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An American Four-in-Hand in Britain

by Andrew Carnegie · English · Gutenberg #39790 · 510,197 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: An American Four-in-Hand in Britain

Author: Andrew Carnegie


        
Release date: May 25, 2012 [eBook #39790]

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/39790

Credits: Produced by Charlene Taylor, Melissa McDaniel and the
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK AN AMERICAN FOUR-IN-HAND IN BRITAIN ***




Produced by Charlene Taylor, Melissa McDaniel and the
Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
(This file was produced from images generously made
available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)







Transcriber's Note:

  Inconsistent hyphenation and spelling in the original document have
  been preserved.  Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.

  Italic text is denoted by _underscores_ and bold text by =equal
  signs=.

  Page 51:  "_Aa_leck not El-eck" might have a diacritical mark over
            the a.
  Page 63:  "I've 'earn tell" possibly should be "I've 'eard tell".
  Page 261:  The frontispiece cited was not included in this printing.
  Page 318:  "caller" possibly should be "calmer".
  Page 326:  "Frith" possibly should be "Firth".


      AN
      AMERICAN FOUR-IN-HAND
      IN BRITAIN

      BY
      ANDREW CARNEGIE

      NEW YORK
      CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
      1899.




      COPYRIGHT, 1883, 1886, BY
      CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS.

      Press of J. J. Little & Co.
      Astor Place, New York




      I DEDICATE THESE PAGES
      TO
      MY FAVORITE HEROINE,
      My Mother.




_PREFACE._


_The publication of this book renders necessary a few words of
explanation. It was originally printed for private circulation among a
few dear friends--those who were not as well as those who were of the
coaching party--to be treasured as a souvenir of happy days. The house
which has undertaken the responsibility of giving it a wider circulation
believed that its publication might give pleasure to some who would not
otherwise see it. It is not difficult to persuade one that his work
which has met with the approval of his immediate circle may be worthy of
a larger audience; and the author was the more easily induced to consent
to its reprint because, the first edition being exhausted, he was no
longer able to fill many requests for copies._

_The original intent of the book must be the excuse for the highly
personal nature of the narrative, which could scarcely be changed
without an entire remodelling, a task for which the writer had neither
time nor inclination; so, with the exception of a few suppressions and
some additions which seemed necessary under its new conditions, its
character has not been materially altered. Trusting that his readers may
derive from a perusal of its pages a tithe of the pleasure which the Gay
Charioteers experienced in performing the journey, and wishing that all
may live to see their "ships come home" and then enjoy a similar
excursion for themselves, he subscribes himself,_

      _Very Sincerely,_
      _THE AUTHOR_
      _New York, May 1, 1883._




      AN AMERICAN FOUR-IN-HAND
      IN BRITAIN.


Long enough ago to permit us to sing, "For we are boys, merry, merry
boys, Merry, merry boys together," and the world lay all before us where
to choose, Dod, Vandy, Harry, and I walked through Southern England with
knapsacks on our backs. What pranks we played! Those were the happy days
when we heard the chimes at midnight and laughed Sir Prudence out of
countenance. "Dost thou think, because thou art virtuous, there shall be
no more cakes and ale?" Nay, verily, Sir Gray Beard, and ginger shall be
hot i' the mouth too! Then indeed

                  "The sounding cataract
      Haunted me like a passion; the tall rock,
      The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood,
      Their colors and their forms, were then to me
      An appetite; a feeling and a love
      That had no need of a remoter charm,
      By thought supplied, or any interest
      Unborrowed from the eye."

It was during this pedestrian excursion that I announced that some day,
when my "ships came home," I should drive a party of my dearest friends
from Brighton to Inverness. Black's "Adventures of a Phaeton" came not
long after this to prove that another Scot had divined how idyllic the
journey could be made. It was something of an air-castle--of a
dream--those far-off days, but see how it has come to pass!

  [Sidenote: _Air-Castles._]

The world, in my opinion, is all wrong on the subject of air-castles.
People are forever complaining that their chateaux en Espagne are never
realized. But the trouble is with them--they fail to recognize them when
they come. "To-day," says Carlyle, "is a king in disguise," and most
people are in possession of their air-castles, but lack the trick to
see 't.

Look around you! see Vandy, for instance. When we were thus doing Merrie
England on foot, he with a very modest letter of credit stowed away in a
belt round his sacred person--for Vandy it was who always carried the
bag (and a faithful treasurer and a careful one too--good boy, Vandy!);
he was a poor student then, and you should have heard him philosophize
and lord it over us two, who had been somewhat fortunate in rolling
mills, and were devoted to business. "Great Caesar! boys, if I ever get
fifteen hundred dollars a year income!" (This was the fortune I was
vaguely figured up to be worth under ordinary conditions.) "Great Caesar!
boys"--and here the fist would come down on the hard deal table,
spilling a few drops of beer--"fifteen hundred dollars a year! Catch me
working any more like a slave, as you and Harry do!" Well, well, Vandy's
air-castle was fifteen hundred dollars a year; yet see him now when
thousands roll in upon him every month. Hard at it still--and see the
goddess laughing in her sleeve at the good joke on Vandy. He has his
air-castle, but doesn't recognize the structure.

There is Miss Fashion. How fascinating she was when she descanted on her
air-castle--then a pretty cottage with white and red roses clustering
beside the door and twining over it in a true-lover's knot, symbolizing
the lover's ideal of mutual help and dependence--the white upon the red.
No large establishment for her, nor many servants! One horse (I admit it
was always to be a big one), and an elegant little vehicle; plenty of
garden and enough of pin money. On this point there was never to be the
slightest doubt, so that she could really get the best magazines and one
new book every month--any one she chose. A young hard-working husband,
without too much income, so that she might experience the pleasure of
planning to make their little go far. Behold her now! her husband a
millionaire, a brown-stone front, half a dozen horses, a country place,
and a box at the opera! But, bless your heart! she is as unconscious of
the arrival of her castle as she is that years creep upon her apace.

The Goddess Fortune, my friends, rarely fails to give to mortals all
they pray for and more; but how she must stand amazed at the blindness
of her idolators, who continue to offer up their prayers at her shrine,
wholly unconscious that their first requests have been granted! It takes
Fortune a little time to prepare the gifts for so many supplicants--the
toys each one specially wants; and lo and behold! before they can be
delivered (though she works with speed betimes) the unreasonable mortals
have lost conceit of their prizes, and their coming is a mockery; they
are crying for something else. If the Fates be malignant, as old
religions teach, how they must enjoy the folly of man!

Imagine a good spirit taking Fortune to task for the misery and
discontent of mortals, as she gazes with piteous eyes upon our
disappointments, our troubles, and, saddest of all, our regrets,
charging her with producing such unhappiness. "Why have you done this?"
would be the inquiry. Listen to the sardonic chuckle of the Fate: "Hush!
I've only given them what they asked (chuckle--chuckle--chuckle)! Not my
fault! See that unhappy wretch, sleeplessly and feverishly tossing on
his pillow, and in his waking hours absorbing all his lofty faculties in
gambling at the Stock Exchange--wife, children, home, music, art,
culture, all forgotten. He was once a bright, promising, ingenuous
youth. He was born among trees and green fields, spent the morn of life
in the country, sensitive and responsive to all nature's whisperings;
lay in cool, leafy shades, wandered in forest glades, and paddled in
the 'complaining brooks which make the meadow green.' Nay, not many
years ago he returned at intervals to these scenes, and found their
charm had still power over him--felt the truth of the poet's words, that

      "'To him who in the love of nature holds
      Communion with her visible forms, she speaks
      A various language; for his gayer hours
      She has a voice of gladness, and a smile
      And eloquence of beauty, and she glides
      Into his darker musings, with a mild
      And healing sympathy, that steals away
      Their sharpness, ere he is aware.'

"He asked for enough to live honorably upon among his fellows,"
continues the Fate, "and to keep his parents comfortable in their old
age--a matter of a few hundreds a year--and I gave him this and
thousands more. Ha, ha, ha! Silence! Look at him; he doesn't see the
joke. Oh yes, you may try to tell it to him, if you like. He has no time
to listen, nor ears to hear, nor eyes to see; no, nor soul to understand
your language. He's 'short' on New Jersey Central or 'long' on Reading,
and, bless you! he must strain every fibre if he would save himself from
ruin.

"He could commune with you in your youth, you say; he had your language
then. No doubt! no doubt! so did he then know his Latin and whisper his
prayers at his mother's knee. The Latin has gone; his praying
continues--nay has increased, for his fears and selfish wants have
multiplied since he was an innocent, ignorant child, and he has much
more to ask from God for his own ends, now that he is a wise man and is
supposed to know much (chuckle--chuckle--chuckle).

"There is another mortal," we hear the Fate saying to the Good Fairy.
"Look at her, decked out in all the vagaries of changeable Fashion; note
her fixed-up look, her conventional air, her nervous, unmeaning,
simpering smile--the same to-day, yesterday, and forever--something to
all men, much to none. See her at home in her chamber! Why mopes she,
looking so haggard, with features expressionless and inane? What worm
gnaws at her heart and makes her life so petty? She, too, came into the
world a bright and happy thing, and grew up fond of music and of birds,
and with a passion for flowers and all of Nature's sweets; so careful,
too, of mother and of father, the very embodiment of love to all around
her. You should have seen her in her teens, a glorious ray from
heaven--'making a sunshine in a shady place'--so natural, so hearty,
with a carolling laugh like the falling of waters. In her most secret
prayers she asked only for a kind lover with a fair competence, that
they might live modestly, without ostentation. She was a good girl and I
granted her wish and more," says Fate. "Her air-castle was small, but I
sent her a magnificent one. She is courted, flattered, has every gift in
my power to bestow; yet she pines in the midst of them. The fruits of
her rare gardens have no flavor for her--Dead Sea fruits indeed, which
fall to ashes on her lips. She has entered for the race of Fashion, and
her soul is absorbed in its jealousies and disappointments. You may
speak to her as of old; tell her there is something noble in that domain
of human life where duties grow--something not only beyond but different
from Fashion, higher than dress or show. She understands you not.

"Hand her a bunch of violets. Does she learn their lesson with their
odor (which her dog scents as well as she)? Comes there to her the inner
meaning, the scent of the new-mown hay that speaks of past hours of
purity, of the fresh breeze that fanned her cheek in childhood's halcyon
days, the love of all things of the green earth and the sense of the
goodness of God which his flowers ever hold within their petals for
those who know their language? 'They will decorate me to-night for the
ball!' That is the be-all and the end-all of her ladyship's love for
flowers.

"Show her a picture with more of heaven than earth in it, and glimpses
of the light that never shone on sea or shore. If the artist be in
fashion she will call it 'pretty,' when it is grand. Give her music. Is
it the opera? Oh yes, she will attend. It is the fashion. But place
within her reach the soul-moving oratorio (with more religion in it than
in twenty sermons) or the suggestive symphony. No, a previous
engagement prevents. Why, just think of it--_one can't talk there!_ Yet
this woman could once play with feeling and sing with expression,
delighting her young companions. Of her one could truly say,

      "'Oh! to see or hear her singing! scarce I know which is
        divinest--
      For her looks sing too--she modulates her gestures on the tune;
      And her mouth stirs with the song, like song; and when the notes
        are finest,
      'Tis the eyes that shoot out vocal light, and seem to swell them
        on.'

And now she has fallen to this!"

"Has she children?" inquires the Good Spirit.

"No," says Fate, "we are not altogether relentless. How could we give
such a woman children and look you in the face? It is sometimes thought
necessary even to go as far as this, but in such cases we commend the
poor infants to the special care of the great Father, for mother they
have none. But look! there is a man now who did so pray for a son and
heir that we gave him one, and yonder goes the result. God in heaven!
why are men so rash in their blindness as to pray for anything! Surely
'Thy will be done' were best."

I am as bad as Sterne in his "Sentimental Journey," and will never get
on at this rate. I started to argue that the Fates were too kind instead
of not kind enough; at least, my air-castles have ever been mere toys
compared with the realities, for never did I dream, in my wildest days,
that the intended drive through Britain would assume the princely
proportions of a four-in-hand, crowded with a dozen of my dearest
friends. A modest phaeton or wagonette with a pair of horses was the
extent of my dream, but the Fairy sent me four, you see, and two friends
for every one I had pleased myself with imagining as sure to take the
journey with me.

  [Sidenote: _Embarkation._]

But now to a sober beginning of the story of the coach. It was in the
leafy month of June--the very first day thereof, however--in the year of
our Lord 1881, that the good ship Bothnia (Cunard Line, of course),
Captain McMicken (a true Scot and bold British sailor), steamed from the
future Metropolis of the World for the shores of Merrie England. She had
many passengers, but among them were eleven who outranked all others, if
their respective opinions of each other were to be accepted as the true
standard of judgment. I had received for many months before the sweetest
pleasure imaginable in startling first one and then another with
requests to report at headquarters, Windsor Hotel, New York, May 31st,
prepared to embark. It was on St. Valentine's Day that the Prima Donna
received a missive which caused her young heart to flutter. What a
pretty reply came! Here is a short extract:

      "Three months to dream of it; three months to live in it;
      and my whole lifetime afterward to think it over. I am the
      happiest girl alive, only sometimes I can't believe it's
      all going to happen."

To Davenport, Iowa, went another invitation. In due time came a return
missive from the proud City of the River:

      "Will I go to Paradise for three months on a coach? Agent
      of Providence, I will!"

Isn't it glorious to make one's friends so happy?

       *       *       *       *       *

      HARBOR OF NEW YORK, June 1, 1881.}
      On board Steamer Bothnia.        }

Call the roll.

Queen Dowager, Head of the Clan (no Salic Law in our family); Miss J. J.
(Prima Donna); Miss A. F. (Stewardess); Mr. and Mrs. McC. (Dainty
Davie); Mr. and Mrs. K. (Paisley Troubadours); Mr. B. F. V. (Vandy); Mr.
H. P., Jr. (Our Pard); Mr. G. F. McC. (General Manager); ten in all,
making, together with the scribe, the All-coaching Eleven.

Ting-a-ling-a-ling! The tears are shed, the kisses ta'en. The helpless
hulk breathes the breath of life. The pulsations of its mighty heart are
felt, the last rope that binds us to land cast off; and now see the
hundreds of handkerchiefs waving from the pier fading and fading away.
But note among the wavers one slight graceful figure; Miss C. of our
party, present in spirit if bodily absent on duty, much to the regret of
us all. The wavings from deck to shore tell our friends

          "how slow our souls sailed on,
      How fast our ship."

  [Sidenote: _On the Bothnia._]

The Bothnia turned her face to the east, and out upon old ocean's gray
and melancholy waste sailed the Gay Charioteers. As we steamed down the
bay three steamers crowded with the most enterprising of Europe's people
passed us, emigrants coming to find in the bounteous bosom of the Great
Republic the blessings of equality, the just reward of honest labor. Ah,
favored land! the best of the Old World seek your shores to swell to
still grander proportions your assured greatness. That all come only for
the material benefits you confer, I do not believe. Crowning these
material considerations, I insist that the more intelligent of these
people feel the spirit of true manhood stirring within them, and glory
in the thought that they are to become part of a powerful people, of a
government founded upon the born equality of man, free from military
despotism and class distinctions. There is a trace of the serf in the
man who lives contentedly in a land with ranks above him. One hundred
and seventeen thousand came last month, and the cry is still they come!
O ye self-constituted rulers of men in Europe, know you not that the
knell of dynasties and of rank is sounding? Are you so deaf that you do
not hear the thunders, so blind that you do not see the lightnings which
now and then give warning of the storm that is to precede the reign of
the people?

