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Story of the Hutchinsons,  Vol. 1:   Chapter 5, "In Scotland," pp. 199-220.

Our  last concert was given on the evening of June 13th in Free Trade Hall, before an immense audience, and was a grand ovation. After the concert we were surrounded by our friends, who had all come to say good-by. The next day we spent a quiet Sabbath, the afternoon and evening at the house of the Peacocks, where we found Mrs. Moore and Mr. Ireland. We sang some songs with them that will never be forgotten as long as life lasts; we left them in the evening with hearty hand-shakes and tears in our eyes.

The next morning we left Manchester for Liverpool, intending to make our start from there to Scotland. We were received by good Rickerby, who was always glad to see us, and in the evening gave a concert to a large audience in Lord Nelson Street. Mr. Smith, editor of the Mercury, came into our dressing-room, and we found him a fine specimen of a real old English gentleman.

As exhaustive as John W. Hutchinson's book may seem  -  Story of the Hutchinsons is over 900 pages in length  -  there's actually a lot of Hutchinson Family history that it touches on only lightly or that it doesn't cover at all. By far the most complete treatment of this pivotal period, from the quartet's 1842 grand start through the 1845-1846 United Kingdom tour, is to be found in Excelsior: Journals of the Hutchinson Family Singers, 1842-1846 (Stuyvesant, NY: Pendragon Press, 1989). Excelsior is still in print and is available from the publisher and from Amazon.com. Recommended reading.

"Our last concert was given on the evening of June 13th":   Referring at first to Rev. Brooke Herford of Chicago's Church of the Messiah, elsewhere in this book John W. Hutchinson wrote, "His words are a reminder of the letter of Dickens in his published correspondence with the Countess of Blessington: 'I must have some talk with you about those American Singers, the Hutchinson Family. They must now go back to their own country without your having heard them sing Hood's "Bridge of Sighs."   My God, how sorrowful and pitiful it was!'" [John Hutchinson (1896, 2:341).].

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We journeyed through a part of the highlands of England in our route to Scotland, which compelled us to travel by various conveyances, [such] as the railroad, stage-coach, canal-boats, etc., and we rode the last fourteen miles in a barouche that we had chartered for that purpose.

Harriet Martineau had cordially invited us to visit her at her country home, some time previously, while we were in Liverpool. As we approached the town where we were to visit her (Ambleside), the sun was slowly declining in the west, as if separated by a cloud that capped the top of the surrounding hills; it formed one of the grandest spectacles that eye hath ever seen, silver-lining the landscape and presenting a most gorgeous aspect, on which we would gladly have feasted and never left if it had been possible to preserve such a picture:

In the sweet valley surrounded by these hills was clustered the village of Ambleside. Near a beautiful lake of fine location, was the residence of Miss Martineau, a picturesque cottage of rough stone.

It being June it was even more than ordinarily beautiful, and we soon came down into the valley and up toward the town and learned from the postmaster where the good lady resided whom we were to visit. Miss Martineau greeted us at the door, for she had been previously

"Harriet Martineau had cordially invited us to visit her":   Of all the contemporary writings about the long career of the Hutchinson Family, Harriet Martineau's article about this visit to her home, in the London People's Journal, is up around the top of the list of the most wonderful pieces.  Harps in the Wind, the traditional favorite Hutchinson Family biography, takes its name from a passage in the People's Journal article.

"The sun's rich rays shine through the day":   Can you identify these lines of verse?

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informed of our arrival and was ready to receive us. She was extremely glad to see us and gave us a hearty welcome. Sister Abby remained with her in her house, while Judson, Asa and I, took quarters at a hotel.

It had been planned by our good hostess that we should enjoy a visit or an outing to a lake, a distance of about three miles; so on the following morning we set out for it, where we joined a company of her choice friends. Reaching the lake we took a boat across to the opposite shore, where we would be sheltered from the heat of the day.

We commenced in earnest to enjoy the occasion and having no regular programme, things took their own course, of singing, running, dancing, wading in the stream, climbing the surrounding hills, piling up stones for landmarks and monuments and behaving much like little children on a picnic; and so passed some of the first hours till at last Brother Jesse, who was to join us, having stepped off the previous day to get the mail, came to the opposite shore and we saw him, but beyond hearing distance. He crossed over in a boat, and as he approached we sent out a song. He answered us back, and we soon greeted him and received our mail. The time passed joyously. We sang songs, spoke pieces, told stories, and were as happy as mortals could be. Thus passed the never-to-be-forgotten day.

