After a few weeks in France， we returned to London， traveling through England， Ireland， and Scotland for several months. We visited the scenes that Shakespeare， Burns， and Dickens had made classic. We spent a few days at Huntingdon， the home of Oliver Cromwell， and visited the estate where he passed his early married life. While there， one of his great admirers read aloud to us a splendid article in one of the reviews， written by Carlyle， giving "The Protector，" as his friend said， his true place in history.
It was long the fashion of England's historians to represent Cromwell as a fanatic and hypocrite， but his character was vindicated by later writers.
"Never，" says Macaulay， "was a ruler so conspicuously born for sovereignty.
The cup which has intoxicated almost all others sobered him."
We saw the picturesque ruins of Kenilworth Castle， the birthplace of Shakespeare， the homes of Byron and Mary Chaworth， wandered through Newstead Abbey， saw the monument to the faithful dog， and the large dining room where Byron and his boon companions used to shoot at a mark. It was a desolate region. We stopped a day or two at Ayr and drove out to the birthplace of Burns. The old house that had sheltered him was still there， but its walls now echoed to other voices， and the fields where he had toiled were plowed by other hands. We saw the stream and banks where he and Mary sat together， the old stone church where the witches held their midnight revels， the two dogs， and the bridge of Ayr. With Burns， as with Sappho， it was love that awoke his heart to song. A bonny lass who worked with him in the harvest field inspired his first attempts at rhyme. Life， with Burns， was one long， hard struggle. With his natural love for the beautiful， the terrible depression of spirits he suffered from his dreary surroundings was inevitable. The interest great men took in him， when they awoke to his genius， came too late for his safety and encouragement. In a glass of whisky he found， at last， the rest and cheer he never knew when sober.
Poverty and ignorance are the parents of intemperance， and that vice will never be suppressed until the burdens of life are equally shared by all.
We saw Melrose by moonlight， spent several hours at Abbotsford， and lingered in the little sanctum sanctorum where Scott wrote his immortal works. It was so small that he could reach the bookshelves on every side.
We went through the prisons， castles， and narrow streets of Edinburgh， where the houses are seven and eight stories high， each story projecting a few feet until， at the uppermost， opposite neighbors could easily shake hands and chat together. All the intervals from active sightseeing we spent in reading the lives of historical personages in poetry and prose， until our sympathies flowed out to the real and ideal characters. Lady Jane Grey， Anne Boleyn， Mary Queen of Scots， Ellen Douglas， Jeanie and Effie Deans， Highland Mary， Rebecca the Jewess， Di Vernon， and Rob Roy all alike seemed real men and women， whose shades or descendants we hoped to meet on their native heath.
Here among the Scotch lakes and mountains Mr. Stanton and I were traveling alone for the first time since our marriage， and as we both enjoyed walking， we made many excursions on foot to points that could not be reached in any other way. We spent some time among the Grampian Hills， so familiar to every schoolboy， walking， and riding about on donkeys. We sailed up and down Loch Katrine and Loch Lomond. My husband was writing letters for some New York newspapers on the entire trip， and aimed to get exact knowledge of all we saw； thus I had the advantage of the information he gathered.
On these long tramps I wore a short dress， reaching just below the knee， of dark-blue cloth， a military cap of the same material that shaded my eyes， and a pair of long boots， made on the masculine pattern then generally worn杢he most easy style for walking， as the pressure is equal on the whole foot and the ankle has free play. Thus equipped， and early trained by my good brother-in-law to long walks， I found no difficulty in keeping pace with my husband.
Being self-reliant and venturesome in our explorations， we occasionally found ourselves involved in grave difficulties by refusing to take a guide.
For instance， we decided to go to the top of Ben Nevis alone. It looked to us a straightforward piece of business to walk up a mountain side on a bee line， and so， in the face of repeated warnings by our host， we started：
We knew nothing of zigzag paths to avoid the rocks， the springs， and swamps； in fact we supposed all mountains smooth and dry， like our native hills that we were accustomed to climb. The landlord shook his head and smiled when we told him we should return at noon to dinner， and we smiled， too， thinking he placed a low estimate on our capacity for walking. But we had not gone far when we discovered the difficulties ahead. Some places were so steep that I had to hold on to my companion's coat tails， while he held on to rocks and twigs， or braced himself with a heavy cane. By the time we were halfway up we were in a dripping perspiration， our feet were soaking wet， and we were really too tired to proceed. But， after starting with such supreme confidence in ourselves， we were ashamed to confess our fatigue to each other， and much more to return and verify all the prognostications of the host and his guides. So we determined to push on and do what we had proposed. With the prospect of a magnificent view and an hour's delicious rest on the top， we started with renewed courage. A steady climb of six hours brought us to the goal of promise； our ascent was accomplished. But alas！ it was impossible to stop there杢he cold wind chilled us to the bone in a minute. So we took one glance at the world below and hurried down the south side to get the mountain between us and the cold northeaster.