There is everything in the way one takes things. "Whatever is, is
right," is a good maxim for travellers to adopt, but the Charioteers
improved on that. The first resolution they passed was, "Whatever is, is
lovely; all that does happen and all that doesn't shall be altogether
lovely." We shall quarrel with nothing, admire everything and everybody.
A surly beggar shall afford us sport, if any one can be surly under our
smiles; and stale bread and poor fare shall only serve to remind us that
we have banqueted at the Windsor. Even no dinner at all shall pass for a
good joke. Rain shall be hailed as good for the growing corn; a cold day
pass as invigorating, a warm one welcomed as suggestive of summer at
home, and even a Scotch mist serve to remind us of the mysterious ways
of Providence. In this mood the start was made. Could any one suggest a
better for our purpose?

Now comes a splendid place to skip--the ocean voyage. Everybody writes
that up upon the first trip, and every family knows all about it from
the long descriptive letters of the absent one doing Europe.

When one has crossed the Atlantic twenty odd times there seems just
about as much sense in boring one's readers with an account of the trip
as if the journey were by rail from New York to Chicago. We had a fine,
smooth run, and though some of us were a trifle distrait, most of us
were supremely happy. A sea voyage compared with land travel is a good
deal like matrimony compared with single blessedness, I take it: either
decidedly better or decidedly worse. To him who finds himself
comfortable at sea, the ocean is the grandest of treats. He never fails
to feel himself a boy again while on the waves. There is an exultation
about it. "He walks the monarch of the peopled deck," glories in the
storm, rises with and revels in it. Heroic song comes to him. The ship
becomes a live thing, and if the monster rears and plunges it is akin to
bounding on his thoroughbred who knows its rider. Many men feel thus,
and I am happily of them, but the ladies who are at their best at sea
are few.

The travellers, however, bore the journey well, though one or two proved
indifferent sailors. One morning I had to make several calls upon
members below and administer my favorite remedy; but pale and dejected
as the patients were, not one failed to smile a ghastly smile, and
repeat after a fashion the cabalistic words--"Altogether lovely."

  [Sidenote: _The Atlantic._]

He who has never ridden out a hurricane on the Atlantic is to be pitied.
It seems almost ridiculous to talk of storms when on such a monster as
the Servia. Neptune now may "his dread trident shake" and only give us
pleasure, for in these days we laugh at his pretensions. Even he is fast
going the way of all kings, his wildest roar being about on a par with
the last Bull of the Pope, to which we listen with wonder but without
fear.

In no branch of human progress has greater advance been made within the
past twenty years than in ocean navigation by steam; not so much in the
matter of speed as in cost of transport. The Persia, once the best ship
of the Cunard Line, required an expenditure of thirty-five dollars as
against her successors' one dollar. The Servia will carry thirty-five
tons across the ocean for what one ton cost in the Persia. A revolution
indeed! and one which brings the products of American soil close to the
British shores. Quite recently flour has been carried from Chicago to
Liverpool for forty-eight cents (2_s._) per barrel. The farmer of
Illinois is as near the principal markets of Britain as the farmer in
England who grows his crops one hundred miles from his market and
transports by rail; and, in return for this, the pig-iron manufacturer
of Britain is as near the New York market as is his competitor on the
Hudson.

Some of the good people of Britain who are interested in land believe
that the competition of America has reached its height. Deluded souls,
it has only begun!

One cannot be a day at sea without meeting the American who regrets that
the Stars and Stripes have been commercially driven from the ocean. This
always reminds me of a fable of the lion and the turtle. The lion was
proudly walking along the shore, the real king of his domain, the land.
The turtle mocked him, saying, Oh, that's nothing, any one can walk on
land. Let's see you try it in the water. The lion tried. Result: the
turtle fed upon him for many days. America can only render herself
ridiculous by entering the water. That is England's domain.

      "Her home is on the mountain wave,
      Her march is o'er the deep."

  [Sidenote: _The American Navy._]

We are talking just now about building some ships for a proposed
American Navy, which is equivalent to saying that we are going to
furnish ships to the enemy, if we are ever foolish enough to have
one--for it takes two fools to wage war. Unless America resolves to
change her whole policy as a republic, teaching mankind the victories of
peace, far more renowned than those of war, and goes back to the ideas
of monarchical governments, she should build no ships of war; but if she
will leave her unique position among the nations, and step down to the
level of quarrellers, let her beat the navies of Britain and France, for
the ships of a weak naval power are the certain prey of the stronger in
time of war. In peace they are useless.

In thinking of the real glories of America, my mind goes first to
this--that she has no army worthy of the name, and scarcely a war ship
of whose complete inefficiency in case of active service we are not
permitted to indulge the most sanguine anticipations.

What has America to do following in the wake of brutal, pugilistic
nations still under the influence of feudal institutions, who exhaust
their revenues training men how best to butcher their fellows, and in
building up huge ships for purposes of destruction! No, no, let
monarchies play this game as long as the people tolerate it, but for the
Republic "all her paths are peace," or the bright hopes which the masses
of Europe repose in her are destined to a sad eclipse.

Travellers know the character and abilities of the men in charge of a
Cunard ship, but have they ever considered for what pittances such men
are obtained? Captain, $3,250 per annum; first officer, $1,000; second,
third, and fourth officers, $600. For what sum, think you, can be had a
man capable of controlling the ponderous machinery of the Servia? Chief
engineer, $1,250. You have seen the firemen at work down below, perhaps.
Do you know any work so hard as this? Price $30 per month. The first
cost of a steel ship--and it is scarcely worth while in these days to
think of any other kind--is about one-half on the Clyde what it is on
the Delaware. Steel can be made, and is made, in Britain for about one
half its cost here. Not in our day will it be wise for America to leave
the land. It is a very fair division, as matters stand--the land for
America, the sea for England.

       *       *       *       *       *

      FRIDAY, June 10, 1881.

  [Sidenote: _Ireland._]

Land ahoy! There it was, the long dark low-lying cloud, which was no
cloud, but the outline of one of the most unfortunate of lands--unhappy
Ireland, cursed by the well-meaning attempt of England to grow
Englishmen there. England's experience north of the Tweed should have
taught her better.

Conquerors cannot rule as conquerors a people who have parliamentary
institutions and publish newspapers; and neither of these can ever be
taken away from Ireland. They always come to stay. You may succeed in
keeping down slaves for a while, but then you must govern them as
slaves, and the Irish people have advanced beyond this. Just in
proportion as they do grow less like serfs and more like men, the
impossibility of England's governing Ireland must grow likewise. I hear
some Americans reproaching the Irish people for rioting and fighting so
much; the real trouble is they don't fight half enough. Take my own
heroic Scotland; let even Mr. Gladstone, one of ourselves and our best
beloved, send an Englishman as Lord Advocate to Scotland, and let him
dare pass a measure for Scotland in Parliament against the wishes of the
Scotch members, and all the uprisings in Ireland would seem like farces
to the thorough work Scotland would make of English interference. She
would not stand it a minute. Neither should Ireland. If she has the
elements of a great people within her borders, she will never submit. In
less than a generation Ireland can be made as loyal a member of the
British confederacy as Scotland is; and all that is necessary to produce
this is that she should be dealt with as England has to deal with
Scotland. Let the Emerald Isle, then, fight against the attempted
dominion of England, as Scotland fought against it, and may the result
be the same--that Ireland shall govern herself, as Scotland does, through
her own representatives duly elected by the people. "To this complexion
must it come at last," and the sooner the better for all parties
concerned.

We reached Liverpool Saturday morning. How pleasant it is to step on
shore in a strange land and be greeted by kind friends on the quay!
Their welcome to England counted for so much.

Mr. and Mrs. P. had been fellow passengers. A special car was waiting to
take them to London, but they decided not to go, and Mr. P. very kindly
placed it at the disposal of Mr. J. and family (who were, fortunately
for us, also fellow-passengers) and our party, so that we began our
travelling upon the other side under unexpectedly favorable conditions.

To such of the party as were getting their first glimpse of the
beautiful isle, the journey to London seemed an awakening from happy
dreams. They had dreamed that England looked thus and thus, and now
their dreams had come true. The scenery of the Midland route is very
fine, much more attractive than that of the other line.

The party spent from Saturday until Thursday at the Westminster Hotel,
in monster London, every one being free to do what most interested him
or her. Groups of three or four were formed for this purpose by the law
of natural selection, but the roll was called for breakfasts and
dinners, so that we all met daily and were fully advised of each other's
movements.

  [Sidenote: _House of Commons._]

The House of Commons claimed the first place with our party, all being
anxious to see the Mother of Parliaments. It is not so easy a matter to
do this as to see our Congress in session; but thanks to our friend Mr.
R. C. and to others, we were fortunate in being able to do so
frequently. Our ladies had the pleasure of being taken into the Ladies'
Gallery by one of the rising statesmen of England, Sir Charles Dilke, a
Cabinet Minister, and one who has had the boldness, and as I think the
rare sagacity, to say that he prefers the republican to the monarchical
system of government. The world is to hear of Sir Charles Dilke, if he
live and health be granted him, and above all, if he remain steadfast to
his honest opinions. So many public men in England "stoop to conquer,"
forgetting that whatever else they may conquer thereafter they never can
conquer that _stoop_; that "drags down their life"!

We really heard John Bright speak--the one of all men living whom our
party wished most to see and to hear. I had not forgotten hearing him
speak in Dunfermline, when I was seven years of age, and well do I
remember that when I got home I told mother he made one mistake; for
when speaking of Mr. Smith (the Liberal candidate) he called him a
_men_, instead of a _maan_. When introduced to Mr. Bright I was
delighted to find that he had not forgotten Dunfermline, nor the
acquaintances he had made there.

  [Sidenote: _Temperance._]

A grand character, that of the sturdy Quaker; once the best hated man in
Britain, but one to whom both continents are now glad to confess their
gratitude. He has been wiser than his generation, but has lived to see
it grow up to him. Certainly no American can look down from the gallery
upon that white head without beseeching heaven to shower its choicest
blessings upon it. He spoke calmly upon the Permissive Liquor Bill, and
gave the ministerial statement in regard to it. All he said was good
common sense; we could do something by regulating the traffic and
confining it to reasonable hours, but after all the great cure must come
from the better education of the masses, who must be brought to feel
that it is unworthy of their manhood to brutalize themselves with
liquor. England has set herself at last to the most important of all
work--the thorough education of her people; and we may confidently
expect to see a great improvement in their habits in the next
generation. My plan for mastering the monster evil of intemperance is
that our temperance societies, instead of pledging men never to taste
alcoholic beverages, should be really temperance agencies and require
their members to use them only at meals--never to drink wines or spirits
without eating. The man who takes _one_ glass of wine, or beer, or
spirits at dinner is clearly none the worse for it. I judge that if the
medical fraternity were polled, a large majority would say he was the
better for it, at least after a certain age. Why can't we recognize the
fact that all races indulge in stimulants and will continue to do so? It
is the regulation, not the eradication, of this appetite that is
practical. The coming man is to consider it low to walk up to a bar and
gulp down liquor. The race will come to this platform generations before
they will accept that of Sir Wilfrid Lawson and his total abstinence
ideas.

This was written before the Church of England movement in this direction
was known to me. Much good must come of its efforts; but I confess I
should like to see that church show that it is in earnest by removing
the deep reproach cast upon it by recent statements, which pass
uncontradicted. Listen to this startling announcement: This holy Church
of England, mark you, is the largest owner of gin palaces in the world.
The head of the church, the Archbishop of Canterbury, in passing from
his palace at Lambeth to his abbey at Westminster, sees more than one
hundred (I believe I understate the case) gin palaces which his church
owns and has rented for such purposes; nay, it is shown that the church
has always raised the rents of these houses, with which licenses go, as
the sales of liquor have increased; so that her interest lies in
extending the use of liquors as a beverage secretly upon one hand,
while she poses before the world as laboring to restrict the curse with
the other. Her right hand knows only too well what her left hand doeth.
It does seem that the mere announcement of such a fact would work its
own remedy--perhaps it will when its holy fathers are done with the
vastly more important business of determining the size and shape of
vestures, or the number of candles, or the posture of the priest most
pleasing to God--but before the church can figure as much of an agency
in the cause of temperance reform, it will have to wash its hands of its
hundred gin palaces.

The article in _Harper's Magazine_ upon Bedford Square, giving glowing
accounts of this Arcadian colony, with its aesthetic homes, its Tabard
Inn, and its club, made us all desire to visit it. We did so one
afternoon, and received a very cordial welcome from Mrs. C. in the
absence of her husband. She kindly showed us the grounds and explained
all to us. Truth compels me to say we were sadly disappointed, but for
this we had probably only ourselves to blame. It is so natural to
imagine that exquisite wood-cuts and pretty illustrations set forth
grander things than exist. The houses were much inferior to our
preconceived ideas, and many had soft woods painted, and most of the
cheap shams of ordinary structures. The absence of grand trees, shady
dells, and ornamental grounds, and the exceedingly cheap and
cheap-looking houses made all seem like a new settlement in the Far
West rather than the latest development of culture. From this criticism
Mr. C.'s own pretty little home is wholly exempt, and no doubt there are
many other homes there equally admirable. I speak only of the general
impression made upon our party by a very hasty visit. Bedford Park is no
doubt an excellent idea, and destined to do much good, only it is
different from what we had expected.

  [Sidenote: _Stafford House._]

Extremes meet. It was from houses such as I have spoken of that we went
direct to Stafford House, to meet the Marquis of Stafford by
appointment, and to be shown over that palace by him. What a change! If
the former were not up to our expectations, this exceeded them. I don't
suppose any one ever has expected to see such a staircase as enchants
him upon entering Stafford House. This is the most magnificent residence
any of us has ever seen. I will not trust myself to speak of its
beauties, nor of the treasures it contains. One begins to understand to
what the Marquis of Stafford is born. The Sutherland family have a
million two hundred thousand acres of land in Britain; no other family
in the world compares with them as landowners. It is positively
startling to think of it. Almost the entire County of Sutherland is
theirs. Stafford House is their London residence. They have Trentham
Hall and Lillieshall in Mid-England, and glorious Dunrobin Castle in
Scotland.

The Marquis sits in the House of Commons as member for Sutherland
County; and what do you think! he is a painstaking director of the
London and North-Western Railway, and I am informed pays strict
attention to its affairs. The Duke of Devonshire is Chairman of the
Barrow Steel Company. Lord Granville has iron works, and Earl Dudley is
one of the principal iron manufacturers of England. It is all right, you
see, my friends, to be a steel-rail manufacturer or an iron-master. How
fortunate! But the line must be drawn somewhere, and we draw it at
trade. The A. T. Stewarts and the Morrisons have no standing in society
in England. They are in vulgar trade. Now if they brewed beer, for
instance, they would be somebodies, and might confidently look forward
to a baronetcy at least; for a great deal of beer a peerage is not
beyond reach.

