I came here by rail this morning. Finding the roads were very intricate and the weather threatening, I took a pony chaise with a boy as a guide and drove over a pleasant country abundant in picturesque old houses to Castle Champs—or Camps—near which are ruins of Camp Castle, and traces of field works. The guide posts here directed us to “the Bumpsteds:” Bumpsted Helions and Bumpsted Steeple. The first is called by the people generally “Helens.” Having reached it we were directed by the sign post again to Homsted Green.

This turned us down a narrow, ill kept lane, which after following a crooked mile became a narrow irregular common or green. I stopped at a farm house here and asked for Olmsted Hall. It was the next farm. Turning into another and meaner lane, we came to a collection of Barns and farm buildings. I asked a boy in one of them if it was Olmsted Hall. He said it was.

I desired to see the gentleman who resided in it. He called another boy who was driving the horses of a threshing mill. He was a mere clown and not of age I should think. He said he was Mr. Ambrose—and what did I wish? I gave him my name and country and said I desired to sec the Hall—giving him reasons for my interest in it.

He conducted me to the house. It was a mere cottage of one story with a steep slated roof, two long low windows, walls of stone, white—washed. I went in through a narrow entry, to the kitchen. It was a room perhaps 15 ft. by 20 in size—with a brick floor-had one of the long windows and really was remarkable for an immensely wide fire place (eleven feet). This had been bricked up and furnished with a grate on each side of which were boxes, or closets, which formed scats when they were closed. I introduced myself to the boy’s Aunt here, who had lived in the house nearly 50 years, and who was pleased to see me and talk about it.

She could tell me nothing though of interest and never thought of it in any other way than as a farm house. It still belongs to the Queen’s College, Cambridge, and had been tenanted by this family for the last half century.

Passing through a short entry, out of which a narrow staircase ascended to some attic rooms (all very plain and common place), we entered another room of the same size as the kitchen, rather better furnished, the [351]

Olmsted Hall, County Essex, England

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The woman said that this had once been a fine large room, with oak wainscot. “And they used to call it the Hall.” But Mr. Ambrose had divided it, making another little room by a partition and had lathed & plastered it. The old fire place had been all bricked up (if there was one) and a large coal grate let in to the wall in its place. There was nothing whatever of the old room left unless it might be the window, which was seven sashes wide of small square panes of glass set in lead. But it had been a real “hall,” that’s certain.

Back of the house, hall or cottage was a little garden, well kept and well filled with sundry fruit trees, gooseberries, &c. It was well sheltered and fenced by a thick high hedge of hazel and hawthorn. Peeping through this I saw the water in the old Moat.

I went through the house again and passing out another door crossed the moat by a rude foot bridge. It was about ten feet wide, and not more than three to four deep. The whole inner bank was grown over by the hedge to within I foot of the water. There was just about enough in it for the ducks to swim in.

I followed it round the garden on three sides of the house, and for a considerable distance in front. A few rods had been filled up by Mr. Ambrose within fifty years. From the direction in which the ends pointed where they were stopped by the filling up, I should judge it had enclosed at least half an acre about the house, perhaps including the stables, &c.

I thought at first the original house might have extended in that direction, but I could find no evidence of it. There was a building which might have been once connected with the Hall, now used as a dairy and Brew house, formerly probably servants apartments and offices. The barns, &c. are modern, large, and numerous.

There are three hundred acres in the farm, some portion being grazing land. Ten laborers are employed upon it. The surface is low and undulating slightly. Near the house is the end of an extensive wood belonging to a nobleman. It may have been formerly a park.

I stayed an hour and a half around the house, and from two positions took a hasty outline of the premises, with minute notes from which an artist could paint you very correct and picturesque views. I don’t know as this rather diminutive Hall will much gratify your family pride. I rather think it does mine—quite as much as to have found the arms of some big murdering Baron over a dungeon door.

At all events, as I imagined the simple country life that had probably been enjoyed there, the narrow moat that sufficed to defend the home of the peaceful family and the kind lord of the secluded manor, the little hall and great hospitable fire place, I enjoyed in a considerable degree the pleasure of [353]

Olmsted Hall and Environs

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I picked a few leaves &c. as relics—among the rest, a branch of yew, the roots of which may have been planted by an Olmested.

I then drove to Bumpsted Helions, and found the Parish Clerk. He had no old records, but said there was a chest of them at the Vicarage. He did not know how old. The Vicar was lately dead, and I could not see them. He expected a new vicar soon.