The next day we took a comprehensive view of the town, village and farm-home of our hostess. It was haying-time, and we were much pleased to have the opportunity of a little farm-work, as we were allowed by the gardener to take his scythe and mow. We soon found

"A boat, a boat to cross the ferry":   A round. "A boat, a boat to cross the ferry/We'll float and sing and all be merry/Float, sing and all be merry."

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it was very heavy mowing, and that we could not do it. Miss Martineau came on the piazza, and asked us if we would not like to try a lady's scythe. We consented, and she brought her own implement; it was about twice as heavy as our Yankee scythes, the blade about three inches and a half wide. It was a fatiguing effort to handle even such a woman's-suffrage scythe.

Learning that the hall where we were announced to sing was small and low-studded, and taking into account the extremely warm weather, we concluded to find a place where we could sing in the open air, consequently I was introduced to Mr. Harrison, who had a very fine mansion with a beautiful lawn in front. He cordially offered us the use of it; arrangements were made and the stage erected.

The concert commenced about six o'clock in the evening, and some three hundred people had gathered on the lawn, while as many more of the populace were seated on the walls. Each part of our programme elicited the warmest approbation and the applause was hearty. We greeted the audience with "The Cot where We were Born."

We would dash upon the stage, sing our piece, receive our encores, and then disappear among the bushes until our next number.

Our good lady sat at the right, about four seats back, and with her trumpet to her ear seemed to catch every

"We greeted the audience with The Cot where We were Born":   John W. Hutchinson said that, for years, the singers opened their concerts with "The Cot Where We Were Born" [John Hutchinson (1896, 2:297)], making it one of the most important songs in the group's repertoire. It's also quite a pretty piece of music. Unfortunately, a case could be made that, in recent times, it is one of the Hutchinsons' most neglected songs. I wrote a letter to Hutchinson Family biographer Philip D. Jordan dated August 30, 1975. He typed a response into some of it's whitespace and returned it to me, undated. In his reply, he named a few of his favorite Hutchinson Family songs, and "The Cot Where We Were Born" was among them.

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sound, and was apparently enjoying the entertainment. About midway of the concert there came up a black cloud: the lightning flashed, the thunder roared and the rain fell, but not upon our audience. Still we could see it outside the apparently charmed circle. Soon the sullen rumble of the retreating storm could be heard in the distance. Our farewell refrain was:

The concert over, we said our parting words. Seated in our carriage that was to convey us to Patterville we sang again our last good-by; our dear lady standing upon her piazza waving her white scarf, her farewell fraught with the tenderest affection with a "God bless you all."

I append a description penned by Miss Martineau of the whole visit, which appeared in the People's Journal.

We all remember the singing group, and the Memoir which Mrs. Howitt gave us. It is pleasant to me now to connect them with our lake scenery, to think that our valleys have resounded with their harmonies. Mrs. Howitt wrote to me that the Hutchinsons were coming to Kendal; and I forthwith settled in my own mind that they must sing to us at Ambleside. Everybody about me wished to hear them;

"I append a description penned by Miss Martineau":   When John copied material from outside sources into Story of the Hutchinsons, at times he corrected his sources, omitted material without telling the reader, and otherwise improved on his sources. John was not a professional editor; he was simply trying to tell the story of the Hutchinson Family in the best way he could  -  and he did a very fine job. However, careful scholars will want to go back often to original sources. This is a lesson I learned from Dale Cockrell's excellent use of the Book of Brothers in his own work, Excelsior.

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and they wished to come; so the whole affair arranged itself easily enough. The large room at the White Lion was engaged and filled with benches, so as to hold the greatest possible number, two hundred. As the time drew near, however, I met a shake of the head whichever way I turned. Everybody was sure that many more than two hundred people would want admission. People were coming from Bowness, Grasmere, Haskshead, and even Kendal; and if they should be turned back from the door, how could they be expected to bear it patiently? And then the heat was excessive. Everybody was afraid of it. But what could be done? Here was the largest room that could be had; and the Hutchinsons could not stay to give a second concert. Such was the state of things  -  the tickets almost all sold, everybody wanting to go, and everybody dreading the heat  -  when the Hutchinsons were to arrive, on Tuesday evening, June 16th. I had advised their coming by Newby Bridge from Lancaster, so as to finish their day's journey from Liverpool by the Windermere steamer. A trip by steamer from end to end of Windermere is the prettiest finish of a summer day's journey that can be imagined.