We heard a performance of the "Messiah" in Albert Hall, which the Prima
Donna agreed with me was better in two important particulars than any
similar performance we had heard in America. First in vigor of attack by
the chorus; this was superb; from the first instant the full volume and
quality of sound were perfect. The other point was that all-important
one of enunciation. We have no chorus in New York which rivals what we
heard, though we have an orchestra which is equal to any. The words
were, of course, familiar, and we could scarcely judge whether we were
correct in our impression, but we believed that even had they been
strange to us we could nevertheless have understood every word. Since my
return to New York I have heard this oratorio given by the Oratorio
Society, and am delighted to note that Dr. Damrosch has greatly improved
his chorus in this respect; but the English do pronounce perfectly in
singing. This opinion was confirmed by the music subsequently heard in
various places throughout our travels. In public as well as in private
singing the purity of enunciation struck us as remarkable. If I ever set
up for a music teacher I shall bequeath to my favorite pupil as the
secret of success but one word, "_enunciation_."

  [Sidenote: _Parliament._]

Some of us went almost every day to Westminster, but dancing attendance
upon Parliament is much like doing so upon Congress. The interesting
debates are few and far between. The daily routine is uninteresting, and
one sees how rapidly all houses of legislation are losing their hold
upon public attention. A debate upon the propriety of allowing
Manchester to dispose of her sewage to please herself, or of permitting
Dunfermline to bring in a supply of water, seems such a waste of time.
The Imperial Parliament of Great Britain is much in want of something to
do when it condescends to occupy its time with trifling questions which
the community interested can best settle; but even in matters of
national importance debates are no longer what they were. The questions
have already been threshed out in the Reviews--those coming forums of
discussion--and all that can be said already said by writers upon both
sides of the question who know its bearings much better than the leaders
of party. When the _Fortnightly_ or the _Nineteenth Century_ gets
through with a subject the Prime Minister only rises to sum up the
result at which the Morleys and Rogerses, the Spencers and Huxleys, the
Giffens and Howards have previously arrived.

The English are prone to contrast the men of America and England who are
in political life, and the balance is no doubt greatly in their favor.
But the reason lies upon the surface: America has solved the fundamental
questions of government, and no changes are desired of sufficient moment
to engage the minds of her ablest men. During the civil war, when new
issues arose and had to be met, the men who stepped forward to guide the
nation were of an entirely different class from those prominent in
politics either before or since. Contrast the men of Buchanan's
administration with those the war called to the front--Lincoln, Seward,
Stanton, Sumner, Edmunds, Morton, or the generals of that time, with
Grant, Sherman, Sheridan, Hancock. All of these men I have known well,
except one or two of the least prominent. I have met some of the best
known politicians in England. Compared morally or intellectually, I do
not think there is much, if any, difference between them; while for
original creative power I believe the Americans superior. That a band
of men so remarkable as to cause surprise to other nations will promptly
arise whenever there is real work to do, no one who knows the American
people can doubt; but no man of real ability is going to spend his
energies endeavoring to control appointments to the New York Custom
House, any more than he will continue very long to waste his time
discussing Manchester sewage. Much as my English friends dislike to
believe it, I tell them that when there is really no great work to be
done, when the conflict between feudal and democratic ideas ends, as it
is fast coming to an end, and there is no vestige of privilege left from
throne to knighthood, only vain, weak men will seek election to
Parliament, and such will stand ready to do the bidding of the
constituencies as our agents in Congress do. But this need not alarm our
English friends; there will then be much less bribery before election
and much less succumbing to social court influences after it. The brains
of a country will be found where the real work is to do. The House of
Lords registers the decrees of the House of Commons. The House of
Commons is soon to register the decrees of the monthlies. Both these
things may be pronounced good. In the next generation the debates of
Parliament will affect the political currents of the age as little as
the fulminations of the pulpit affect religious thought at present; and
then a man who feels he has real power within him will think of
entering Parliament about as soon as he would think of entering the
House of Lords or the American Congress.

      "The parliament of man, the federation of the world,"

comes on apace; but its form is to be largely impersonal. The press is
the universal parliament. The leaders in that forum make your
"statesman" dance as they pipe.

The same law is robbing the pulpit of real power. Who cares what the
Reverend Mr. Froth preaches nowadays, when he ventures beyond the
homilies? Three pages by Professor Robertson Smith in the "Encyclopaedia
Britannica" destroy more theology in an hour than all the preachers in
the land can build up in a lifetime. If any man wants _bona fide_
substantial power and influence in this world, he must handle the
pen--that's flat. Truly, it is a nobler weapon than the sword, and a
much nobler one than the tongue, both of which have nearly had their
day.

We had a happy luncheon with our good friends the C.'s, one of our
London days; and some of our party who had heard that there was not a
great variety of edibles in England saw reason to revise their ideas.
Another day we had a notable procession for miles through London streets
and suburbs to the residence of our friend, Mr. B. Five hansoms in line
driven pell-mell reminded me of our Tokio experiences with gin-rikshaws,
two Bettos tandem in each.

  [Sidenote: _The Stars and Stripes._]

It was a pretty, graceful courtesy, my friend, to display from the upper
window the "Stars and Stripes," in honor of the arrival of your American
guests, and prettier still to have across your hall as a portiere, under
which all must bow as they entered, that flag which tells of a
government founded upon the born equality of man. Thanks! Such things
touch the heart as well as the patriotic chord which vibrates in the
breast of every one so fortunate as to claim that glorious standard as
the emblem of the land he fondly calls his own. Colonel Robert
Ingersoll, that wonderful orator, says that when abroad, after a long
interval, he saw in one of the seaports the Stars and Stripes fluttering
in the breeze, "he felt the air had blossomed into joy." It was he too
who told the South long ago that "there wasn't air enough upon the
American continent to float two flags." Right there, Colonel!

Do you know why the American worships the starry banner with a more
intense passion than even the Briton does his flag? I will tell you. It
is because it is not the flag of a government which discriminates
between her children, decreeing privilege to one and denying it to
another, but the flag of the people which gives the same rights to all.
The British flag was born too soon to be close to the masses. It came
before their time, when they had little or no power. They were not
consulted about it. Some conclave made it, as a pope is made, and handed
it down to the nation. But the American flag bears in every fibre the
warrant, "_We the People_ in Congress assembled." It is their own child,
and how supremely it is beloved!

It is a significant fact that in no riot or local outbreak have soldiers
of the United States, bearing the national flag, ever been assaulted.
Militia troops have sometimes been stoned, but United States troops
never. During the worst riot ever known in America, that in our own good
city of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, twenty-eight United States soldiers,
all there were in the barracks, marched through the thousands of excited
men unmolested. I really believe that had any man in the crowd dared to
touch that flag, General Dix's famous order would have been promptly
enforced by his companions. Major-General Hancock recently told me that
he had never known United States soldiers to be attacked by citizens. He
was in command of the troops during the riots in the coal regions in
Pennsylvania some years ago, and whenever a body of his regulars
appeared they were respected and peace reigned.

General Dix's order was, "If any man attempts to pull down the flag
shoot him on the spot." So say we all of us. And it will be the same in
Britain some day, ay and in Ireland too, when an end has been made of
privilege and there is not a government and a people, but only a
government of the people, for the people, and by the people. The day is
not so far off either as some of you think, mark me.

But good-bye, London, and all the thoughts which crowd upon one when in
your mighty whirl. You monster London, we are all glad to escape you!
But ere we "gang awa'" shall we not note our visit to one we are proud
to call our friend, and of whom Scotland is proud, Dr. Samuel Smiles, a
writer of books indeed--books which influence his own generation much,
and the younger generation more. Burns's wish was that he,

        "For poor auld Scotland's sake,
      Some useful plan or book could make,
      Or sing a sang at least."

Well, the Doctor has made several books that are books, and I have heard
him sing a song, too, for the days of Auld Lang Syne. May he live long,
and long may his devoted wife be spared to watch over him!

       *       *       *       *       *

      THURSDAY MORNING, June 16, 1881.

  [Sidenote: _Brighton._]

We are off for Brighton. Mr. and Miss B. accompany us. Mr. and Mrs. K.
have run up to Paisley with the children, and Mr. and Mrs. G. have
joined us in their place. The coach, horses, and servants went down
during the night.

We had time to visit the unequalled aquarium and to do the parade before
dinner. Miss F. and I stole off to make a much more interesting visit;
we called upon William Black, whose acquaintance I had been fortunate
enough to make in Rome, and whom I had told that I should some day
imitate his "Adventures of a Phaeton." A week before we sailed from New
York, I had dined with President Garfield at Secretary Blaine's in
Washington. After dinner, conversation turned upon my proposed journey,
and the President became much interested. "It is the 'Adventures of a
Phaeton' on a grand scale," he remarked. "By the way, has Black ever
written any other story quite so good as that? I do not think he has."
In this there was a general concurrence. He then said: "But I am
provoked with Black just now. A man who writes to entertain has no right
to end a story as miserably as he has done that of 'MacLeod of Dare.'
Fiction should give us the bright side of existence. _Real life has
tragedies enough of its own._"

A few weeks more and we were to have in his own case the most terrible
proof of the words he had spoken so solemnly. I can never forget the
sad, careworn expression of his face as he uttered them.

      "But come it soon or come it fast,
      It is but death that comes at last."

One might almost be willing to die if, as in Garfield's case, there
should flash from his grave, at the touch of a mutual sorrow, to both
divisions of the great English-speaking race, the knowledge that they
are brothers. This discovery will bear good fruit in time.

      "Nothing in his life became him like the leaving it."

Garfield's life was not in vain. It tells its own story--this poor boy
toiling upward to the proudest position on earth, the elected of fifty
millions of freemen; a position compared with which that of king or
kaiser is as nothing. Let other nations ask themselves where are _our_
Lincolns and Garfields? Ah, they grow not except where all men are born
equal! The cold shade of aristocracy nips them in the bud.

  [Sidenote: _William Black._]

Mr. Black came to see us off, but arrived at our starting-place a few
minutes too late. A thousand pities! Had we only known that he intended
to do us this honor, until high noon, ay, and till dewy eve, would we
have waited. Just think of our start being graced by the author of "The
Adventures of a Phaeton," and we privileged to give him three rousing
cheers as our horn sounded! Though grieved to miss him, it was a
consolation to know that he had come, and we felt that his spirit was
with us and dwelt with us during the entire journey. Many a time the
incidents of his charming story came back to us, but I am sorry to
record, as a faithful chronicler, that we young people missed one of its
most absorbing features--we had no lovers. At least, I am not apprized
that any engagements were made upon the journey, although, for my part,
I couldn't help falling in love just a tiny bit with the charming young
ladies who delighted us with their company.

       *       *       *       *       *

      BRIGHTON, Friday Morning, June 17.

  [Sidenote: _The Supreme Moment._]

Let us call the roll once more at the door of the Grand Hotel, Brighton,
that our history may be complete: Mr. and Mrs. B., London; Mr. and Mrs.
T. G., Wolverhampton; Miss M. L., Dunfermline; Miss E. F., Liverpool;
Mr. and Mrs. McC., Miss J. J., Miss A. F., Mr. B. F. V., Mr. H. P., Jr.,
Mr. G. F. McC., the Queen Dowager and the Scribe. These be the names of
the new and delectable order of the Gay Charioteers, who mounted their
coach at Brighton and began the long journey to the North Countrie on
the day and date aforesaid. And here, O my good friends, let me say that
until a man has stood at the door and seen his own four-in-hand drive up
before him, the horses--four noble bays--champing the bits, their
harness buckles glistening in the sun; the coach spick and span new and
as glossy as a mirror, with the coachman on the box and the footman
behind; and then, enchanted, has called to his friends, "Come, look,
there it is, just as I had pictured it!" and has then seen them mount to
their places with beaming faces--until, as I say, he has had that
experience, don't tell me that he has known the most exquisite sensation
in life, for I know he hasn't. It was Izaak Walton, I believe, who when
asked what he considered the most thrilling sensation in life, answered
that he supposed it was the tug of a thirty-pound salmon. Well, that was
not a bad guess. I have taken the largest trout of the season on bonnie
Loch Leven, have been drawn over Spirit Lake in Iowa in my skiff for
half an hour by a monster pickerel, and have played with the speckled
beauties in Dead River. It is glorious; making a hundred thousand is
nothing to it; but there's a thrill beyond that, my dear old quaint
Izaak. I remember in one of my sweet strolls "ayont the wood mill braes"
with a great man, my Uncle Bailie M.--and I treasure the memory of these
strolls as among the chief of my inheritance--this very question came
up. I asked him what he thought the most thrilling thing in life. He
mused awhile, as was the Bailie's wont, and I said, "I think I can tell
you, Uncle." "What is it then, Andrea?" (Not And_rew_ for the world.)
"Well, Uncle, I think that when, in making a speech, one feels himself
lifted, as it were, by some divine power into regions beyond himself, in
which he seems to soar without effort, and swept by enthusiasm into the
expression of some burning truth, which has lain brooding in his soul,
throwing policy and prudence to the winds, he feels words whose
eloquence surprises himself, burning hot, hissing through him like
molten lava coursing the veins, he throws it forth, and panting for
breath hears the quick, sharp, explosive roar of his fellow-men in
thunder of assent, the precious moment which tells him that the audience
is his own, but one soul in it and that his; I think this the supreme
moment of life." "Go! Andrea, ye've hit it!" cried the Bailie, and
didn't the dark eye sparkle! He had felt this often, had the Bailie;
his nephew had only now and then been near enough to imagine the rest.

The happiness of giving happiness is far sweeter than the pleasure
direct, and I recall no moments of my life in which the rarer pleasure
seemed to suffuse my whole heart as when I stood at Brighton and saw my
friends take their places that memorable morning. In this variable,
fantastic climate of Britain the weather is ever a source of solicitude.
What must it have been to me, when a good start was all important! I
remember I awoke early in the morning and wondered whether it was sunny
or rainy. If a clear day could have been purchased, it would have been
obtained at almost any outlay. I could easily tell our fate by raising
the window-blind, but I philosophically decided that it was best to lie
still and take what heaven might choose to send us. I should know soon
enough. If rain it was, I could not help it; if fair, it was glorious.
But let me give one suggestion to those who in England are impious
enough to ask heaven to change its plans: don't ask for dry weather;
always resort to that last extremity when it is "a drizzle-drozzle" you
wish. Your supplications are so much more likely to be answered, you
know.

There never was a lovelier morning in England than that which greeted me
when I pulled up the heavy Venetian blind and gazed on the rippling sea
before me, with its hundreds of pretty little sails. I repeated to
myself these favorite lines as I stood entranced:

      "The Bridegroom Sea is toying with the shore,
      His wedded bride; and in the fulness of his marriage joy
      He decorates her tawny brow with shells,
      Retires a space to see how fair she looks,
      Then proud runs up to kiss her."

That is what old ocean was doing that happy morning. I saw him at it,
and I felt that if all created beings had one mouth I should like to
kiss them too.

  [Sidenote: _The Start._]

All seated! The Queen Dowager next the coachman, and I at her side. The
horn sounds, the crowd cheers, and we are off. A mile or two are
traversed and there is a unanimous verdict upon one point--this suits
us! Finer than we had dreamt! As we pass the pretty villas embossed in
flowers and vines and all that makes England the home of happy homes,
there comes the sound of increasing exclamations. How pretty! Oh, how
beautiful! See, see, the roses! Oh the roses! Look at that lawn! How
lovely! Enchanting! entrancing! superb! exquisite! Oh, I never saw
anything like this in all my life! And then the hum of song--La-_la_-LA-LA,
Ra-da-_da_-DUM! Yes, it is all true, all we dreamt or imagined, and
beyond it. And so on we go through Brighton and up the hills to the
famous Weald of Sussex.

