With the Compliments of Tbos. Conant, of Osbawa, Canada.

OF LYNDON, OAKHAM, ENGLAND (May 14th, 1894).


It was on a Whit Monday morning, and a universal holiday in England, that I took a Midland Railway train at St. Pancras, London, and ran without a stop, in a little over an hour, to Kettering. As I looked about old London Streets on leaving, the very air seemed filled with smoke, and even at Church the day before, a cloud of smoke interposed, in Spurgeon’s Tabernacle, between me and the minister. Then great as London is and acknowledged the superior city of the world, I was not loathe to leave it on that morning.

By way of preface, I may add, that since the 13th of January last, I have been travelling, not only over modern and well known Europe, but have as well ascended the Nile, quite 800 miles, and afterwards ridden at least 550 miles on horseback, over the Holy Land, tenting out at nights, and making a special effort to visit all the places made celebrated by the mission of our Saviour; and now being on my way homeward, although with a much depleted wardrobe, and in a battered condition generally, I avail myself of the opportunity to call on our English kinsman. The matter of the wardrobe, I am specially mentioning for the use of comparison, as will hereafter appear. Mr. E. O. Conant, of Portland, Me., our historian, urged me to visit East Budleigh, County Devon, England, but having travelled so many consecutive days, I do not feel that I want to be locked up in English compartment cars for ten hours more, as the journey to Devon would require., and I therefore, decline to make that journey at this time.

Well, arriving at Kettering and drawing a full breath of pure air, free from smoke, being the first for days, I take a cross country road at once, and in about half an hour I arrive at Manton Station, that, I being advised by Mr. Conant by telegraph, as nearer to his home than Oakham, but Oakham still really is the town about that locality.


On alighting from the car, a tall young man, in a long blue coat and a high silk hat, and having a cockade fastened on it, but more striking still the Conant stag on the big brass buttons on his coat, and his hand is at the salute, and "Mr. Conant has sent his carriage for you sir,” he says to me. You must not carry your grip you know in England, and so I resign mine to his care, and am quickly placed in a very comfortable closed carriage, drawn by two good horses, and away we go, two of Mr. Conant's men, in livery, on the box and I alone in the carriage.


Then we wind along lanes, hedge bordered with the hawthorn just coming to blow, and the undulating landscape presenting an unbroken sheen of bright, clean green, very pleasant to look upon, and quite finished as it were everywhere I may look. Not like America, where so much is yet to be done and such great unsightly gaps left to be put in order, when we get older. The lands are almost all of them in grass, and cattle are feeding upon them, and resting under the trees which dot the whole country about and go far to help make the scene more attractive than our treeless landscapes in America. Truly there is a charm in rural England which one must see in order that he may really believe, that it is so beautiful, and cosy, and likewise so superior to ours in America.


About two and one-half miles from the station, and we come to a thicket of trees and a stone wall, and a gate, and a lodge at the gate.

Lodge and Gate

It is opened, and we drive along a nicely gravelled winding path among trees of many varieties, and flowers in great profusion, and reach the front of the Conant homestead, as pictured in Mr. E. O. Conants book. From the gate no house was visible, and the mansion’s near presence is only made manifest, from that point, by the lodge of the Gatekeeper. Quickly the Coachman gets off his seat and pulls the bell, and a Butler (who was very much better dressed than I was,) appeared, bowing low, and in a very soft well modulated voice, invited me into the library and said that "Mr. Conant would be glad to see me;" and I hang my hat and overcoat upon the rack, while my grips are deposited close thereunto. Down a splendidly oak wainscotted hall, past a full armored warrior (which Mr. C after explained was word by one of his forefathers on his mother's side) and the Butler ushers me into the library, with a bow. Two young ladies come forward and most kindly take my hand, with the remark, "I am glad to see you," from each one, and "may I ask your names;" I blurt out, when they quickly tell me they are Conants and daughters of Mr. E. N. Conant. Just how the talk began and the "ice got broken," I cannot quite remember, but it did get broken, and the talk flowed freely for a few minutes, when in a halting, shuffling manner, a man came in at the door, whom I quickly recognized as Mr. C. himself, from the photo' already sent me by him.