It was as lovely an evening as any during this glorious June of 1846. As I stood on the shore at Waterhead waiting for the steamer, I endeavored to look upon the landscape with the eyes of a stranger, and thought that if I were then seeing it for the first time, it would appear to me the true paradise of this world. The soft ruddy evening light on Wansfell, the purple hollows of Loughrigg, the deep shadows of the western side of the lake, pierced by lines of silver light  -  the white gables of the houses at Clappergate, peeping from the woods which skirt Loughrigg, and the little gray church on its knoll in the centre of the Brathay valley,  -  these made up such a vision of delicious coloring that I imagined my friends on the deck of the steamer saying, that never, in any lustrous evening of a New England autumn, had they enjoyed a richer feast to eye and mind. Then came the steamer, rounding the point from Low-wood. There seemed to be but few passengers on deck  -  no signs of any band of brothers, with a sister in the midst. They were not there; and I had only to hasten home, lest they should arrive some other way. Before I had been at home many minutes, I saw from my terrace a barouche coming rapidly along the winding road, with one bonnet and several gray caps in it; it entered my gate, drove up to the porch, and I found myself among hearty Americans once more.

The first business to be done was to go down to the White Lion, and see the room. When there, we could only agree, like other people, that the room could only hold two hundred and that it would be dreadfully hot. Then the brothers and sister stepped on the platform, and tried the fitness of the place for music. What those few notes were to others I know not. I saw afterwards that a number of people had on

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the instant gathered in the street and a little friend of mine observed that he now heard music that he thought beautiful. As for me, long years of solitary sickness had passed since I had last heard harmony, or anything that I could call music, except one song in my sick room from Adelaide Kemble; and this was almost too much for me now, in full health. It thrilled through me, as if I were a harp played upon by the wind. It seemed to me that I never before heard such harmony, such perfect accord, as between those four voices. I believe the echo never sleeps in the ear of those who have once heard it.

The next day, Wednesday, was reserved for a glorious country holiday; and it turned out a day of pleasuring without alloy. Rare as is the event of a pleasure day without alloy, for once it was so. A party of seventeen persons, aged somewhere between seventy-six and twelve years, met on the shores of Grasmere  -  about three miles from my house. We had three boats, and in them  -  rowed by ladies, children, young men or servants, as the fit took us  -  we crossed to a shady, shingly spot, before the greatest heat of the day came on. There, on the shingle some lay down, and talked, or played "Duck and Drake," while others dabbled in the cool ripple, or dipped their heads, and let the water stream from their locks.

Abby Hutchinson, the youngest of her parents' sixteen children, and therefore called "the baby," dropped asleep for a few moments with her head upon a stone  -  her sweet face looking as calm and innocent as any baby's. Other young ladies pushed off in a boat to practice rowing, and came back relieved of the toil by a spirited little fellow of twelve who wielded their oars manfully. Then off went one or the other of the Hutchinsons, rowing away suddenly, as if for his life, and coming back no less vehemently. It was a gay little party, on the margin of a clear lake at the bottom of a basin of mountains all green to the summit  -  dappled with woods and slopes, gay sunshine and deep shade. In the midst of the lake was its one island, green and bare, except on the side where a pine grove casts its shadow on the waters. On the opposite margin was the village of Grasmere, with its old church  -  its low and square tower showing itself from among the trees. Immediately behind it rose Helm Crag, the most beautiful summit in all the neighborhood for form, light and shadow. To the left branched off the mountains, now gray and purple, which encompass Easedale. To the right ascended, winding round the skirts of Helvellyn, the road to Keswick. Scattered nearer at hand, among the nooks and on the slopes of the hills around the lake, were dwellings whose aspect might tempt wandering spirits of earth or air to stay and rest amidst Nature's peace. In this scene was our morning passed.

Then came the merry dining:  the spreading of the tablecloths on the grass;the finding rocky seats to eat on conveniently; and the grouping (as if they could help it!) of the Hutchinsons to sing, their