While we make our first stop to water the horses at the wayside inn, and
some of the men as well, for a glass of beer asserts its attractions,
let me introduce you to two worthies whose names will occupy important
places in our narrative, and dwell in our memories forever; men to whom
we are indebted in a large measure for the success of the coaching
experiment.

Ladies and gentlemen, this is Perry, Perry our coachman; and what he
doesn't know about horses and how to handle them you needn't overtask
yourselves trying to learn. And this is Joe--Joey, my lad--footman and
coach manager. A good head and an eloquent tongue has Joe. Yes, and a
kind heart. There is nothing he can do or think of doing for any of
us--and he can do much--that he is not off and doing ere we ask him.
"Skid, Joe!" "Right, Perry!" these talismanic words of our order we
heard to-day for the first time. It will be many a long day before they
cease to recall to the Charioteers some of the happiest recollections of
life. Even as I write I am in English meadows far away and hear them
tingling in my ears.

It was soon discovered that no mode of travel could be compared with
coaching. By all other modes the views are obstructed by the hedges and
walls; upon the top of the coach the eye wanders far and wide,

      "O'er deep waving fields and pastures green,
      With gentle slopes and groves between."


Everything of rural England is seen, and how exquisitely beautiful it
all is, this quiet, peaceful, orderly land!

      "The ground's most gentle dimplement
      (As if God's finger touched, but did not press,
      In making England)--such an up and down
      Of verdure; nothing too much up and down,
      A ripple of land, such little hills the sky
      Can stoop to tenderly and the wheat-fields climb;
      Such nooks of valleys lined with orchises,
      Fed full of noises by invisible streams,
      I thought my father's land was worthy too of being Shakespeare's."

  [Sidenote: _Rural England._]

I think this extract from Mr. Winter's charming volume expresses the
feelings one has amid such scenes better than anything I know of:

"If the beauty of England were merely superficial, it would produce a
merely superficial effect. It would cause a passing pleasure, and would
be forgotten. It certainly would not--as now in fact it does--inspire a
deep, joyous, serene and grateful contentment, and linger in the mind, a
gracious and beneficent remembrance. The conquering and lasting potency
of it resides not alone in loveliness of expression, but in loveliness
of character. Having first greatly blessed the British Islands with the
natural advantages of position, climate, soil, and products, nature has
wrought out their development and adornment as a necessary consequence
of the spirit of their inhabitants. The picturesque variety and
pastoral repose of the English landscape spring, in a considerable
measure, from the imaginative taste and the affectionate gentleness of
the English people. The state of the country, like its social
constitution, flows from principles within (which are constantly
suggested), and it steadily comforts and nourishes the mind with a sense
of kindly feeling, moral rectitude, solidity, and permanence. Thus, in
the peculiar beauty of England the ideal is made the actual, is
expressed in things more than in words, and in things by which words are
transcended. Milton's 'L'Allegro,' fine as it is, is not so fine as the
scenery--the crystallized, embodied poetry--out of which it arose. All
the delicious rural verse that has been written in England is only the
excess and superflux of her own poetic opulence; it has rippled from the
hearts of her poets just as the fragrance floats away from her hawthorn
hedges. At every step of his progress the pilgrim through English scenes
is impressed with this sovereign excellence of the accomplished fact, as
contrasted with any words that can be said in its celebration."

  [Sidenote: _The Scribe as a Singer._]

The roads are a theme of continual wonder to those who have not before
seen England. To say that from end to end of our journey they equalled
those of New York Central Park would be to understate the fact. They are
equal to the park roads on days when these are at their best, and are
neither wet nor dusty. We bowl over them as balls do over
billiard-tables. It is a glide rather than a roll, with no sensation of
jolting. You could write or read on the coach almost as well as at home.
I mean you could if there was any time to waste doing either, and you
were not afraid of missing some beautiful picture which would dwell in
your memory for years, or Aleck's last joke, or the Prima Donna's sweet
song, Andrew's never-to-be-forgotten lilt, or the Queen Dowager's Scotch
ballad pertaining to the district; or what might be even still more
likely, if you didn't want to tell a story yourself, or even join in the
roaring chorus as we roll along, for truly the exhilarating effect of
the triumphant progress is such as to embolden one to do anything. I
always liked Artemus Ward, perhaps because I found a point of similarity
between him and myself. It was not he but his friend who "was saddest
when he sang," as the old song has it. I noticed that my friends were
strangely touched when I burst into song. I do not recall an instance
when I was encored; but the apparent slight arose probably from a
suspicion that if recalled I would have essayed the same song. This is
unjust! I have another in reserve for such an occasion, if it ever
happen. The words are different, although the tune may be somewhat
similar. When I like a tune I stick to it, more or less, and when there
are fine touches in several tunes I have been credited with an eclectic
disposition. However this may be, there was never time upon our coach
for anything which called our eyes and our attention from the rapid
succession of pretty cottages, fine flowers, the birds and lowing herds,
the grand lights and grander shadows of that uncertain fleecy sky, the
luxuriance of the verdure, flowery dells and dewy meads, and the hundred
surprising beauties that make England England.

These bind us captive and drive from the mind every thought of anything
but the full and intense enjoyment of the present hour; and this comes
without thought. Forgetful of the past, regardless of the future, from
morn till night, it is one uninterrupted season of pure and unalloyed
joyousness. Never were the words of the old Scotch song as timely as
now:

      "The present moment is our ain,
      The neist we never see."

Having got the party fairly started, let me tell you something of our
general arrangements for the campaign. The coach, horses, and servants
are engaged at a stipulated sum per week, which includes their
travelling expenses. We have nothing to do with their bills or
arrangements, neither are we in any wise responsible for accidents to
the property. Every one of the party is allowed a small hand-bag and a
strap package; the former contains necessary articles for daily use, the
latter waterproofs, shawls, shoes, etc. The Gay Charioteers march with
supplies for one week. The trunks are forwarded every week to the point
where we are to spend the succeeding Sunday, so that every Saturday
evening we replenish our wardrobe, and at the Sunday dinner appear in
full dress, making a difference between that and other days. This we
found well worth observing, for our Sunday evenings were thereby made
somewhat unusual affairs. In no case did any failure of this plan occur,
nor were we ever put to the slightest inconvenience about clothing. Our
hotel accommodations were secured by telegraph. The General Manager had
engaged these for our first week's stage, previous to our start.

  [Sidenote: _Luncheon._]

The question of luncheon soon came to the front, for should we be
favored with fine weather, much of the poetry and romance of the journey
was sure to cluster round the midday halt. It was by a process of
natural selection that she who had proved her genius for making salads
on many occasions during the voyage should be unanimously appointed to
fill the important position of stewardess, and given full and unlimited
control of the hampers. Our stewardess only lived up to a well-deserved
reputation by surprising us day after day with luncheons far excelling
any dinner. Two coaching hampers, very complete affairs, were obtained
in London. These the stewardess saw filled at the inn every morning with
the best the country could afford, under her personal supervision, a
labor of love. Our Pard's sweet tooth led him to many early excursions
before breakfast in quest of sweets and flowers for us. Aleck was
butler, and upon him we placed implicit reliance, and with excellent
reason too, for the essential corkscrew and the use thereof--which may
be rated as of prime necessity upon such a tour--and Aleck never failed
us as superintendent of the bottles.

It was in obedience to the strictest tenets of our civil service reform
association that the most important appointment of all was made with a
unanimity which must ever be flattering to the distinguished gentleman
who received the highly responsible appointment of General Manager. Just
here let me say, for the peace of mind of any gentleman who may be
tempted to try the coaching experiment upon a large scale, and for an
extended tour: _Don't_, unless you have a dear friend with a clear head,
an angelic disposition, a great big heart, and the tact essential for
governing, who for your sake is willing to relieve you from the cares
incident to such a tour--that is, if you expect to enjoy it as a
recreation, and have something that will linger forever after in the
memory as an adventure in wonderland. Should you however be one of those
rare men who have a real liking for details, and so conceited as to
think that you never get things done so well as when your own genius
superintends them, being in this respect the antipode of a modest man
like myself--who never does by any chance find any one who can so
completely bungle matters as himself--it may of course be different. As
for me, the very first inquiry I shall make of myself when I am about
to take the road again--as pray heaven I may some day, and that ere
long--will be this: Now who can I get for Prime Minister, one who will
like to govern and allow me to laugh and frolic with the party without a
care? The position of a king in a constitutional monarchy is the very
ideal for a chief to emulate. It is delightful to feel so very certain
that one "can do no wrong," even if infallibility be obtained, as Queen
Victoria's is, because she is no longer allowed to do anything. Such was
the case with the Scribe during the Coaching Tour. Happy man!

  [Sidenote: _Grouping._]

There must always be a tendency toward grouping in a large party: groups
of four or five, and in extreme cases a group of two; and especially is
this so when married people, cousins or dear friends, are of the
company. To prevent anything like this, and insure our being one united
party, I asked the gentlemen not to occupy the same seat twice in
succession--a rule which gave the ladies a different companion at each
meal, and a change upon the coach several times each day. This was
understood to apply in a general way to our strolls, although in this
case the General Manager, with rare discretion, winked at many
infringements, which insured him grateful constituents of both sexes.
Young people should never be held too strictly to such rules, and a
chaperon's duties, as we all know, are often most successfully performed
by a wise and salutary neglect. Our General Manager and even the Queen
Dowager were considerate.

We generally started about half-past nine in the morning, half an hour
earlier or later as the day's journey was to be long or short; and here
let me record, to the credit of all, that not in any instance had we
ever to wait for any of the party beyond the five minutes allowed upon
all well managed lines for "variation of watches." The horn sounded, and
we were off through the crowds which were usually around the hotel door
awaiting the start. Nor even at meals were we less punctual or less
mindful of the comfort of others. I had indeed a model party in every
way, and in none more praiseworthy than in this, that the Charioteers
were always "on time." The Prima Donna's explanation may have reason in
it: "Who wouldn't be ready and waiting to mount the coach! I'd as soon
be late, and a good deal sooner, maybe, for my wedding: and as for
meals, there was even a better reason why we were always ready then: we
couldn't wait." We did indeed eat like hawks, especially at luncheon--a
real boy's hunger--the ravenous gnawing after a day at the sea gathering
whilks. I thought this had left me, but that with many another
characteristic of glorious youth came once more to make daft callants of
us. O those days! those happy, happy days! Can they be brought back once
more? Will a second coaching trip do it? I would be off next summer. But
one hesitates to put his luck to the test a second time, lest the
perfect image of the first be marred. We shall see.

During the evening we had learned the next day's stage--where we were to
stay over night, and, what is almost as important, in what pretty nook
we were to rest at midday; on the banks of what classic stream or
wimpling burn, or in what shady, moss-covered dell. Several people of
note in the neighborhood dropped into the inn, as a rule, to see the
American coaching party, whose arrival in the village had made as great
a stir as if it were the advance show-wagon of Barnum's menagerie. From
these the best route and objects of interest to be seen could readily be
obtained. The ordnance maps which we carried kept us from trouble about
the right roads; not only this, they gave us the name of every estate we
passed, and of its owner.

  [Sidenote: _Aristocratic Gypsies._]

The horses have to be considered in selecting a luncheon-place, which
should be near an inn, where they can be baited. This was rarely
inconvenient; but upon a few occasions, when the choice spot was in some
glen or secluded place, we took oats along, and our horses were none the
worse off for nibbling the road-side grass and drinking from the brook.
Nor did the party look less like the aristocratic Gypsies they felt
themselves to be from having their coach standing on the moor or in the
glen, and the horses picketed near by, as if we were just the true-born
Gypsies. And was there ever a band of Gypsies happier than we, or freer
from care? Didn't we often dash off in a roar:

      "See! the smoking bowl before us,
        Mark our jovial ragged ring!
      Round and round take up the chorus,
        And in raptures let us sing.
      A fig for those by law protected!
        Liberty's a glorious feast!
      Courts for cowards were erected,
        Churches built to please the priest."

Halt! Ho for luncheon! Steps, Joe. Yes, sir! The committee of two
dismount and select the choicest little bit of sward for the table. It
is not too warm, still we will not refuse the shade of a noble chestnut
or fragrant birk, or the side of a tall hedge, on which lie, in one
magnificent bed, masses of honeysuckle, over which nod, upon graceful
sprays, hundreds of the prettiest wild roses, and at whose foot grow the
foxglove and wandering willie.

It is no easy matter to decide which piece of the velvety lawn is
finest; but here come Joe and Perry with armfuls of rugs to the chosen
spot. The rugs are spread two lengthwise a few feet apart, and one
across at the top and bottom, leaving for the table in the centre the
fine clovered turf with buttercups and daisies pied. The ladies have
gathered such handfuls of wild flowers! How fresh, how unaffected, and
how far beyond the more pretentious bouquets which grace our city
dinners! These are Nature's own dear children, fresh from her lap,
besprinkled with the dews of heaven, unconscious of their charms. How
touchingly beautiful are the wild flowers! real friends are they, close
to our hearts, while those of the conservatory stand outside,
fashionable acquaintances only.

  [Sidenote: _Wild Flowers._]

Give us the wild flowers, and take your prize varieties; for does not
even Tennyson (a good deal of a cultivated flower himself) sing thus of
the harshest of them all, though to a Scotsman sacred beyond all other
vegetation:

      ... "the stubborn thistle bursting
      Into glossy purples, which outredden
      All voluptuous garden roses."

And in that wonder of our generation, the "Light of Asia," it is no
garden beauties who are addressed:

      "Oh, flowers of the field! Siddartha said,
      Who turn your tender faces to the sun--
      Glad of the light, and grateful with sweet breath
      Of fragrance and these robes of reverence donned,
      Silver and gold and purple--none of ye
      Miss perfect living, none of ye despoil
      Your happy beauty....
      What secret know ye that ye grow content,
      From time of tender shoot to time of fruit,
      Murmuring such sun-songs from your feathered crowns?"

You may be sure that while in Scotland old Scotia's dear emblem, and
that most graceful of all flowers, the Scottish bluebell, towered over
our bouquets, and that round them clustered the others less known to
fame.

It was an easy matter to tie the flowers round sticks and press these
into the soft lawn, and then there was a table for you--equal it who
can! Round this the travellers range themselves upon the rugs, sometimes
finding in back to back an excellent support, for they sat long at
table; and see at the head--for it's the head wherever she sits--the
Queen Dowager is comfortably seated upon the smaller of the two hampers.
The larger placed on end before her gives her a private table: she has
an excellent seat, befitting her dignity. Joe and Perry have put the
horses up at the inn, and are back with mugs of foaming ale, bottles of
Devonshire cider, lemonade, and pitchers of fresh creamy milk, that all
tastes may be suited. The stewardess and her assistants have set table,
and now luncheon is ready. No formal grace is necessary, for our hearts
have been overflowing with gratitude all the day long for the blessed
happiness showered upon us. We owe no man a grudge, harbor no evil, have
forgiven all our enemies, if we have any--for we doubt the existence of
enemies, being ourselves the enemy of none. Our hearts open to embrace
all things, both great and small; we are only sorry that so much is
given to us, so little to many of our more deserving fellow-creatures.
Truly, the best grace this, before meat or after!

