John Winthrop. The old Groton church still stands, like the old Scrooby church. There the great Governor's ancestors are buried; and in the chancel there is a beautiful memorial window to the Governor himself, placed there by our Robert C. Winthrop. We went to Norwich, so important in the histories of both Robert Browne and John Robinson. And then we came to old Boston, on the banks of the Witham, by the Lincolnshire coast; and we should like to write - but we remember that this is an article about Scrooby and not about Boston-something about its grand old church, the finest parish church in England, its lofty tower a beacon for all the country round about and for the ships at sea; and something about the Cotton chapel; and something about the simple wedding which we saw in the

church, and the romance we were told about the bride and the young American husband; and something of the cells under the Guildhall, where tradition says the Pilgrims were imprisoned when captured in their attempt to escape from Boston; and something of the pride of old Boston in her great daughter over the sea. Everywhere the same names which we are used to in New England bear witness that this is indeed the land of our fathers. Boston, Cambridge, Norwich, Yarmouth, Ipswich, Sudbury, Groton, Hingham, and a hundred more, they are alike in New England and here in the eastern counties of Old England. But where in New England are Austerfield and Scrooby?

We wished that Gringley-on-the-Hill were Scrooby, and we did not like to come down to the plain again; though we found Scrooby pretty, too, when we came to it, in the green meadow by the Idle. A less important little village than the Scrooby of to-day it would be hard to find in all Nottinghamshire. The bright girl in the white apron, at the White Hart, in Gainsboro, was sure there was no such place at all; and the man who drove us over, talking of Sir Henry Thompson's chances for Par

and its past, however small it is; and here and there over England are those who, as they rattle past in the railroad train, look out with interest upon the little cluster of brick houses round the church, and think of the story of Brewster and Bradford, and of the great oak beyond the sea which has grown from this little acorn. The young surveyor who came into the coffee-room of the Crown Inn at Bawtry, and had dinner with us there, told us, not knowing what our errand was, nor even that we were Americans, not to fail to see Scrooby, for it was the old home of the Pilgrim Fathers.

The American pilgrim to Scrooby asks first for the traces which connect the present with the past.

"The general features of the landscape - the long, low, fertile slopes, the verdant marshes, the meandering Ryton-are unchanged. Standing by the sycamores and turning toward the southwest, the view, beyond question, is still almost

identical with that which used to meet the eye of Brewster as he looked from his windows upon the sunset. The beautiful, but to him inhospitable, church, with its graceful gray spire, is the same, -with that spire, at least, unchanged in its exterior, which Leland, in 1541, described as not stone'; while the cottages, if most are not identibig, but very well builded of square polished cal, retain the old, essential, English cottage look.

liament, and of the Americans who had bought old clocks of his master, and of the two gentlemen who had newly taken the house by Beckingham, and the rest, had never had a passenger for Scrooby before, and at two or three cross-roads had to inquire the way, regretting at the end that he had not come by Bawtry instead of by Ramskill. But Scrooby knows itself

The sycamores themselves are supposed to have been planted subsequently, and to mark the site of the main building, now destroyed and gone. The present farm-house is surely in part ancient enough to maintain its claim to have formed a portion of the original structure. Aside from the huge round arch, now filled up with later masonry, and a remarkable niche in one of the walls, inex

plicable upon any theory which would connect it

with the present uses of the building, two rooms, those nearest the bow-window, are very remarkable

for the thickness of their walls, the castellated look of their windows, and their general aspect of having seen better days. In the garden between the cottage and the cattle-buildings, and quite near to the latter, stands what is left of Cardinal Wolsey's mulberry-tree, of whose fruit Brewster must have eaten in its young prime. It is now but a mere hollow stump, perhaps ten feet high, with a few green shoots feathering its one live side. The most suggestive relic of all is found in the cow-house beyond, in which do duty, as a

pies, and where a crowd of men and women and boys and girls were gathering peas. It is a bright, busy village, with a market-place, and is the best place for the visitor to the Pilgrim country to make his headquarters. One mile beyond Bawtry, as one comes from Scrooby, is the little village of Austerfield, whither we walked at evening. Austerfield was the home of

framework holding up its rude title roof, certain old carved oak tie-beams and rafters, which are most manifestly legacies of some prouder structure fallen to decay. As nearly as I could pace the earthen floor, I judged that these tie-beams are about seventeen feet span, while, from the number of the beams and rafters rudely ornamented, I imagined that this framework might have been originally designed to cover a room say seventeen by seventy feet, probably the great hall or chapel of the manor-house. If I am right in this conjecture, it becomes eminently probable-since the Sabbath assemblies of these Separatists would have almost necessarily occupied that room in the structure- that these oaken beams were over the heads of the Mayflower church when they covenanted together to be the Lord's, and vibrated to the strong music of their faithful praise, 'whose hearts,' Bradford says, 'ye Lord had touched wth heavenly zeal for his trueth.'"

Bawtry is two miles from Scrooby, with a pretty road between, by fields which, when we passed them, were red with pop

young William Bradford. The little church in which he was baptized is one of the oldest and smallest and most curious in England. The old parish clerk, who left the shoe he was mending to take us into the church, was glad to see an American, - the greater part of his few visitors were Americans, and wished that he might see America. He was born and had lived all his seventy years - we write of a day four years ago, and now the good old man is dead - at Austerfield, where his father was parish clerk before him. He had hardly ever been away from his home, never to Doncaster, he said, never to York, never to Lincoln. Once he went to Derby ; and once he spent a week in London, -a wondrous week, in which Westminster Abbey and St. Paul's Cathedral and Hyde Park found place. He asked about the