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breath of song stirring up the quietest spirits of the party, like a breeze breaking the glassy calm of the lake; and then the lazy rest after dinner; broken by the arrival of a fourth brother of the Hutchinsons, bringing letters and newspapers from Liverpool by the last packet. When each on his separate stone had read his letters and dispensed his public news, all who were ready for enterprise, and not afraid of the heat, began to climb in the direction of High Close. What a scramble was the first part. Tempted by the shade of a wall, we went straight up the face of the hill, where the grass was as glassy and slippery with the dry weather as so much satin, and for almost every step forward, we slipped one back. After a few laughs, some sensations of despair, many slides and universal vows to return another way, we all reached the road, half-way up the ascent; and from thence all was easy. Cool air soon came to us over the ridge before us; we got some water at a farm-house, and then attained our object. We stood in a field whence we commanded the finest view of Westmoreland. Far to the left stretched away Windermere among lessening hills. Near to us lay Loughrigg-tarn, a round little lake on higher ground, though beneath us. There it lay blue and clear, under the dark slopes of Loughrigg. Immediately below us spread Elter Water  -  looking like a group of ponds amidst green meadows. To the right stretched Langdale, the winding narrow valley which is overhung at the further end by the glorious Langdale Pikes; our landmarks amidst the billowy hill region in which we live. Last of all, arose Bowfell,  -  the mountain mass which closes in the whole. Such is the mere outline of the scene which sprinkled over with dwellings of every kind from the great castle on a promontory of Windermere, to the gray hut on the mountain side  -  where farm-steads, hamlets, mills, cottages  -  a chapel here, a bridge there, a sheep-fold below  -  such is the scene which is rightly called the finest view in Westmoreland. The Hutchinsons will never forget it. They noted down the names in their tablets, and the features of the scene in their minds. In the midst of it all, however, sweet Abby, looking herself as fresh as a daisy, had in her hand a basin of clear cold water for the benefit of the thirsty.

After returning to the boats, the next thing was to row across to Grasmere, as we were to go a mile beyond the village to a friend's house in Easedale to tea. That was an evening to be remembered. Our venerable hostess sat in her beauty under a shady tree, happy among her happy guests. The tea tables in the shade looked cool and tempting. We were in a garden in front of a white cottage  -  an elegant, rambling cottage, all covered with roses, whose porch was almost one mass of blossom and spray. The sun let us alone under our trees, while it shone everywhere else, making the wild and sometimes dreary Easedale, one scene of light and greenness.

Soon, the Hutchinsons grouped themselves, as if by some irresistible

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attraction, and sang piece after piece, to the rapture of their hearers. Those who had heard them sing "The Cot where We were Born," "The Ohio Boatman," and "Excelsior," may conceive something of our delight. And, of all things to be doing, they were teaching us to play "Fox and Geese" on the green below. They themselves played with great humor; and in the midst of our fun, I saw that all the servants of the house were looking on from the corner of the terrace, and not a few laborers from outside the gate.

The appointed day for the concert had arrived. The evening before, a neighboring gentleman had kindly and beneficently offered that his lawn should be the scene. His servants should move the benches, put up the platform, attend at the gates, and save all trouble.

In the morning the hot weather melted away all doubts. It seemed clear that all parties, those who could not be consulted and those who could, would be pleased to be sent to a shady spot in the open air, where any number of people might hear without any crowding. The Hutchinsons themselves begged that all the townspeople who liked might hear them, those who could not pay as well as those who could. That concert will never be forgotten by any who were so happy as to be present. The Hutchinsons enjoyed it more than any they had given in the country. Abby left her bonnet in a rhododendron bush out of sight: and the family group came up a green slope from the thicket below. The little platform was erected under the deep shade of spreading sycamores. In front and on either hand were collected a larger audience than any house in Ambleside could have contained: and among them were some who could not have enjoyed the pleasure elsewhere: an invalid lady, who lay on the grass and an infirm old gentleman, whose chair was wheeled into the circle. There was row behind row of tradespeople, servant and laborers of the neighborhood:  and in the centre, behind all, the parish clerk  -  zealous in the psalmody and all the other good objects of the place, and most active in promoting our concert. He deserved the enjoyment which I am sure he had.

And now when I am most anxious to convey some impression of this festival, I am least able to do so. How is it possible to give an idea of the soul-breathing music of the Hutchinsons to those who have not heard it? One might as well attempt to convey in words the colors of the sky or the strain of the nightingale as such utterance of the heart as theirs.

One can only observe the effects. There was now hearty laughter, and now many tears. Nothing can be said of the interior emotions which found no expression. Everybody congratulating everybody else on having come. A young servant of mine, who went all in high spirits at the prospect of an evening's pleasure, cried the whole time,

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as did others. At the end, when every heart was beating in response to the brotherly greeting and farewell offered in the closing piece, "The Old Granite State," the parish clerk sprang up and called for three cheers for the Hutchinsons, which were given by as many as had unchoked voices. I think no one could have come away without a strong impression, consciously or unconsciously entertained, of the good and beauty of a free nurture and exercise of our human powers. There must be many among us with powers, of one sort or another, equal to those of the Hutchinsons. If we could be wise, and take courage to follow the lead of our natures, it cannot be but that many of us might be as free, as simple, as happy, as beneficent as they, as able as they to speak to hearts and to awaken souls.