Ernest William Proby Conant

His greeting was indeed most cordial and put me at my ease at once, while he explains to me that he unfortunately has a very sore heel, and is so sorry that he cannot walk with me, as had fully anticipated, and quaintly adds too that he "fully supposes its the gout," and now that he is 74 thinks, perhaps he has only to have the "troublesome complaint as others have, at that age, who lives well."


During the general pleasant flow of conversation, I many times call him Mr. Conant, making it a long O, you know, as we do in America, when he tells me, that since our folks came from Britanny, before the Revocation of the Edict of Nates, that our origin was certainly French, and that we ought to pronounce our name as the French would this day. Con, as in Constantinople, and ant, as in redundant, gives you fellow fellow Conants, in America, Mr. E. N. C's contention as to the right way to pronounce our name. And he said further, too, that there is still somewhere in Brittanny a gateway called Conan to this day. More than this, he remarked (by way of digression) that he yearly goes to Scotland salmon fishing, and that in Argyleshire he found a little stone chapel, very ancient, still called St. Conan, and the Conan, in both cases, is for our own name of Conant, the final t added, to make it English. So you see, Conant friends, Mr. E. N. C. is very probably right in his contention, and I for one shall, in future, pronounce my name Con-ant, and I hope you may see your way to do likewise.


Just about this time the Butler comes to the library door, and in a very low tone, bowing, says: "Lunch is on the table," and preparatory, I am shown down to my room that I may try and get off a coating of London smoke or grime before I go to the table. Imagine my surprise when, on gaining my room, I find that some servant has opened my grip and got out my hair and tooth brushes, and tooth powder, and slippers, and nightshirt (now upon my pillow nicely folded,) and my razor and shaving cap, and a clean, spare pair of hose partly turned and placed at the bedside that I may, without an effort, draw them on at will. For the nonce, I honestly confess, I was ashamed to bring to this old baronial seat, so slim a wardrobe, and such battered toilet articles, and my long, long travel, in foreign lands, shall be my only excuse on that score. And this is a part of a valet's duties, in old England, yet today. To the dining room, again oak panelled, and ceiled also, while several oil paintings, look down from the walls, of his forefathers, some of them quite 200 years old. As I walk along the hall I pass over tiles, let into the floor, and again the Conant stag appears, in those tiles, at every step, and I begin to more intensely realize that I am at last in a typical Conant home. At this mid-day lunch a profusion of cold meats are served and wines of three kinds.


The gouty heel of Mr. E. N. C. prevents him from walking with me over his 70 acres of garden and shrubbery, surrounding the ancestral home built about 1650 and likewise a lawn tennis party being expected, I go off alone.

First I pass the Conant village,

Lyndon Village

which consists of some neat stone houses - some of them slate covered and some thatched, and bordering along a winding street. Through a wooden gate, painted white,

opened by a little boy of 10 or so, and along a fine but narrow road, through another gate, just like the first, and a couple of miles to a little stone village on the hill side. Before I set out I was told about nightingales being plentiful, and now in song in a copse, near the small village, or corners as we would say, and so I turn into the copse, consisting mainly of scattered thorn bushes, and see rabbits (honestly and truly, without any exaggerations,) by the hundreds upon hundreds; indeed so plentiful are they, that they have furrowed the sod under my feet and their holes one has to avoid in walking. A few pheasants I scare up, but just now, during my visit, the sun being quite bright for England, not a nightingale do I hear, but I am amply repaid, without the nightingales even, for my walk.

Lyndon to North Luffenham Road

Turning back, I find some small boys about one of the gates mentioned before, and ask what they are doing here, and why they do not go and play? One of them very slyly remarks that "he opens the gyut" meaning gate, and I laugh immoderately at modern rural English.