      "He prayeth best who loveth best
        All things both great and small;
      For the dear God who loveth us,
        He made and loveth all."

In these days we feel for the Deevil himself, and wish with Burns that
he would take a thought and mend; and, as Howells says, "if we had the
naming of creation we wouldn't call snakes snakes" if the christening
took place while we were coaching.

  [Sidenote: _Good Appetites._]

No one would believe what fearful appetites driving in this climate
gives one. Shall we ever feel such tigerish hunger again! but, what is
just as important, shall we ever again have such luncheons! "Give me a
sixpence," said the beggar to the duke, "for I have nothing." "You lie,
you beggar; I'd give a thousand pounds for such an appetite as you've
got." Well, ours would have been cheap to you, my lord duke, at double
the money. What a roar it caused one day when one of the young ladies
was discovered quietly taking the third slice of cold ham. "Well, girls,
you must remember I was on the front seat, and had to stand the _brunt_
of the weather this morning." Capital! I had been there at her side, and
got my extra allowance on the same ground; and those who bore the
_brunt_ of the weather claimed a great many second and even third
allowances during the journey.

Aleck (_Aa_leck, not El-eck, remember), set the table in a roar so often
with his funny sayings and doings that it would fill the record were I
to recount them, but one comes to mind as I write which was a great hit.

A temperance--no, a total abstinence lady rebuked him once for taking a
second or third glass of something, telling him that he should try to
conquer his liking for it, and assuring him that if he would only resist
the Devil he would flee from him. "I know," said the wag (and with such
a comical, good-natured expression), "that is what the good book says,
Mrs. ----, but I have generally found that I was the fellow who had _to
get_." You couldn't corner Aaleck.

Although we were coaching, it must not be thought that we neglected the
pleasures of walking. No, indeed, we had our daily strolls. Sometimes
the pedestrians started in advance of the coach from the inn or the
luncheon ground, and walked until overtaken, and at other times we would
dismount some miles before we reached the end of the day's journey, and
walk into the village. This was a favorite plan, as we found by arriving
later than the main body our rooms were ready and all the friends in our
general sitting-room standing to welcome us.

Hills upon the route were always hailed as giving us an opportunity for
a walk or a stroll, and all the sport derivable from a happy party in
country lanes. It was early June, quite near enough to

      "The flowery May who from her green lap throws
      The yellow cowslip and the pale primrose,"

and the hundreds of England's wild beauties with

            "quaint enamell'd eyes,
      That on the green turf suck the honeyed showers,
      And purple all the ground with vernal flowers."

  [Sidenote: _Pleasures of Walking._]

Many a time was Perry instructed to wait for us at the foot of the hill,
or a mile or two in advance, while we spent the happy intervals in
examining still closer than it was possible to do while driving the
beauties which captivated us at every turn. The pleasures of walking set
against those of coaching might well furnish matter for an evening's
debate. Combined, as they were with us, the result was perfection, for
they are indeed upon such a tour the complement of each other. If ever
weary of the coach--which we never were--nothing like a walk along the
hedge-rows as a substitute, with many a run into out-of-the-way paths,
which tempted us by their loveliness, and many a minute stolen to
explore the windings of the brooks we passed. I often felt that one of
the prettiest pictures I had ever seen was that of our own party
scattered about some bosky dell in the way I have described, while the
towering coach-and-four stood out clear against the sky upon the
hilltop, waiting for us to tear ourselves away from scenes among which
we would linger till the daylight had passed. Let no one fail while
coaching to work this mine of pure happiness to the full.

We carried perpetual flowering summer with us as we travelled from south
to north, plucking the wild roses and the honeysuckles from the hedges
near Brighton, never missing their sweet influences, and finding them
ready to welcome us at Inverness, seven weeks later, as if they had
waited till our approach to burst forth in their beauty in kindly
greeting of their kinsmen from over the sea. A dancing, laughing welcome
did the wild flowers of my native land give to us, God bless them!

On our arrival at the inn for the night, the General Manager examined
the rooms and assigned them; Joe and Perry handed over the bags to the
servants; the party went direct to their general sitting-room, and in a
few minutes were taken to their rooms, where all was ready for them. The
two American flags were placed upon the mantel of the sitting-room, in
which there was always a piano, and we sat down to dinner a happy band.

The long twilight and the gloaming in Scotland gave us two hours after
dinner to see the place; and after our return an hour of musical
entertainment was generally enjoyed, and we were off to bed to sleep the
sound, refreshing sleep of childhood's innocent days. The duties of the
General Manager, however, required his attendance down stairs; he had
to-morrow's route to learn and the landlord or landlady, as the case
might be, to see. Some of the male members of the party were not loath
to assist in this business, and I have heard many a story of the pranks
played by them--for several of my friends are not unlike the piper,
"Rory Murphy,"

      "Who had of good auld sangs the wale
      To please the wives that brewed good ale;
      He charmed the swats frae cog and pail
      As he cam through Dumbarton."

  [Sidenote: _Coaching Weather._]

No doubt the landlord's laugh was ready chorus, and the Gay Charioteers
of this department, I make bold to say, tasted most of the "far ben"
barrels of every landlord or landlady in their way northward. The
question of the weather occurs to every one. "If you have a dry season,
it may be done; if a wet one, I doubt it," was the opinion of one of my
wisest friends in Britain. We were surprisingly fortunate in this
respect. Only one day did we suffer seriously from rain. A gentle shower
fell now and then to cool the air and lay the dust, or rather to prevent
the dust, and seemingly to recreate vegetation. Who wouldn't bear a
shower, if properly supplied with waterproofs and umbrellas, for the
fresh glory revealed thereafter. Only a continual downpour for days
could have dampened the ardor of the Gay Charioteers. Good coaching
weather may be expected in June and July, if one may indulge any weather
anticipations in England. After we left the deluge came; nothing but
rain during August and September, at least such was the report--but the
conveniences of living are so great and the discomforts so few in
England that I incline to the opinion, especially when I take into
consideration the well-known tendency of the islanders to grumble, that
far too much is made out of the so-called bad weather. We had a curious
illustration of this. One day we heard some rumbling sounds which would
scarcely pass with us for thunder, and we were amused next morning to
read in the newspapers of the terrific thunder-storm which had passed
over the district. All things are gentle and well behaved in this sober,
steady-going, conservative land. Even Jove himself "roars you as mildly
as a sucking dove." Pluvius, too, is less terrible than he is painted,
though the green, green grass, the smiling hedgerows, the luxuriant
vegetation everywhere tells of a moist nature and a disposition to weep
at short intervals; but the rain comes gently down as if all the while
begging your pardon and explaining that it couldn't possibly help it,
the sky being unable to keep it any longer in its overburdened bosom.
Strong, thick shoes, one pair in reserve, and overshoes for the ladies,
heavy woollen clothing--under and over--a waterproof, an umbrella, and a
felt hat that won't spoil--these rendered us almost independent of the
weather and prepared us to encounter the worst ever predicted of the
British climate; and this is saying a great deal, for the natives do
grumble inordinately about it. As I have said, however, our travelling
was never put to a severe test. England and Scotland smiled upon the
coaching party, and compelled us all to fall deeply in love with their
unrivalled charms. We thought that even in tears this blessed isle must
still be enchanting.

The same horses (with one exception) took us through from Brighton to
Inverness. This has surprised some horsemen here, but little do they
know of the roads and climate, or of Perry's care. Our average distance,
omitting days when we rested, was thirty-two miles, and horses will
actually improve on such a journey, as ours did, if not pushed too fast
and not forced to pull beyond their strength up steep hills. The
continual desire of most of our party to dismount and enjoy a walk gave
our horses a light coach where the road was such as to bring them to a
walk, and they were actually in better condition after the journey than
when we started.

  [Sidenote: _Wayside Inns._]

For luncheon, "good my liege, all place a temple and all seasons
summer," but for lodgings and entertainment for man and beast, how did
we manage these? Shall we not take our ease in our inn? and shall not
mine host of The Garter, ay and mine hostess too, prove the most
obliging of people? I do not suppose that it would be possible to find
in any other country such delightful inns at every stage of such a
journey. Among many pretty objects upon which memory lovingly rests,
these little wayside inns stand prominently forward. The very names
carry one back to quaint days of old: "The Lamb and Lark," "The Wheat
Sheaf," "The Barley Mow." Oh, you fat wight! your inn was in Eastcheap,
but in your march through Coventry, when you wouldn't go with your
scarecrows, it was to some wayside inn you went, you rogue, with its
trailing vines, thatched roof, and pretty garden flower-pots in the
windows; and upon such excursions it was, too, that you acquired that
love of nature which enabled the master with six words to cover most
that was un-unsavory in your character, and hand you down to generations
unborn, shrived and absolved. Dear old boy--whom one would like to have
known--for after all you were right, Jack: "If Adam fell in an age of
innocency, what was poor Jack Falstaff to do in an age of villainy!"
There was something pure and good at bottom of one who left us after
life's vanities were o'er playing with flowers and "babbling o' green
fields." These country hostelries are redolent of the green fields. It
is in such we would take our ease in our inn. The host, hostess, and
servants assembled at the door upon our arrival, and welcomed us to
their home, as they also do when we leave to bid us God-speed. We mount
and drive off with smiles, bows, and wavings of the hands from them; and
surely the smiles and good wishes of those who have done so much to
promote our comfort over night are no bad salute for us as we blow our
horn and start on the fresh dewy mornings upon our day's journey.

  [Sidenote: _British Honesty._]

The scrupulous care bestowed upon us and our belongings by the
innkeepers excited remark. Not one article was lost of the fifty
packages, great and small, required by fifteen persons. It was not even
practicable to get rid of any trifling article which had served its
purpose; old gloves, or discarded brushes quietly stowed away in some
drawer or other would be handed to us at the next stage, having been
sent by express by these careful, honest people. It was a great and
interesting occasion, as the reporters say, when the stowed-away pair of
old slippers which she had purposely left, were delivered to one of our
ladies with a set speech after dinner one evening. Little did she
suspect what was contained in the nice package which had been forwarded.
Our cast-off things were veritable devil's ducats which would return to
plague us. To the grandest feature of the Briton's character, the love
of truth, let one more cardinal virtue be added--his downright honesty.
More Englishmen of all ranks, high and low, in proportion to population,
will escape conviction upon two counts of the general indictment, "Thou
shalt not bear false witness," and "Thou shalt not steal," than those of
any other nationality; but upon a collateral count a larger proportion
of Englishmen of position will have difficulty in clearing themselves
than of any other race of which I have knowledge; for while the true
Briton will tell the truth, if he has to speak at all, he will conceal
his honest convictions upon social and political subjects to such an
extent in public as to seem to you almost hypocritical when compared
with what he will say freely in private. The M.P. of the smoking room of
the House of Commons and the same man on the floor of the House, for
instance, are two distinct personages, for it is understood that
whatever is said below is to be above as if unsaid. I have often
wondered how they merge the one character into the other when the day's
words and acts come under review ere the eyes close in sleep--there is
such a miserable fear in the breast of the free-born Briton that he will
in an unguarded moment say something which he feels to be true, but
which society will not think "good form." The great difference between a
Radical and a Liberal in England is, it seems to me, that the one holds
the same opinions in public and in private, while the other has two sets
of opinions, the one for public, the other for private use. The
maintenance of old forms, from which the life has passed out, is no
doubt the real cause of this phase of English political life, apparently
so inconsistent with the Saxon love of truth; one sham requires many
shams for its support.

We all have our special weaknesses as to the articles we leave behind at
hotels. Mine is well known; but I smile as I write at the cleverness
shown in preventing my lapses during the excursion from coming before
the congregation. It was a wary eye which was kept upon forwarded
parcels, mark you, and not once was I presented with a left article.
The eleventh commandment is, not to be found out.

  [Sidenote: _Wild Flowers._]

With these general observations we shall not "leave the subject with
you," but, retracing our steps to the hills overlooking Brighton, we
shall mount the coach waiting there for us at the King's Cross Inn; for
you remember we dismounted there while the horses were watered for the
first time. Ten miles of bewildering pleasure had brought us here; some
of us pushed forward and had our first stroll, but we scattered in a
minute, for who could resist the flowers which tempted us at every step!
The roses were just in season; the honeysuckle, ragged robin, meadow
sweet, wandering willie, and who can tell how many others whose familiar
names are household words. What bouquets we gathered, what exclamations
of delight were heard as one mass of beauty after another burst upon our
sight! We began to realize that Paradise lay before us, began to know
that we had discovered the rarest plan upon earth for pleasure; as for
duty that was not within our horizon. We scarcely knew there was work to
do. An echo of a moan from the weary world we had cast behind was not
heard. Divinest melancholy was out of favor; Il Penseroso was discarded
for the time, and L'Allegro, the happier goddess, crowned, bringing in
her train--

      "Sport, that wrinkled Care derides,
      And Laughter, holding both his sides;
      Come and trip it as you go,
      On the light, fantastic toe."

That does not quite express it, for there was time for momentary pauses
now and then, when the heart swelled with gratitude. We were so grateful
for being so blessed. It was during this stroll that Emma came quietly
to my side, slipped her arm in mine, and said in that rich, velvety
English voice which we all envy her: "Oh, Andrew, when I am to go home
you will have to tell me plainly, for indeed I shall never be able to
leave this of my own accord. I haven't been as happy since I was a young
girl." "Do you really think you could go all the way to Inverness?" "Oh,
I could go on this way forever." "All right, my lady, 'check your
baggage through,' as we say in Yankeedom;" and never did that woman lose
sight of the coach till it was torn away from her at Inverness.

Some of us dismounted before reaching Horsham, and went in pursuit of
adventure. In an old tan-yard by the wayside, where men were making
leather in the crude, old-fashioned way, with horses instead of a steam
engine for the motive power, we had our first conversation with the
British rural workman, whose weekly earnings do not exceed $3.50. Now,
this was not more than thirty miles from London, and only twenty-one
from the sea at Brighton, and yet the oldest man of the party, who was
the most talkative, had never seen the sea. He had been in London once,
during the great Exhibition in 1851, having been treated to the journey
by his employer; but his brother, who lived only a few miles beyond, had
never been in a railway carriage. Their old master had died recently and
had left a pound ($5) to every workman who had been with him for a
certain number of years--I think ten. Good old master! The owners had
new-fangled notions, he said, and were spending "heaps o' money" in
building a steam engine which was not yet ready, but which he invited us
to go and see. This was to do the work much faster; but (with a shake of
the head) "I've 'earn tell by some as knows it's na sae gid for the
leather."

  [Sidenote: _Rip Van Winkles._]

Could we really be within an hour's ride of the capital of the world,
and yet in the midst of a Sleepy Hollow like this, peopled by Rip van
Winkles! This incident gives a just idea of the tenacity with which the
English hold to what their fathers did before them. This man's father
could not have seen the sea at Brighton, nor have visited London short
of spending a week's earnings. His successor goes along as his father
did--what was good enough for his father is good enough for him,

            "Chained to one spot,
      They draw nutrition, propagate and rot."

But the next generation is to see all this changed, for even southern
England is under the compulsory education act, and the rural population
is to have the political franchise and a voice in the election of county
boards.