As for me, I crossed the road to my own gate in a mood which the Hutchinsons described to me as theirs when I entered the room where we met for the last time:--  "We are happy and sad," said they. I was happy and sad: and, I dare say, so was everybody who was at that moment returning home from that green spot under the trees. The most moving thing, however, was yet to come. When they had dressed themselves for a night stage to Patterdale, and had supped, and said farewell, and seated themselves in the carriage, they stopped the horses on my terrace for yet another minute, and sent forth a sweet and most mournful chorus of farewell to me, in notes swelling and dying away in the still night air. I was "happy and sad," as I turned in to my solitary lamp. I could not let the glass door be closed, late as it was: but again and again I went out on the terrace to look for more stars to light my friends' way over the mountain pass, and to watch the summer lightning  -  not without some impression that their sweet strain of farewell was still floating over the valley. To me it can never die away into silence.

The Knoll, Ambleside, June 20, 1846.

Postscript. - Mr Hartley Coleridge was present at the concert; and the effect on him of Abby Hutchinson's singing of the "May Queen" may be judged of by the following sonnet, which he permits me to append to this paper:

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How joyously and delightfully passed each and every hour through that starlight, moonlight and twilight night, as we posted far away over the winding mountain paths leading toward our destination. As we thought of its being only a couple of weeks before we should be sailing for our home, it seemed as though the best wine had been reserved for the last. The scenes thrilled us with such delight and  -  accompanied as they were with the memory of the beautiful scenes and friendships we had just left behind  -  so enthused us that we bade farewell to sleep and joyously and mirthfully sang our songs and conversed with each other until sunshine dawned, enlivening our pathway till we alighted at Patterdale. In Scotland during June the twilight lasts all through the night.

It could not be possible for mortal creatures to enjoy more of the beauties of nature than this  -  one of our brightest experiences in all our tour, with a background as interesting as the picture itself, and it was all without alloy.

Leaving our chartered team, we entered the regular stage-coach at five o'clock on the morning of the next day, and were driven through a very interesting portion of Scotland leading to Glasgow, where we arrived at seven o'clock in the evening.

As we passed through Dumfries, the driver kindly drew up his horses and allowed me to jump into the field where Burns ploughed up the mouse; I picked a few daisies which I have pressed in my book as a memento.

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Learning that the great poet was entombed in the churchyard of that town, we resolved to visit it. While they were changing the horses, we hastened to the spot, and as we could not wait for the gate to be unlocked, scrambled over the wall, and as if by instinct took a direct course to the grave. We found his monument, the finest among four or five hundred, on which his figure was sculptured in marble holding a plough. We then went into the church and sat in the pew once occupied by the Scottish Bard. 'Twas solemn to be there. As we proceeded on our way we passed a marketwoman with some strawberries. I purchased a shilling's worth. When we arrived at the hotel, found Judson and Asa had also purchased a bag. We had a feast indeed, sweetened, and with cream.

As we advanced onward in Scotland, we perceived marked characteristics of their nationality in the inquisitive countenances of the people.

One of the curiosities which attracted our attention here was a tree which was pointed out to us, said to have been planted by the great Scotch warrior, William Wallace, when a boy.

One of the great annoyances throughout Great Britain which we could not become reconciled to, was the exorbitant perquisites of the servants at the hotels, public places and resorts. Every one of the employees, from clerk to bootblack, came streaming in after we had paid our regular charges, with their demands for perquisites. From the clerk even to the chamber-maid, every one wanted their fee. It was both extortion and imposition upon us. In the present case we had paid our fare, some fifty dollars, for a ride in a coach  -  higher rates than we paid in our own country; but as we approached the city where we were to take the train,

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we learned from some persons that the "whip" intended to come the "Scotch grab" on us for the sum of five shillings each, and there were five of us. I ordered him to leave the baggage at the depot where we were to take the cars for Glasgow; instead of that, he deposited the baggage right opposite the tavern. We had barely time to get it to the depot, but we immediately chartered a hand-cart, and found a man ready and willing to take it as fast as he could for the sum of three or four shillings. As I secured my tickets I met this driver at the train. He was exceedingly insulting. I said to him, "You can't come the 'Scotch grab' on these Yankees." The police were very near, if there had been any outbreak.