When I gain the grounds about the house, I hear shouts of laughter and see among the bushes girls and boys flirting about, and I join the goodly company of roysters. Now these English girls are fair, strong, hearty, but sly and not very talkative. One young miss, of I should say 15, I heard remark, "that a few days previously she went off at three in the morning, with the otter hounds, and waded back and forth, along and across the stream, until five in the afternoon." She said she came home went and hungry, and then wondered if she had "done too much that day," and I do not answer, but laugh. Conant girls in America, what do you say to that, and when will you be able to be up to your English cousins?


At five o'clock we sat down to tea and cakes, and sandwiches, as well as tea, were served to us, from solid silver vessels bearing the full Conant arms, which Mr. E. N. C. explained to me he had inherited, and likewise many other coats of arms, and plate, from his mother's side, as well as from his father's.


One of the Misses Conant, disengaged, gets the key and goes with me through the shrubbery to the little English Church, right in the corner of the grounds.

Lyndon Church Tower

You who have seen the picture of the English Church at East Budleigh, Devon, where the Conant's are buried, will at a word understand me, when I say that this church is just like that one, only smaller. Within is an organ at which one of the Conant girls presides (Miss Eleanor, I think), and a stone font, for baptismal purposes, very many years older than the church, which is older than the house even, so this font must be at least 300 years old. In a small grave yard, by the church side, I noticed grave stones forming part of the wall of the enclosure on one side of the church. Mr. E. N. C. had before explained to me that the Conants in England had very much given their services to the English Church and that they had been very religiously inclined generally.


Mr. E. N. C.'s. estate here in Rutland, (the smallest county in England,) consists of 2000 acres of the lands I have been before speaking of and 4000 more acres in Lincolnshire. Mainly, I think, these lands came to him by his mother, who was descended from a Baronette.

Before the half-past nine o'clock breakfast, next morning, I walked a couple of miles, across hedge-bound fields, Old Hallto the original old Baronial home or Mr. E. N. C.'s mother's folks, and here I saw a stone house, built in 1550, now owned by Mr. C and occupied by one of his tenants. Most quaint indeed it was, with its stone walls, a stone columns four porch supports, and oak floor, stairs, and wainscotting. In an oak cupboard in the kitchen, before the open fireplace, where the old iron spit still turns the roast, I saw some metal panels, in the cupboards, with the date 1643 perforated in them. Just think of this old land, and does it ever change! For 251 years not a change in this old Baronial house, of small windows, and low ceiling, and stone and oak floors, and yet even today, will outlast many modern houses now building.

About these 6000 acres Mr. E. N. C. said he rents for $4 to $7 per acre per year, and that they would sell for about $200 per acre, bad as the times are now in England. So you see "the sinews of war" are here for this elegant sumptuous county home in old England, and I am sure we all glory in the fact that a Conant is a person of so great consequence from the brands of family, who did not emigrate to America in 1623, as our forefather Roger did in that year.


Mr. E. N. C. is not very tall, has a long bushy beard, just a little sandy, and rather a prominent nose. He read law and practiced for 2 years in London, but remarked "that he did not do much law practice, for he was too well off to stick to it." Was Sheriff of the County of Rutland one year, and got his appointment from the government. Has been in the County Council for many years, and now, since the new County Councils Act of the British Parliament, is a member of that largely increased body, but is appointed by those chosen by popular vote. Dislikes universal sufferage, and would not put himself in such a way that his tenants would have the privilege of voting against him, and yet I hear outside, that he always has been a most exceptionally good landlord, very mild and all universally speak well of him and respect him. On my asking if Mr. F. O. Conant's contention, that the Conants do not seek high office or prominent positions, is right, he answers, "that as far as he knows, Mr F. O. C. is right. In his own case he never ran for parliament nor any other office, but has been resident magistrate ever since he has been a man, but by far prefers his own beautiful, even if secluded home, and his library of a couple of thousand volumes, and his horses and carriages, to the sweets of office of any kind. The writer hereof, by way of confirmation, thinks to he might today have been a member of the Canadian House of Commons had he desired it, and made the effort, but he, like Mr. E. N. C., does not care fore office of any kind. So on the whole, fellow Conants, don't you think Mr. E. O. C., as well as Mr. E. N. C.'s contention, on that score, are correct! "Thinks all the Conants, know matter where they are, will naturally be Conservatives; hates universal sufferage; upholds the House of Lords for thwarting Gladstone; thinks Gladstone would do anything for votes, but would not hurt England if he could help it, and turns to me interrogatively, and hopes I am not in favour of Home Rule for Ireland." Since I am a guest for the first time I cannot afford to argue the point, and I laugh and answer, "that I was born in America."