He promised that when he could he would examine them, and if he found the name of Olmsted, would inform me. I told him he should be paid for any trouble he took if he wrote me. He went with me to the Parish Church, a rather interesting little plain old edifice. There were no very old tombstones with legible inscriptions.

We then returned to Saffron Walden (generally called Walden). (It is about ten miles from Olmsted Hall.) There I visited the Parish Church. It is considered a very fine specimen of the Pointed Gothic, but after getting familiar with the Norman and Romanesque Gothic on the Continent, I am out of patience with the taste which prefers this flimsy frippery style, and can hardly enjoy it as I used to. I could not find the name of Olmsted among the tombstones. (There were several Catlens.)

I asked two persons who told me they were conversant with a great part of Essex if they had known any families of our name. They had not, nor had ever heard it except as applied to “the Hall.”

I finished this in Oxford. I wished to have written a letter to Cousin Charles about Olmsted Hall, but I can not possibly get time, and you must send him this with my love.

It would be easy to have the parish records of any town in Essex searched, by directing to the Parish Clerk. And I presume the Heralds in London would rake up the arms, &c., for a consideration. Stevens would make enquiries if you care to know more about it. I congratulate myself that if I have not learned that we are from Olmsted Hall, I have not discovered the contrary.

We remained in London a day or two longer than we wished to. I wanted to see Mr. Parkes, the great draining engineer, which I could not do till Tuesday. And John’s bowels not recovering a healthy state, he thought it prudent to keep quiet.

Yesterday we left—travelling by rail to Windsor. We saw little at Windsor—some fine trees, and a great overgrown castle-palace, which looked anything but comfortable and homely. We walked six miles and dined under a hay stack at noon. Our afternoon’s walk from Great Marlow to Henley was about the most charming we have had. I believe as far as such scenery goes I enjoy it as much as the Rhine.

This morning we walked to Reading and then here by Rail, where we overtook Charles. It’s midst of long vacation. The town streets dusty in [355]repairs and disappointing. We shall spend Sunday at Stratford on Avon.

John stood the walk better than he had expected to—indeed is quite well and reinvigorated. Only he got so foot sore yesterday, we could not well have walked much further than we did (eight miles) this morning.

Sunday last, we were at Reverend Mr. Morell’s, the author of Philosophy of Religion—reviewed in three or four numbers of the North British [Review] last year. A friend of Dr. Bushnell’s. He is young, clever and very kind to us. He took us to Wilkinson, the English translator of the voluminous works of Swedenborg. He showed us manuscripts of S’s. He is a noble-man—was very genial and good with us. I have not [seen] men that impressed more as a character mingling the good with the great. We also saw here Hugh Doherty the French Socialist—a leader—and correspondent of Greeley’s. We had some conversation with him which improved our opinion of him.

We have engaged our passage (Paid it, J. & I) in the City of Glasgow, 4th October.

Our expenses from Liverpool to London for board & lodging were 71 cents a day! Tell it to the unbelieving Jews! (Our other expenses add about equal sum for rail, guides, &c.)

We received a short letter from you day before yesterday. Some letters (about Sir. R. Peel’s death, &c.) you seem not to have received. I wrote a long letter last week. I have several business letters to write by this steamer and at this time for England—which must excuse my shortness now.

John is quite well and in good spirits.

Dear Father, Fred has told you that I have got quite well again & that we are on our way towards home. We had a very pleasant walk here. That is, we walked 25 miles & rode 40—rather hurrying on, in consequence of our detention at London.

Next week we shall be occupied with Warwickshire & after that shall hurry on to Ireland & Scotland—where everyone says Fred will find his great objects in far greater perfection than in England. I can hardly imagine finer farming than we see here.

The thing most noticeable in it is the immense prodigality of labor—nothing shirked, or slurred over for want of time. We pass immense fields of turnips of 30 acres often. One we saw must have been 60—all broad cast. You can imagine the labor required to thin them out & keep clean. The tops of some the earliest planted cover the ground. Others later are scarcely making their appearance.

The harvest is going on—the wheat harvest nearly over. A great many occupied in making stacks—of great size & beautifully covered & finished. So far as we can judge, the corn harvest is very fine.

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The stubble fields take from the lively aspect the scenery had in spring, but most of them are immediately turned under, harrowed & rolled, so that the brown earth contrasts very prettily with the green of the rowen grass & the turnips.

Fred is very sorry that things should have got behind hand for want of labor, at the farm; he was so particular in cautioning John about it. However, now it can’t be helped. Tell us please whether there were any pears on the young orchard in front of the house—and whether the grafts on the big, unfortunate pear tree succeeded in living?

I must try & write some of you at home next week. At present, goodbye.