Usually while we were travelling any great distance we took a regular first-class coach, with a door on each side, which held six or eight passengers, and we were fastened in by the train-man. The coaches had very fine seats, cushioned thoroughly for the whole length of the body and with arms upholstered.

It was frequently the case at the starting of a train from some of the depots, that a man was deputized with trumpet in hand to play some patriotic air familiar to the people travelling, and that was a signal for the starting of the train. This man would get partly through his tune when we would start off with the music ringing in our ears. The trumpeter at Manchester would recognize us as we approached the train, and would play some of our national music, "Yankee Doodle," "Star Spangled Banner," "Sweet Home," "Auld Lang Syne," which we considered a compliment to the Hutchinsons.

Every nation, as far as we have learned its history, has been inclined to dissipation in some particular, persuing

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courses that are both injurious to health and demoralizing. The great tobacco habit is an illustration. Tobacco was an Indian weed discovered in America only about three hundred years ago. It was first introduced into Europe for medicinal purposes, but afterwards resulted in an imitation of the native aborigines. The white man became addicted to the habit of using this narcotic on account of its so affecting and exhilarating the nervous system. Though there was a heavy embargo on this product, yet the people of Great Britain would not forego the privilege of the substance, but secured it at whatever cost, to their mouth's content.

It was evident that the Scotch people in Glasgow had embraced and practised the habit of using it in the form of snuff. Sunday morning I repaired to one of the kirks. The moment the door was opened, the pervasive atmosphere of the place came with such a stunning power upon my olfactories that at first shock I was inclined to withdraw, but staggered through the thick fog and was ushered to a seat with a large congregation around me, and soon observed that the male portion of the audience at very short intervals were taking their pinch of snuff from a box situated almost directly in front of each of them upon a desk. The preacher took his text from that passage of Scripture, "He that is filthy let him be filthy still," the only passage in the Scripture that appears to sanction the habit; and often in his gesticulations, pronouncing the curse upon original sin and sinners, he would reach his hand to a deposit shelved under his Bible, and pausing in his sentence, as he was about to pronounce his anathema upon the poor sinner of old, he would snuff his tobacco, and then finish out his gesture.

For exercise we perambulated about the city and

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noticed the peculiarities of the buildings; some were very ancient in their architecture, some six and seven stories high on the great thoroughfare, the upper stories overhanging the sidewalks in a very ancient style.

We learned to our surprise of the strict observance of Sunday and the general acceptance of that day. In a private apartment of our hotel some one of us happened to sing a few bars. The landlord came to our room and requested us not to sing a note, as it was annoying to a divine who was boarding in the same house. Of course, we refrained from further disturbing incidents and determined that while we were sojourning in Turkey we would do as the turkeys did.

The following Monday we gave our first concert and were received with the greatest éclat and vociferous applause. Such a greeting was exceedingly gratifying to us, and the tender recollections of that scene and reception will ever abide with us as an honor from those peculiar and interesting people.

The United States Consul showed us great courtesy, and there came a request that we should repeat the concert, but our engagement at Edinburgh [or, perhaps, Stirling] the following night prevented our remaining. The next day we started for the Highlands of Scotland. We visited Loch Lomond and the Mount Ben Lomond, 3,200 feet above the level of the sea. This is the land of Rob Roy. The atmosphere was most invigorating and electric, constantly ministering to our esthetic joy as we viewed from this height the beautiful lakes and the grand scenery of the country, the silver cascade and waterfall perfecting the scene. The tempest, too, to make the scene more beautiful, was upon us. A sudden gust of wind coming upon my umbrella nearly threw me over the precipice into the raging stream. Seeing my

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dangerous position, my brother Asa sprang and seized me and balanced me back into life.

Thence down the lake we sailed across Loch Lomond to the opposite shore. Here they supplied us with mountain ponies, and we crossed five miles over the mountains. Halting upon a crest, we gathered in a group and sang Sir Walter Scott's words to our adapted music, "McGregor's Gathering," in full view of the lake.

Several Scotchmen gathered around and listened, expressing great delight with the song, the words of which were, of course, familiar to them.

Descending to the landing, we took a steamboat, seven miles across the lake, and saw the cave of Rob Roy. We stopped at a hotel named Ardcheanachrochdam. We mounted the hill near this unspeakable hotel, and sang "God save the Queen," and "Yankee Doodle," then passed on to Sterling where we gave a popular concert and were very well received.