At Horsham we lunched at the King's Arms, walked about its principal
square, and were off again for Guildford. As we leave the sea the soil
becomes richer, and ere we reach Horsham we say, yes, this is England
indeed; but I forgot we passed through the Weald of Sussex before
reaching Horsham. The cloudy sky cast deep shadows with the sunbeams
over the rich, wooded landscape, as no clear blue sky has power to do,
and brought to my mind Mrs. Browning's lines:

      ... "my woods in Sussex have some purple shades at gloaming,
      Which are worthy of a king in state, or poet in his youth.

             *       *       *       *       *

      Oh, the blessed woods of Sussex, I can hear them still around me,
      With their leafy tide of greenery still rippling up the wind!"

And many a stately home did we see, fit for her "who spake such good
thoughts natural."

Mrs. Browning is said to have written Lady Geraldine in a few hours,
lying upon a sofa. This is one of the proofs cited that genius does its
work as if by inspiration, without great effort. What nonsense! The
Agave Americana bursts into flower in a day; but, look you, a hundred
years of quiet, unceasing growth, which stopped not night nor day, was
the period of labor preceding the miracle--a hundred years, during all
of which it drank of the sunshine and the dews. Scott wrote some of his
best works in a few weeks, but for a lifetime he never flagged in his
work of gathering the fruits of song and story. Burns dashed off "A
man's a man for a' that" in a jiffy. Yes, but for how many years were
his very heartstrings tingling and his blood boiling at the injustice of
hereditary rank! His life is in that song, not a few hours of it.

       *       *       *       *       *

      GUILDFORD, June 17.

  [Sidenote: _A Generous Squire._]

The approach to Guildford gives us our first real perfect English
lane--so narrow and so bound in by towering hedgerows worthy the name.
Had we met a vehicle at some of the prettiest turns there would have
been trouble, for, although the lane is not quite as narrow as the
pathway of the auld brig, where two wheelbarrows trembled as they met,
yet a four-in-hand upon an English lane requires a clear track.
Vegetation near Guildford is luxuriant enough to meet our expectations
of England. It was at the White Lion we halted, and here came our first
experience of quarters for the night. The first dinner en route was a
decided success in our fine sitting-room, the American flags, brought
into requisition for the first time to decorate the mantel, bringing to
all sweet memories of home. During our stroll to-day we stopped at a
small village inn before which pretty roses grew, hanging in clusters
upon its sides. It was a very small and humble inn indeed, the tile
floors sanded, and the furniture of the tap-room only plain wood--there
were no chairs, only benches around the table where the hinds sit at
night, drinking home-brewed beer, smoking their clay pipes, and
discussing not the political affairs of the nation, but the affairs of
their little world, bounded by the hall at one end of the estate, and
the parsonage at the other. The merits of the gray mare, or the
qualities of the last breed of sheep at the home farm, or the
new-fangled plough which the squire has been rash enough to order. The
landlady told us that she had recently moved from one of the midland
towns to this village to secure purer air for the children, who had not
been thriving well. Her husband was a gardener and worked for the
squire. Two pretty little girls were brought in for us to see, true
Saxons, with blue eyes and light colored hair, but with less color in
their sweet innocent faces than usual--the result of dirty, crowded
Leeds, no doubt--but soon to be changed by the country air. The eldest
girl could not have been more than six or seven years old, but when she
was given a few pence she went to the next room and brought a sheet of
paper upon which were pasted some penny postage stamps. She was going at
once to the post office to buy more stamps with her pennies. On
inquiring we learned that the Post Office Department receives deposits
of a shilling in stamps and allows two and a half per cent. interest I
think, upon them, and "the squire" God bless him! had promised all the
children upon his estates, which I trust vast, that whenever they saved
eleven stamps he would give the last one to complete the shilling. In
this way he hopes to instil into the young the importance of beginning
early to save something for a rainy day. The still younger girl had also
her stamp paper. The English are an improvident race, not given to
denying themselves to-day that they may feast later on. "Do not put off
till to-morrow what can be done to-day" is generally construed to mean,
that the cake may as well be eaten at once, so that upon the whole we
were not displeased to see these children trained to accumulate; but
nevertheless it did seem pitiful that the dear little lambs, instead of
sporting without a care, should have so early to learn that life is to
the mass mainly a struggle for subsistence. Civilization is a failure
till all this be changed. What a pity the name and address of that
squire are mislaid. He evidently feels that property has its duties as
well as its rights. The village and the inn and all the surroundings
showed that the Hall was, in this instance, as it is in so many others,
the centre and source of good influences. "He has a good wife and
earnest thinking and working daughters," said one of the party. Surely
he has and they do their part or he could not succeed. It was quite safe
to infer this, was the verdict. Man is a poor agency for such work, left
to himself. It needs woman's patience and glowing sympathy to work
improvement in the manners and customs of the rural population. Man may
supply the money, which corresponds only to barren faith among the
virtues; it is to woman we must look for the harvest--good works.

When we remounted the coach, one regret found loud expression, and as
the Scribe writes to-day, he wishes the omission could be remedied. Why
did not we give these children a shilling each, with strict injunctions
to gorge themselves with taffy and gingerbread, not a penny of it to be
saved. A regular spree regardless of consequences! "Oh! it would have
made them ill," said one. Well, suppose it did, just think of the legacy
left them, a dream for years that they had been brought to death's door
by too much taffy! Why, the sweet taste would have lingered in the
pretty little mouths till womanhood, and they would have thought about
their illness as Conn in the Shaughraun did about his month in jail for
taking the squire's horse for a run with the hounds: "Begorra! it was
worth it!"

  [Sidenote: _Franklin's Proverb._]

It might have given them a taste for dissipation, and they would have
ceased to gather stamps, and turned out badly, was the next suggestion.
This was seemingly agreed to by the majority, but there was one who
wished he had secretly conveyed to the cherubs, at least a six-pence
each to be entirely devoted to gormandizing. "Take care of your pence
and the pounds will take care of themselves," the Queen Dowager
remarked, is one of Ben Franklin's wisest proverbs. There was one at
least of her children who had good reason to remember that favorite
axiom. During his temporary absence from school, good Mr. Martin had
instituted a rule that each one in the class should repeat a proverb
before the lessons began. Her offspring was at the foot of the class,
from absence it is to be hoped, and as each boy and girl spoke his
proverb (they were taught together in those days, much to the advantage
of both sexes, for who wanted to be a dunce before pretty and clever A.
R.) they had an unfamiliar sound, but when his turn came he innocently
gave them his mother's favorite from Franklin. It was like introducing a
strange dog into a crowded church. After the uproar had subsided, the
teacher said that while it was no doubt a very good proverb, it was not
just in place among the sacred proverbs of Solomon. Another story was
related of one of the Charioteers who, when told that he ought to sing
when the others did in church, struck up, at the top of his shrill
piping voice, "Come under my plaidie, the night's going to fa';" when
the congregation began the Psalm. His uncle was so convulsed that,
notwithstanding the angry glances of many near him, he could not stop
the performance in time to prevent an unseemly interruption.

We had done our first day's coaching, and a long day at that, and
looking back it is amusing to remember how anxiously we awaited the
reports of the ladies of our party; for it was not without grave
apprehension that some must fall by the wayside, as it were, as we
journeyed on. One who had tried coaching upon this side had informed us
that few ladies could stand it; but it was very evident that the spirits
and appetites of ours were entirely satisfactory, and they all laughed
at the idea that they could not go on forever. The Queen Dowager was
quite as fresh as any. It was a shame that general orders consigned to
bed at an early hour two of the ladies thought least robust, while the
others walked about the suburbs of Guildford until late. We stood in the
thickening twilight in front of an ivy-clad residence for some time, and
asked each other if anything so exquisite had ever been seen, so full of
rest, of home. The next morning all were fresh and happy, without a
trace of fatigue--full of yesterday, and quite sure that no other day
could equal it. But this was often said: many and many a day was voted
the finest yet, only to be eclipsed in its turn by a later, till at last
an effort to name our best day led to twenty selections, and ended in
the general conclusion that it was impossible to say which had crowded
within its hours the rarest treat, for none had all the finest, neither
did any lack something of the best. But there is one point upon which a
unanimous verdict can always be had from the Gay Charioteers, that to
such days in the mass none but themselves can be their parallel.

We ran into a book-shop in the morning and obtained a local guide-book,
that we might cull for you the proper quotations therefrom. It consists
of 148 pages, mostly given up to notices of the titled people who
visited the old town long ago; but who cares about them? Here, however,
is something of more interest than all those nobodies. Cobbett says of
Guildford, in his "Rural Rides:"

  [Sidenote: _Cobbett's Opinion._]

"I, who have seen so many towns, think this the prettiest and most happy
looking I ever saw in my life." There's praise for you! But, then, he
had never seen Dunfermline. Here is a characteristic touch of that rare,
horse-sense kind of a man. He is enraptured over the vale of Chilworth.

"Here, in this tranquil spot, where the nightingales are to be heard
earlier and later in the year than in any other part of England, where
the first budding of the trees is seen in the spring, where no rigor of
seasons can ever be felt, where everything seems framed for precluding
the very thought of wickedness--this has the devil fixed on as one of
his seats of his grand manufactory, and perverse and even ungrateful man
not only lends his aid, but lends it cheerfully."

Since those days, friend Cobbett, the devil has much enlarged his
business in gunpowder and bank notes, of which you complain. He was only
making a start when you wrote. The development of manufactures in
America (under a judicious tariff, be it reverently spoken), amazing as
it has been, and carried on as a rule by the saints, is slow work
compared with what his satanic majesty has been doing in these two
departments. We must bestir ourselves betimes.

You remember Artemus Ward's encounter with the colporteur. After a long,
dusty day's journey, arriving at the hotel, he applied to the barkeeper
for a mint-julep, and just as Artemus was raising the tempting draught
to his lips, a hand was laid upon his arm and the operation arrested.
The missionary in embryo said in a kind of sepulchral tone, for he was
only a beginner and had not yet reached that true professional voice
which comes only after years of exhortation: "My friend, look not upon
the wine when it is red. It stingeth like a serpent and it biteth as an
adder." "Guess not, stranger," replied Artemus, "not if you put sugar in
it."

It is just so with bank-notes, friend Cobbett. They don't bite worth a
cent, neither do they sting, if you have government bonds behind them.
But this was not understood in your day. The Republic had not then shown
to the world the model system of banking. The objection made to it by
others, viz., that founded as it is upon the obligations of the nation,
its discredit involves the fall of private credit, counts for little to
a republican. We would not give much for the man who is not willing to
stake "his life, his fortune, and his sacred honor" upon the solvency of
the Republic. Pitiable is the man who could think of his petty private
means when his country was in peril. When the Republic falls, let us
also fall.

There is a funny thing in this guide-book. "There also resides Mr.
Martin Farquhar Tupper, the author of 'Proverbial Philosophy,' etc. He
has eulogized the scene around as follows." Then come two pages of
Tupper. I naturally looked to see the name of the author of the book,
but none was given. Such modesty! But the case is a clear one, for who
but Tupper would quote Tupper! "Sir," said Johnson to Bossy, "Sir, I
never did the man an injury in my life, and yet he would persist in
reading his tragedy to me." Here's the concluding quotation from the
guide-book of Guildford, and the Scribe promises not to quote much more
from any similar source. Cobbett says that in Albury Park he saw some
plants of the "American cranberry, which not only grow here, but bear
fruit, and therefore it is clear that they may be cultivated with great
ease in this country."

  [Sidenote: _American Blessings._]

Potatoes, tomatoes, and cranberries--look at the great blessings America
has bestowed upon the "author of her being;" and what won't grow in the
rain and fog of the old home, doesn't she grow for her and send over by
every steamer, from canvas-back ducks to Newtown pippins! Thackeray was
right in saying one night, when some friends were disposed to criticise
America, "Ah! well, gentlemen, much can be pardoned to a country which
produces the canvas-back duck." At dinner-tables in England, nowadays,
to the usual grace, "O Lord! for what we are about to receive make us
truly thankful," should be added, "and render us truly grateful to our
big son Jonathan, God bless him!"

One could settle down at the White Lion in Guildford, and spend a month,
at least, visiting every day fresh objects of interest, and I have no
doubt becoming day by day more charmed with the life he was leading. In
every direction historical scenes, crowded full of instructive stories
of the past, invite us: and yet to-morrow morning the horn will sound,
and we shall be off, reluctantly saying to ourselves, we must return
some day when we have leisure, and wander in and around, absorb and
moralize. This rapid survey is only to show us what we can do hereafter.
A summer to each county would not be too much, and here are eight
hundred miles from sea to firth to be rushed over in seven weeks.
Guildford, farewell!--on "to fresh woods and pastures new."

       *       *       *       *       *

      SATURDAY, June 18.

After a delightful breakfast we mount the coach and are off through the
crowd of lookers-on for our second day's journey. During this stage we
learned the valuable lesson that we should not attempt to coach through
England without having the ordnance survey maps, and paying close
attention to them. In this part of the country, so near to monster
London, the roads and lanes are innumerable, and run here, there, and
everywhere. You can reach any point by many different roads. Guide-posts
have a dozen names upon them. We did some sailing out of our course
to-day, and found many charming spots not down in the chart, which the
straight line would have caused us to miss; it was late ere Windsor's
towers made their appearance. The day was not long enough for us, long
as it was, but the fifty miles we are said to have traversed were quite
enough for the horses. But next day would be Sunday, we said, and they
had a long rest to look forward to at Windsor.

       *       *       *       *       *

      WINDSOR, June 18-20.

  [Sidenote: _The Scribe as a Whip._]

Upon reaching the forest, the General Manager insisted that the Scribe
should take the reins and drive his party through the royal domain. This
was his first trial as the whip of a four-in-hand, and not a very
successful one either. It's easy enough to handle the ribbons, but how
to do this and spare a hand for the whip troubles one. As Josh Billings
remarks in the case of religion, "It's easy enough to get religion, but
to hold on to it is what bothers a fellow. A good grip is here worth
more than rubies." The Scribe had not the grip for the whip, but it did
give him a rare pleasure when he got a moment or two now and then (when
Perry held the whip), to think that he was privileged to drive his
friends in style up to Her Majesty's very door at Windsor. Only to the
door, for that good woman was not at home, but in bonnie Scotland,
sensible lady! As we were en route ourselves, we were quite in the
fashion; some of her republican subjects, however, were quite
disappointed at not getting a glimpse of her during the tour.

The drive through the grounds gave to some of our party the first sight
of an English park, and it is certain that the impression it made upon
them will never be effaced.

Windsor at last, a late dinner and a stroll through the quaint town, the
castle towering over all in the cloudy night, and we were off to bed,
but not before we had enjoyed an hour of the wildest frolic, though
tired and sleepy after the long drive. We laughed until our sides ached,
but how vain to attempt to describe the fun! To detail the trifles light
as air which kept us in a roar during our excursion is like offering you
stale champagne. No, no, gone forever are those rare nothings which were
so delicious when fresh; but, for the benefit of the members of the
Circle, I'll just say "Poole." It was a happy thought to put the General
Manager's suit of new clothes in Davie's package and await results. We
had ordered travelling suits in London, and when they arrived we all
began to try them on at once. Davie's disappointment at getting an
odd-looking suit fancied by the General Manager was so genuine! But such
a perfect fit, though a mistake, maybe, as to material; and then, when
he tried his own suit, what a misfit it was! The climax: "David, if you
are going to"--but this is too much! The tears are rolling down my
cheeks once more as I picture that wild scene.

