IN the summer of 1876, long rest from work and a greater change of air than can be obtained by usual summer jaunting were needful for me; and as I had little interest in the Rocky Mountains, which were two thousand miles away from any place where my kindred had ever been, and a great interest in a land beyond the sea, but within ten days' steaming, where my forefathers had lived for about eleven hundred years, I went to England; to visit which had been one of the great unsatisfied longings of my life. I found there even more to interest me than I had looked for, although I saw less of the country and of my many friends within it than I had hoped to see. It was almost inevitable that a man who had written about matters much less near to him than this was to me should tell the tale of such a journey; and hence this book, which, although an honest one, I believe, and written in a candid spirit, is truly a labor of love.
The consideration of the manifold subject thus brought before me was not, however, merely a result of my visit to England. Of this subject I found myself thinking almost involuntarily, years ago, when