Leaving Sterling en route for Edinburgh, we took a seat on the top of the coach for the pleasure of viewing the country, and, arriving at the station, took cars to our destination. On our arrival we improved the opportunity of viewing the capital of Scotland, where we beheld many places of much interest. We saw Scott's monument, which was the finest specimen of architecture I have seen for many a day. We also visited Sterling Castle. We here met Mr. Comb, the phrenologist. We went to the Parliament House, and to George

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Harriett's institution for poor children. This, I think, is the best method a man can take to use his money and do good. There were eighty children in this institution. Edinburgh University, or College, was one of the grandest buildings I had seen since leaving New York. The only monument we saw in this institution was that of Robert Burns. Bonaparte's table, which he used while a prisoner at St. Helena, we also saw. We then went on to Arthur's Seat, the view from which has been so magnificently described by Carlyle; and thence to Royal Chapel, where among the many curiosities, we saw the bones of kings and queens of Scotland. We went to the Tower and saw the crown of Scotland that Sir Walter Scott found in a little room in the walls of the structure; also a very large cannon that was used in the time of the Scotch Rebellion, belted with wrought-iron hoops, one and one-half inches thick, and six inches wide, a rude-looking piece of ordinance.

Returning to Liverpool by way of Glasgow, we met many of our recently made friends, who congratulated us on our safe arrival. We then gave two more concerts before our departure, the time intervening being spent in social gatherings. We took the opportunity to invite all our English friends to Uncle Sam's domain, as he was "rich enough to give them all a farm."

On the morning of July 4th we went on board the Cambria. Many dear friends from the different parts of the country came to see us off. Among them were Douglas Jerrold, Frederick Douglass, Henry Clapp, Mr. Ireland, of the Manchester Guardian, Mrs. Bright, the Misses Brady, and many others.

On the trip we had frequent gatherings on board, at which we entertained the people, introducing many

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of our nautical songs, interesting to the captain and supernumeraries as well as the passengers.

A London cockney having shipped on board, bound for Canada, made himself a nuisance by lying in the thoroughfare or walk on board, where we would have to step over or on him in passing a given point towards the awning. Day after day we would find the man in that position, stupid with his homesickness and seasickness. Some friends had gathered to hear us sing a song. At the closing of the melodious song, "Happy and Free," and while the others were applauding, this man awoke from his stupor, turned up his face and ejaculated this sentence as a compliment to the performance, "That's infernal good." After hearing this song he never spoke more, and we passed on. Who would not sell a farm and go to sea?

Nearing the American coast, the warm, genial earth gladdened our visions at last, its beauty enhanced by a splendid sunset watched by passengers and crew, pronounced as the finest view that they had seen. One Englishman in his enthusiasm remarked, "Well, if that is a specimen of your sunsets, I shall want to stay in America."

About midnight the pilot was taken on board; and when morning came, with a fair wind, the sails were set and wafted us onward, and we had a safe conduct to Halifax. We saw the sun rise once more in America; we went ashore and saw the forts; took on some ice, provisions, etc., with twenty-five passengers, then went on to Boston. The day passed merrily by with high hopes: we speculated with one another on the prospect of again meeting our American friends. The ship was merry with song; and as a complimentary reminder of our nativity, as we passed around the rocks of Marblehead

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the captain dined us upon pork and beans. The occasion was notable for friendships and congratulations. We sang our songs, and in the evening we gave a concert in the cabin, and all went "merry as a marriage bell."

Notwithstanding the seeming idiosyncrasies of that confiding and capable officer, Captain Judkins of the Cambria, we treasured him among the nobility, such a one as England is proverbial for placing at the head of her greatest and most responsible enterprises; Captain Judkins was a friend and brother.

The following day, July 17th, we arrived in Boston at two o'clock. Passing Cape Cod we saw twenty-five fishing schooners all in one company. We were all jubilant, especially Brother Jesse, who having caught a glimpse of Lynn and High Rock, seemed to be overcome with delight, and going to and fro, scattered smiles to high and low, all the time in great danger of losing his hat. We all joined in singing "Home again, from a foreign shore."

We were greeted at the landing, as millions have been before us, by our dear friends, with whom we were glad indeed to meet. Among the crowd at the landing stood Elizur Wright, editor of the Chronotype. We made many pleasant calls on our Boston friends, and were once again greeted by our dear friend Francis Jackson and his daughter Hatty, on Hollis Street.