  [Sidenote: _Gladstone._]

We heard the chimes at midnight, and then to bed. Windsor is nothing
unless royal. It is all over royal, although Her Majesty was absent. But
the Prince of Wales was there, and a greater than he--Mr. Gladstone--had
run down from muggy London to refresh his faded energies by communing
with nature. It is said that his friends are alarmed at his haggard
appearance toward the close of each week; but he spends Saturday and
Sunday in the country, and returns on Monday to surprise them at the
change. Ah! he has found the kindest, truest nurse, for he knows--

      ... "that Nature never did betray
      The heart that loved her; 'tis her privilege,
      Through all the years of this our life, to lead
      From joy to joy; for she can so inform
      The mind that is within us, so impress
      With quietness and beauty, and so feed
      With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues,
      Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men,
      Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all
      The dreary intercourse of daily life,
      Shall e'er prevail against us, or disturb
      Our cheerful faith, that all which we behold
      Is full of blessings."

Mr. Gladstone's fresh appearance Monday mornings gratifies his friends,
and pleases even his opponents, for such a man can have no ill-wishers,
surely. When Confucius had determined to behead the emperor's corrupt
brother, his counsellors endeavored to dissuade him, from a just fear
that the criminal's friends would rise and avenge his death. "Friends!"
said the sage, "such a character may have adherents, but friends never."
The result proved his wisdom. No revolt came, though Confucius stood by
to see justice done, refusing to listen to the petition of the emperor
for his own brother's life. In like manner, Mr. Gladstone may have
opponents--enemies never. All Englishmen must in their hearts honor the
man who is a credit to the race. By the way, he's Scotch, let me note,
and never fails to bear in mind and to mention this special cause for
thankfulness. I suspect that this fact has not a little to do with the
intense enthusiasm of Scotland for him. We are a queer lot, up in the
North Countrie, and he is our ain bairn. Blood is thicker than water
everywhere, but in no part of this world is it so _very much thicker_ as
beyond the Tweed.

We attended church at Windsor and saw the great man and the Prince come
to the door together. There the former stopped and the other walked up
the aisle, causing a flutter in the congregation. Mr. Gladstone followed
at a respectful distance, and took his seat several pews behind. How
absurd you are, my young lady republican! Can you not understand? One is
only the leading man in the empire--a man who, in a fifty years' tussle
with the foremost statesmen of the age, has won the crown both for
attainments and character; but the other, bless your ignorant little
head!--he is a prince.

  [Sidenote: _Kings and Princes._]

Well, if he is, he has never done anything, you say. True, but what are
kings and princes for? The people of England, my dear, not so very long
ago, used to have it beaten into them that "the king can do no wrong."
As this is historically the true doctrine and has antiquity on its side,
it would have been very un-English to reject it; so they quietly
accepted the dogma and made it true by arranging that the king should
never be allowed to do anything--it's a way these islanders have--the
form may be what it likes, the substance must be as they wish. They
never revolutionize in England--they transform. What you complain of
then, my red republican miss, is really the best proof that the prince
will make that modern article called a Constitutional Monarch, and spend
his days as the English man-milliner Worth--setting the fashions, laying
foundation stones, and opening fancy bazars. Oh! you would not be such a
prince or such a king. The Bruce at Bannockburn, at the head of his
countrymen striking for the independence of Scotland, and King Edward
leading his hosts, these were _real_ kings, you say? The kings of to-day
are shadows. I am not going to dispute that with you, Miss; times have
changed and kings with them; but were I Prince of Wales, I would be in
Ireland to-day investigating the causes of discontent and devising a
remedy; and above all showing my deep and abiding sympathy with that
portion of my people. This would be better than leading men to murder
their fellows--as your heroes did. Oh yes, indeed, says my young lady
politician, I should like to be the Prince of Wales just to do that.
What a hero it would make him! Why, he would rank with Alfred the Good,
or George Washington. Why doesn't Mr. Gladstone suggest this to him? I
believe the Prince would just jump at the chance. Well, my dear girl,
drop a postal card to the grand old man, and you will get his views upon
the subject by return mail. The conversation ended by a toss of the
head, and "Well, I would if I were a man. I should like a chance 'to
talk it up' to the Prince." As the Prince is an admirer of pretty
American young ladies, our friend might get a hearing and astonish him.

In the afternoon we attended St. George's Chapel. In one of the stalls
we saw again that sadly noble lion-face--no one ever mistakes Gladstone.
He sat wrapped in the deepest meditation. He is very pale, haggard, and
careworn--the weight of empire upon him!

      "I tell thee, scorner of these whitening hairs,
      When this snow melteth there shall come a flood."

I could not help applying to him Milton's lines:

            ... "with grave
      Aspect he rose, and in his rising seem'd
      A pillar of state: deep on his front engraven
      Deliberation sat and public care;
      And princely counsel in his face yet shone,
      Majestic though in ruin."

He has work to do yet. If he were only fifty instead of seventy odd!
Well, God bless him for what he has done; may he rule England long!

  [Sidenote: _The Queen Dowager._]

A memorable event occurred at Windsor, Sunday, June 19th--the Queen
Dowager reached her seventy-first year. At breakfast Mr. B. rose, and
addressing himself to her, made one of the sweetest, prettiest speeches
ever heard. He presented to her an exquisite silver cup, ornamented with
birds and flowers, and inscribed: "Presented to Mrs. M. C. at Windsor,
by the members of the coaching-party, upon her seventy-first birthday."
Mr. B.'s reference to her intense love of nature in all its glorious
forms, from the tiny gowan to the extended landscape, was most
appropriate.

We were completely surprised; and when the speaker concluded, the Scribe
was about to rise and respond, but a slight motion from Her Majesty
apprized him that she preferred to reply in person. She acquitted
herself grandly. Her speech was a gem (Mem.--it was so short). After
thanking her dear friends, she said:

"I can only wish that you may all have as good health, as complete
command of all your faculties, and enjoy flowers and birds and all
things of nature as much as I do at seventy-one." Here the voice
trembled. There were not many dry eyes. The quiver ran through the
party, and without another word the Queen sat slowly down. I was very,
very proud of that seventy-year old (I am often that), and deeply moved,
as she was, by this touching evidence of the regard of the
coaching-party for her.

This incident led to some funny stories about presentation speeches.
Upon a recent occasion, not far from Paisley, Aggie told us, a worthy
deacon had been selected to present a robe to the minister. The church
was crowded, and the recipient stood expectantly at the foot of the
pulpit, surrounded by the members of his family. Amid breathless silence
the committee entered and marched up the aisle, headed by the deacon
bearing the gift in his extended arms. On reaching the pulpit a stand
was made, but never a word came from the deacon, down whose brow the
perspiration rolled in great drops. He was in a daze, but a touch from
one of the committee brought him back to something like a realizing
sense of his position, and he stammered out, as he handed the robe to
the minister:

      "Mr. Broon,
      Here's the goon."

You need not laugh. It is not likely that you could make as good a
speech, which, I'll wager, is far better than the one over which he had
spent sleepless nights, but which providentially left him at the
critical moment.

Windsor, seen from any direction at a distance, is _par excellence_ the
castle--a truly royal residence; but, seen closely, it loses the grand
and sinks into something of prettiness. It is no longer commanding, and
is insignificant in comparison with the true castles of the North, the
surroundings of which are in keeping with the idea of a stronghold, and
take you at once to the times of the chieftain and his armed men. There
is nothing of this at Windsor, and the glamour disappears when you begin
to analyze. Royalty's famous abode should be looked at, as royalty
itself should be--at a safe distance.

  [Sidenote: _St. George's Chapel._]

Service at St. George's Chapel will not soon be forgotten by our party.
The stalls of the Knights of the Garter, over the canopies of which hang
their swords and mantles surmounted by their crests and armorial
bearings, carry one far back into the days of chivalry. One stall
arrested and held my attention--that of the Earl of Beaconsfield. When I
was not gazing at Gladstone's face, I was moralizing upon the last
Knight of the Garter, whose flag still floats above the stall. Disraeli
won the blue ribbon about as worthily as most men, and by much the same
means--he flattered the monarch. But there is this to be said of him: he
had brains and made himself.

What a commentary upon pride of birth, the flag of the poor literary
adventurer floating beside that of my lord duke's! It pleased me much to
see it. How that man must have chuckled as he bowed his way among his
dupes, from Her Majesty to Salisbury, and passed the radical extension
of the suffrage that doomed hereditary privilege to speedy extinction.
But where will imperialism get such another leader, after all? It has
not found him yet.

"What is that up there?" asked one of our party. "The royal box, miss."
Were we really at the opera, then? A royal box in a church for the
worship of God! Did you ever hear anything like that! There is a royal
staircase, too. Why not? You would not have royalty on an equality with
us, would you, even if we are all alike miserable sinners and engaged in
the worship of that God who is no respecter of persons.

"Well, I think this is awful," said one of the party. "I don't believe
the good Queen would go to church in this way, if she only thought of
it. Our President and family have their pew just like the rest of us."
Our English members were equally surprised that the American should see
anything shocking in the practice, and the ladies fought out the matter
between themselves; the Americans insisting that the Queen should attend
worship as other poor sinners do, since all are equal in God's eyes; and
the English saying little, but evidently harboring the idea that even in
heaven special accommodations would probably be found reserved for
royalty, with maybe a special staircase to ascend by. Early education
and inherited tendencies account for much.

  [Sidenote: _Royal Etiquette._]

The staircase question led to the story that the Marquis of Lorne was
not allowed to enter some performance by the same stair with his wife.
The American was up at this. "If I had a husband, and he couldn't come
with me, I wouldn't go." This made an end of the discussion, for the
English young lady's eyes told plainly of her secret vow that wherever
she went ---- must go too. All were agreed on this point; but on the
general question it was a drawn battle, the one side declaring that if
they were men they would not have a princess for a wife under any
circumstances, and the other insisting that, if they were princesses,
they would not have anybody but a prince for a husband.

We were honored while here by the presence of Mr. Sidney G. Thomas and
his sister, who came down from London and spent the day with us. Mr.
Thomas is the young chemist, who, in conjunction with his cousin Mr.
Gilchrist, would not accept the dictum of the authorities that
phosphorus, that fiend of steel manufacturers, cannot be expelled from
iron ores at a high temperature. They set to work over a small toy pot,
which deserves to rank with Watt's tea-kettle, to see whether the
scientific world had not blundered. Let me premise that the presence of
phosphorus in pig iron to the extent of more than about one tenth of
one per cent. is fatal to the production of good steel by the Bessemer
or open hearth processes. Do what you will, this troublesome substance
persists in remaining with the iron. If there be phosphorus in the
iron-stone you smelt, every atom of it will be found in the resulting
iron; and if there be any in the limestone, or the coke or coal used,
every atom of it also will find its way into the iron.

It is essential, therefore, that iron-stone should be found practically
free from phosphorus; but unfortunately such ore is scarce, and
therefore expensive. The great iron-stone deposits of England are full
of the enemy; so are those of America; hence, both countries depend
largely upon ores which have to be transported from Spain and other
countries. One authority estimates that if all the high phosphorus ores
in Britain could be made as valuable as those free from the
objectionable ingredient, the saving per annum would go far to pay the
interest upon the national debt. Many have been the attempts to devise
some tempting bait to coax this fiend to forego his strange affinity for
iron, and unite with some other element; but no, his satanic majesty
would cling to the metal.

Messrs. Thomas and Gilchrist, in studying some highly creditable
experiments made by my friend Lothian Bell, Esq. (for he was upon the
right track), discovered an oversight which seemed to qualify the
results which he reached, and to render his experiments inconclusive.
It was possible, they thought, that his failure might have resulted from
the fiend not being _kept_ out when he _was_ out. So they went quietly
to work with their toy pot, and Eureka! Their charm had not only
exorcised the fiend, but they had discovered how to lead him away from
the molten metal into the refuse and shut the door on him there. Here
was a triumph indeed! I fancy they neither ate nor slept till repeated
experiments proved that the true charm had been found at last.

  [Sidenote: _Iron and Phosphorus._]

Mr. E. Windsor Richards, the broad manager of the largest manufactory of
iron and steel in the world, was soon acquainted by them with the
discovery. He tried it upon a large scale, and announced the end of the
reign of King Phosphorus; but he dies hard. This was some years ago, for
I read the good news a few minutes after I had landed at Naples from the
East, on my way round the world in the year 1879. Many obstacles had yet
to be surmounted, but now every ton of steel manufactured at Mr.
Richards's great works is made from iron stone which a few years ago was
counted worthless for steel. Enough iron stone can be had for three
dollars to make a ton of pig iron suitable for steel rails. The same
amount of low phosphorus stone at Pittsburgh cost last year sixteen
dollars, and yet there are intelligent people who do not understand why
we cannot make rails as cheap as the English.

I wonder if I could explain to the general reader how Messrs. Thomas and
Gilchrist succeeded. It always seems to me like a fairy tale--I will
try. In making steel, ten tons of molten pig iron is run into a big pot
called a converter, and hundreds of jets of air are blown up through the
mass to burn out the silica and carbon, and finally to make it steel.
Now, phosphorus has a greater affinity for lime than for iron when it
reaches a certain temperature, and when the air blast brings the mass to
the required heat, the million particles of phosphorus, like so many
tiny ants disturbed, run hither and thither, quite ready to leave the
iron for the lime. These clever young men first put a lot of lime in the
bottom of the pot as a bait, and into this fly the ants, perfectly
delighted with their new home. The lime and slag float to the top and
are drawn off--but mark you, let the temperature fall and the new home
gets too cold to suit these salamanders, although the temperature may be
over 2,000 degrees, hot enough to melt a bar of steel in a moment if
thrown into the pot. No, they must have 2,500 degrees in the lime or
they will rush back to the metal.

But here lay a difficulty: 2,500 degrees is so very hot that no ordinary
pot lining will stand it, and of course the iron pot itself will not
last a moment. If ganister or fire brick is used it just crumbles away,
and besides this, the plaguey particles of phosphorus will rush into it
and tear it all to pieces. The great point is to get a basic lining,
that is, one free from silica. This has at last been accomplished, and
now the basic process is destined to revolutionize the manufacture of
steel, for out of the poorest ores, and even out of puddle cinder, steel
or iron much purer than any now made for rails or bridges can be
obtained, and the two young chemists, patentees of the Thomas-Gilchrist
process, take their rank in the domain of metallurgy with Cort, Nelson,
Bessemer and Siemens. These young men have done more for England's
greatness than all her kings and queens and aristocracy put together.

  [Sidenote: _A Modern Moses._]

It was this pale Gladstonian-looking youth we had with us for the day
and for our Sunday evening dinner at Windsor. He wears no title--he is
too sound a Radical, and too sensible a man to change the name his
honored father gave him--but nevertheless we felt we had one of the
great men of our generation as our guest. If it be true, as it is, that
he who causes two blades of grass to grow where but one grew before is a
benefactor to the race, what is the magician who takes from the bowels
of the earth a ton of dross, and transforms it into steel before our
eyes--strikes with his enchanted wand a hundred mines of worthless stone
and turns it into gold, as the prophet struck the dry rock and called
water forth? The age of real miracles is not over, you see, it has only
begun, and Thomas is our modern Moses; his miracle seems as much greater
than that of his prototype as the nineteenth century is advanced beyond
that of the Jewish dispensation.