A full pipe organ is in another grand room in the old house - old indeed as America itself, and it is driven by water, from a spring at a higher level than the house and I hint that I would like to hear its tone. Their organ has pipes quite twelve feet high and is as large as most church organs, and one of the young Conant girls gives most sweet toned sacred music from their long throats. Another young Conant girl is an artist, in watercolors, but all seem to wear their accomplishments lightly and are very modest. One son-in-law, a Mr. Vaudelcur, in the War Office, London, I saw and likewise a Mr Whitmore, in the Government Audit Office, London, too, was present, and very pleasant persons I found them both. The sons 44, and 46 years old respectively, and bachelors both, I did not see, they being absent on the Continent. Our English kinsmen, I am sure, we all have reason to be proud of. He plainly acknowledges that we are all from the same family, and therefore, we can, with propriety, claim him for out family relative. He is a man of culture, much respected, wealthy, and one who keeps up, even during this day of the everlasting changes, phantasmagoria like of modern days, a typical good old English home, the equal if not the peer, of any, we any one of us Conants possess in America to day, and yet allow me to add, a little egotistically perhaps, that I thought I had a pretty good rural home and library, and surroundings in Canada, where I reside, but I freely acknowledge, Mr. E. N. C. has by far a better one.


A full dress dinner followed that five o'clock tea, at half past seven. Ladies and gentlemen in full evening dress, and again my scant wardrobe, the fag end of four and a half months, travel was distressingly conspicuous, but I gallantly as possible, did my best to hand one of the ladies a seat at the board, glossing over my deficiencies in the wardrobe particular. At the well served and bountifully supplied table we sat with the ladies for an hour, and after their withdrawal, quite a half more, while the wine flowed freely, the festive days of our English projenitors came back so very, very vividly to me. Just this time in my life, perhaps, I regretted my inability to partake of the wine so generously offered and produced, no doubt in my honour. Somehow, friends, I can't for "I am not built that way," and wines or liquors, or beers, I cannot drink, and I had to let them go by default. If I am not too free indulging my pen, I wish to say, without giving offence to any one, much less to my host, that I think the free use of wines, during these days of temperance reforms, among us English speaking peoples, not quite the right example to set before our rising generations, and herein I say I object to this feature of our English cousins' life and home.


Remember I have absent during my pilgrimage in the Holy Land and other lands over four months from the best woman in the world, Mrs. Thos. Conant, at home, and I cannot accept Mr. E. N. C.'s many times repeated invitations to stay longer. A four-wheeled dog cart takes me to the depot. Mr. E. N. C. was thrown upon the horses haunches, from a two-wheeled dog cart, and so had this splendid four-wheeled one made, that he cannot be thrown forward, and its as fine a vehicle as we can produce in America to-day. So I hie myself away to Liverpool, and get on board the S.S. Teutonic to dance me across the broad billows in less than seven days, at an average of over 500 miles per day. On this steamship I write these notes.


Will you kindly write me, after perusing these lines, what you think of Mr. E. N. C.'s manner of pronouncing our name, and any other thoughts which may occur to you in reference hereto.

Allow me to subscribe myself as,
Yours very sincerely,
Oshawa, Canada.
May 24, 1894