Having been absent eleven months, we treasured the experience of that period as among the brightest, loveliest and most profitable of our lives.

We then hastened to a happier meeting and greeting at the home farm, which we had left the year before  -  father, mother, brothers and sisters, wife and little one. We met with many queries and questions  -  and they

"Among the crowd at the landing stood Elizur Wright":   In 1846, Elizur Wright founded the Boston Chronotype, a newspaper that took an antislavery stance and seems to have published both a daily and a weekly edition. The paper's history appears to have been a bit complicated, but the short version of the story is that Wright edited the paper for the next several years. Ultimately, the Chronotype merged with the Boston Commonwealth.

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became very monotonous, though coming from friends and neighbors as they met us in our perambulations about the town at every corner  -  like these:  "How did you like sailing?"  "Did you see any big fish in the ocean?"  "Did you meet with any accidents on the way going and coming?"  "Sure, by Jabers, did you see O'Connell?"  "Did you visit Scotland?"  "How do you like the English brogue?"  "What was the highest price for tickets you got at your concerts? We heard you got eight dollars a ticket."  "How much did you take at any one concert?"  "Do you think they'll be inclined to go to war with us again? I guess we could whip them out every time."  "Are they inclined to aid us in our great struggle for emancipation, and will they be sincere in it?"  And, to cap the climax, "How did you like the queen?"  By the way, Jesse was the only one of us who saw Victoria, after all.

Upon our arrival from England, we were informed by a relative that grandfather Leavitt was very ill and was extremely desirous of seeing his grandchildren. I gathered up some material for his comfort, my brothers and sisters contributing to this donation, carried them to the house and presented them to my Uncle William, who had charge of grandfather. I found him lying on his couch, but he still had his memory and senses. He was then ninety-four years old. He expressed great delight at our safe arrival, and said, "I shall never see you again." In a very few weeks after[,] we heard of his demise, on the 29th of August, 1846.

Hanging upon the wall of his room was a lithograph picture of brothers and sisters, the quartet, that we presented the family some little time before we left for England. We were told by our Uncle William Leavitt that daily our grandfather requested him to take down

"And, to cap the climax":   This brings up one of the most persistent rumors connected with the Hutchinson Family vocal group. According to the story, the Hutchinson Family entertained Queen Victoria. And because they sang for her so sweetly, she gave them a shawl. At some later time, the shawl was divided in two. One half of the shawl at least is still in the hands of Hutchinson Family descendants. Clearly John W. Hutchinson is telling us that this never happened  -  at least it never happened the way the story is commonly told. Members of the Hutchinson Family quartet never even saw the queen, so surely they didn't sing for her. How the family got possession of the shawl is unknown. On the other hand, John is also telling us that Jesse Hutchinson, Jr., did see Victoria. It's entirely possible, then, that Jesse sang for her  -  with or without other vocalists  -  and that she gave him the shawl. But that's mere speculation, and the mystery of this shawl remains.

"I gathered up some material for his comfort":   Judging from the Western Association of Leavitt Families Web site (www.leavittfamilies.org), Uncle William would be William Leavitt (b. ca. 1773,  d. 1872), the oldest of Andrew Leavitt's children.

"In a very few weeks after, we heard of his demise":   Do you know where grandfather Andrew Leavitt is buried?  Do you know whether there are any existing likenesses of him?

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that picture, bring it to where his feeble sight could distinguish the individual members, and as he kissed them he would murmur a prayer that we might safely return and that he might behold us once more.

The funeral was arranged at the Congregational church, of which he was a member in good standing. He had assisted in building it seventy-four years before. During the services we arose from among the mourners, stepped into the aisle and sang "The Angel's Invitation to the Pilgrim."

The occasion was very impressive and one of deep interest. He being well known by the citizens and the oldest man in the town, great sympathy was manifested.

A very excellent notice of him appeared from the pen of Richard Boyleston, the editor of the Farmer's Cabinet, his familiar acquaintance.

I here submit several verses, the lines of which were penned some years subsequent to this by Brother Jesse, in memory of his life and demise.

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He married three times, and had nine children by his first wife and two by his second wife. His youngest daughter Nancy took for a partner a brother of the great preacher Theodore Parker, of Boston. The youngest son, Kendrick, following the calling of his father, pursued his trade as a carpenter in the city of Cincinnati, where, in the very early days of slaveocracy he assisted and was a member of the first anti-slavery society of that vicinity, in which Salmon P. Chase acted an important part. He also lived to the grand old age of ninety-three.

Notes by Alan Lewis