest of grand old trees we caught sight of the highest tower of the castle, then we crossed over a little stone bridge and passed through the gates.  Another short drive across the meadow and we stopped at the foot of a little hill, looking up at Haddon Hall.