a small grass plot, with here and there a bed of flowers, cheated out of its share of sunshine by the tall holly that had been planted near it.  As I looked upon the home of the labourer, my thoughts were with my enslaved countrymen.  What a difference, thought I, there is between the tillers of the soil in England and America.  There could not be a more complete refutation of the assertion that the English labourer is no better off than the American slave, than the scenes that were then before me.  I called the attention of one of my American friends to a beautiful rose near the door of the cot, and said to him, “The law that will protect that flower will also guard and protect the hand that planted it.”  He knew that I had drank deep of the cup of slavery, was aware of what I meant, and merely nodded his head in reply.  I never experienced hospitality more genuine, and yet more unpretending, than was meted out to me while at Hartwell.  And the favourable impression made on my own mind, of the distinguished proprietor of Hartwell Park, was nearly as indelible as my humble name that the Doctor had engraven in a brick, in the vault beneath the Observatory in Hartwell House.

On my return to London I accepted an invitation to join a party on a visit to Windsor Castle; and taking the train at the Waterloo Bridge Station, we were soon passing through a pleasant part of the country.  Arrived at the castle, we committed ourselves into the hands of the servants, and were introduced into Her Majesty’s State apartments, Audience Chamber, Vandyck Room, Waterloo Chambers, St. George’s Hall, Gold Pantry, and many others whose names I have forgotten.  In wandering about the different apartments I lost my company, and in trying to find them, passed through a room in which hung a magnificent portrait of Charles I., by Vandyck.  The hum and noise of my companions had ceased, and I had the scene and silence to myself.  I looked in vain for the king’s evil genius (Cromwell), but he was not in the same room.  The pencil of Sir Peter Lely has left a splendid full-length likeness of James II.  George IV. is suspended from a peg in the wall, looking as if it was fresh from the hands of Sir Thomas Lawrence, its admirable painter.  I was now in St. George’s Hall, and I gazed upward to view the beautiful figures on the ceiling, until my neck was nearly out of joint.  Leaving this room, I inspected with interest the ancient keep of the castle.  In past centuries this part of the palace was used as a prison.  Here James the First of Scotland was detained a prisoner for eighteen years.  I viewed the window through which the young prince had often looked to catch a glimpse of the young and beautiful Lady Jane, daughter of the Earl of Somerset, with whom he was enamoured.