Monday was another thoroughly English day. The silver Thames, that
glistened in the sun, was enlivened by many stately swans. The castle
towered in all its majesty, vivified by the meteor flag which fluttered
in the breeze. The grounds of Eton were crowded with nice-looking
English boys as we passed. Many of us walked down the steep hill and far
into the country in advance of the coach, and felt once more that a fine
day in the south of England was perfection indeed. The sun here reminds
one of the cup that cheers, but does not inebriate: its rays cheer, but
never scorch. You could not tell whether, if there were to be any
change, you would prefer it to be a shade cooler or a shade warmer.

The swans of Windsor are an institution almost as old as the castle
itself, for they are mentioned in records more than five hundred years
ago. The swan is indeed a royal bird, and it is said that no subject can
own them when at large in a public river except by special grant from
the crown. Such a grant is accompanied by a swan-mark for each _game_ of
swans--the proper term, mark you, for a collection of the noble birds.
You may say a flock of geese but not of swans; a game of swans, please,
if you would "speak by the card." The corporation of Windsor has
possessed the right of keeping swans in the Thames almost from time
immemorial. Formerly the king's swanherd made an annual expedition up
the river to mark them. He and his assistants chased the poor frightened
birds in boats, caught them roughly with long hooks, with little
deference to their beautiful plumage, and marked them by cutting one or
more nicks in the upper mandible of their beaks. This expedition, called
swan-upping (corrupted into swan-hopping), is still made by the deputies
of the Dyers' and Vintners' companies, now the principal swan owners on
the Thames, the mark of the former being one nick and of the latter two
nicks on the bill.

  [Sidenote: _Stoke Pogis._]

Stoke Pogis is a few miles out of our direct road, but who would miss
that, even were the detour double what the ordnance survey makes it?
Besides, had not a dear friend, a stay-at-home, told us that one of the
happiest days of her life was that spent in making a pilgrimage to the
shrine of the poet from this very Windsor? Gray's was the first shrine
at which we stopped to worship, and the beauty, the stillness, the peace
of that low, quaint, ivy-covered church, and its old-fashioned
graveyard, sank into our hearts. Surely no one could revive memories
more sweetly English than he who gave us the Elegy. Some lines, and even
verses of that gem, will endure, it may safely be predicted, as long as
anything English does, and that is saying much. We found just such a
churchyard as seemed suited to the ode. Gray is fortunate in his
resting-place. Earth has no prettier, calmer spot to give her child
than this. It is the very ideal God's acre. The little church, too, is
perfect. How fine is Gray's inscription upon his mother's tomb! I avoid
cemeteries whenever possible, but this seemed more like a place where
one revisits those he has once known than that where, alas! we must
mourn those lost forever. Gray's voice--the voice of one that is still,
even the touch of the vanished hand, these seemed to be found there, for
after our visit the poet was closer to me than he had ever been before.
It is not thus with such as we have known and loved in the flesh--their
graves let us silently avoid. He whom you seek is not here; but the
great dead, whom we have known only through their souls, do come closer
to us as we stand over their graves. The flesh we have known has become
spiritualized; the spirits we have known become in a measure
materialized, and I felt I had a firmer hold upon Gray from having stood
over his dust.

Here is the inscription he put upon his mother's grave:

      "Dorothy Gray.

      The careful, tender mother of many children, one of whom alone
      had the misfortune to survive her."

The touch in the last words, "the misfortune to survive her!"--Carlyle's
words upon his wife's tomb recur to me:

      "And he feels that the light of his life has gone out."

These were men wailing for women. I cannot believe but that there are
many women who would prefer to share the fate of men who die. There is
such love on earth. Sujatas are not confined to India. As she says:

      "But if Death called Senani, I should mount
      The pile and lay that dear head in my lap,
      My daily way, rejoicing when the torch
      Lit the quick flame and rolled the choking smoke.
      For it is written, if an Indian wife
      Die so, her love shall give her husband's soul
      For every hair upon her head, a crore
      Of years in Swerza."

I think I know women who would esteem it a mercy to be allowed to pass
away with _him_, if the Eternal had not set his "canon 'gainst
self-slaughter." This prohibition the Indian wots not of, but mounts the
pile believing as thoroughly as Abraham did when he placed Isaac on the
altar, that God wills it so. They were equally mistaken; and this
suggests that we may all be very much surprised when we come to
understand rightly, how very seldom the unknown requires any sacrifice
of what is pleasing to us in this present world of his. It seems to me
it is not God but men who are disposed to make the path so very thorny.

  [Sidenote: _Gray's Tomb._]

Upon Gray's own tomb there is inscribed:

      "One morn I missed him on the accustomed hill.
        Along the heath, and near his favorite tree;
      Another came, nor yet beside the rill,
        Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he."

One perfect gem outweighs a thousand mediocre performances and makes its
creator immortal. The world has not a second Gray's Elegy among all its
treasures. Nor is it likely to have. We found you still in your
accustomed place.

The manor house of Stoke Pogis, which took its name from a marriage,
away back in the 13th century, between a member of the Pogis family and
an heiress, Amicia de Stoke, furnished the subject of Gray's "Long
Story," a poem known now only to the curious student of English
literature. How fortunate for the world that the poet did not let his
reputation rest upon it!

  [Sidenote: _Chief Justice Coke._]

The old house, built in the time of good Queen Bess on an older
foundation, is still more noted as the home of Sir Edward Coke, the
famous Lord Chief Justice and the rival of Bacon. In 1601 Coke, who had
married three years before a wealthy young widow, Lady Hatton of Hatton
House, the daughter of Lord Burleigh, entertained the Virgin Queen at
Stoke Pogis in a manner befitting the royal dignity and the length of
his own purse. Among other presents which her Majesty graciously deigned
to accept at the hands of her subject on the occasion was jewelry valued
at L1,000, a large sum in those days.

Coke's marriage did not turn out very happily. He was old enough to be
his wife's father, and she always affected for him the utmost contempt,
even forbidding him to enter her house in London except by the back
door. The poor man bore his hen-pecking in silence for many years, but
at last she went one step too far. During his absence in London she
packed up and removed from Stoke to one of her own houses his plate and
other valuables. The outraged husband forcibly entered her house and
reclaimed his property, taking, as she said, some of hers also. This led
to legal proceedings, in which she, through the aid of Bacon, got the
better of him, and a reconciliation took place.

The next year the broil took another phase. Lady Hatton--she always
refused to take Coke's name--had borne him a daughter, who was the
heiress of her mother's estates as well as of Coke's wealth. Her hand
had been sought by Sir John Villiers, but as he was poor his suit had
been rejected. A turn came in the tide. Coke, shorn of most of his
honors, was in disgrace, and the Duke of Buckingham, Sir John's brother,
was King James's favorite and the dispenser of immense patronage. Coke,
with the object of winning back the royal favor and of humbling Bacon,
his great enemy, now determined to ally himself with the rising house,
and offered his daughter to Villiers. Lady Hatton, who had not been
consulted in the matter, refused her consent, ran away with her
daughter, and concealed her in the house of a kinsman. But Coke found
out her hiding place, and with a dozen stout fellows broke into the
house and seized his daughter. Lady Hatton, aided by Bacon, carried her
case to the privy council and Coke was proceeded against in the Star
Chamber. But with Buckingham behind him the old lawyer proved too strong
for Bacon this time, and succeeded in throwing his wife into prison and
in forcing her to consent to the match.

The marriage took place at Hampton Court in the presence of the king,
the queen, and the most distinguished of the nobility, and Frances
became Lady Villiers. Stoke Pogis was settled on the bridegroom, who was
shortly raised to the peerage as Viscount Purbeck and Baron Villiers, of
Stoke Pogis, and Coke flattered himself that his troubles had at last
ended. But the marriage resulted like many another ill-assorted union.
Lady Villiers, after driving her husband nearly to the verge of
distraction, eloped with Sir Robert Howard, and lived for many years an
eventful and scandalous life, which finally brought its reward in her
degradation, imprisonment, and death.

If the course of true love never runs smooth, it may be taken for
granted that the stream is even more tempestuous when marriage is made a
matter of family alliance with no love at all in the matter. Our young
ladies were unanimous upon this point, and one and all declared their
firm resolve and readiness to trust to "true love" with all its risks.
The Queen Dowager, being appealed to by them for support, settled the
matter by reciting the lines of an old Scotch song:

      "Lassie tak the man ye loe
        Whate'er ye're minnie say,
      Though ye sud mak ye're bridal bed
        Amang pea strae."

So ta-ta all worldly considerations and family alliances, and the rest
of it, say the wild romps of the Gay Charioteers.

  [Sidenote: _Royal Visits._]

Several years after the death of Coke, Stoke Pogis was for a short time
the place of confinement of Charles I., who could see from its windows
the towers of Windsor Castle, which he was never again to enter except
as a headless corpse. On the death of Viscount Purbeck, who resided in
the manor house after Coke's decease, Stoke Pogis passed by purchase
into the hands of the Gayer family. When Charles II. came to his own
again the then possessor of the mansion was knighted, and became so
devoted in his affection for the Stuarts that when in after time King
William desired to visit Stoke Pogis to see a place so rich in
historical associations, the old knight would not listen to it. In vain
did his wife intercede: he declared that the usurper should not cross
his threshold, and he kept his word. So it came to be said that Stoke
Pogis had sumptuously entertained one sovereign, been the prison of
another, and refused admission to a third.

We were told that quite recently Queen Victoria had visited it in
person, with a view to its purchase for her daughter, and while walking
through its magnificent suite of rooms she expressed the wish that her
own Windsor had their equal. She finally decided to purchase Claremont,
the price demanded for Stoke, it is said, having been too great to
square with her majesty's estimate of value. It is in the market to-day.
If any of our bonanza kings want one of the stately homes of England,
rich in historical associations and "looking antiquity," here is his
chance.

In still later times the old place came into possession of the Penn
family, the heirs of our William Penn of Pennsylvania, and it was by one
of them, John Penn, that the cenotaph to Gray was erected--for the poet,
it will be remembered, was laid in his mother's tomb. This same Penn
pulled down much of the old house and rebuilt is as it is to-day.

Our luncheon was to be upon the banks of the Thames to-day, the Old Swan
Inn, where the stone bridge crosses the stream, being our base of
supplies; but ere this was reached what a lovely picture was ours
between Stoke Pogis and the Swan! All that has been sung or written
about the valley of the Thames is found to be more than deserved. The
silver stream flows gently through the valley, the fertile land rises
gradually on both sides, enabling us to get extensive views from the top
of the coach. Our road lies over tolerably high ground some distance
from the river. Such perfect, quiet, homelike, luxuriant beauty is to be
seen nowhere but in England. It is not possible for the elements to be
combined to produce a more pleasing picture; and now, after seeing all
else between Brighton and Inverness that lay upon our line, we return to
the region of Streatley and Maple Durham, and award them the palm as the
finest thoroughly English landscape.

We say to the valley of the Thames what the Eastern poet said to the
Vale of Cashmere, which is not half so pretty:

      "If there be a paradise upon earth,
        It is here, it is here."

The Old Swan proved to be, both in structure and location, a fit
component part of the sylvan scene around. There ran the Thames in
limpid purity, a picturesque stone bridge overhanging it, and the
road-side inn within a few yards of the grassy bank.

  [Sidenote: _Skylarks._]

The rugs were laid under a chestnut tree, and our first picnic luncheon
spread on the buttercups and daisies. Swallows skimmed the water, bees
hummed above us--but stop! what's that, and where? Our first skylark
singing at heaven's gate! All who heard this never-to-be-forgotten song
for the first time were up and on their feet in an instant; but the tiny
songster which was then filling the azure vault with music was nowhere
to be seen. It's worth an Atlantic voyage to hear a skylark for the
first time. Even luncheon was neglected a while, hungry as we were, that
we might if possible catch a glimpse of the warbler. The flood of song
poured forth as we stood wrapt awaiting the descent of the messenger
from heaven. At last a small black speck came into sight. He is so
little to see--so great to hear!

I know several fine things about the famous songster:

        "In the golden lightning
          Of the sunken sun,
        O'er which clouds are bright'ning,
          Thou dost float and run,
      Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun."

An "unbodied joy!" That's a hit, surely!

Here is Browning on the thrush, which I think should be to the lark:

      "He sings each song twice over,
      Lest you should think he never could recapture
      The first fine careless rapture."

The third is just thrown in by the prodigal hand of genius in a poem not
to a lark but to a daisy:

      "Alas! it's no thy neebor sweet,
      The bonnie lark, companion meet,
      Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet,
          Wi' speckl'd breast,
      When upward springing, blithe, to greet
          The purpling east."

How fine is Wordsworth's well known tribute:

      "Type of the wise, who soar but never roam,
      True to the kindred points of Heaven and Home!"

And now I remember Shakespeare has his say too about the lark--what is
it in England he has not his say about? or in all the world for that
matter; and how much and how many things has he rendered it the highest
wisdom for men to keep silent about after he has said his say, holding
their peace forever.

  [Sidenote: _Reading Abbey._]

A row upon the silver Thames after luncheon, and we are off again for
Reading, where we are to rest over night at the Queen's. Reading has a
pretty, new park and interesting ruins within its boundaries which we
visited before dinner. There are but few traces left of the once famous
Abbey, founded early in the twelfth century by Henry I. In the height of
its prosperity more than two hundred monks fattened at its hospitable
board, and its mitred abbot sat as a peer in Parliament. It was noted,
too, as a centre of learning, but the jolly brethren must have sadly
degenerated in this respect, if we can believe the report of the royal
commissioners in temp. Henry VIII., for Hugh Cook, the last abbot, who
was hanged and quartered near his own door in 1539, is described as a
"stubborn monk, absolutely without learning." But, of course, all who
believe that the much-married Henry was a monster of iniquity will put
no faith in the reports of his minions, and will continue to believe
that Abbot Hugh was a holy man of God, whose shortcomings in the small
matters of orthography and syntax were more than made up by his
proficiency in vigils, fastings, and prayers. That he was the "right
man in the right place" is proven by the inventory of the relics found
in his keeping by the aforesaid minions at the time of the suppression
of the monastery. Among these sacred objects were "twoo peces of the
holye crosse," "Saynt James hande," "a bone of Marye Magdelene," "a pece
of Saynt Pancrat' arme," and "a bone of Saynt Edwarde the martyr is
arme." Can it be possible that this saintly man, who so zealously
guarded such treasures to the last moment of his life, should still be
allowed to suffer under the imputation of stubbornness and ignorance! He
mightn't just have been "one of those literary fellers," but it is very
clear he had a firm grasp of the "fundamentals" of the faith. What is
learning compared to a "bone of Saynt Edwarde" as a means of keeping the
sheep in the true fold! The old abbot knew his business better than
Henry's commissioners. The tooth of Buddha, which I went to see when in
Ceylon, draws crowds from all parts of the island, and excites more
piety than the tom-tom, or the incantations of the most learned priest.
Truly there's nothing like a relic as a means of grace.

A pretty lawn in the rear of our hotel gave us an opportunity for a game
of lawn tennis in the twilight after dinner, and in the morning we were
off for Oxford. The editorial in the Reading paper that morning upon
emigration struck me as going to the root of the matter. Here is the
concluding paragraph:

"Already the expanding and prospering industries of the New World are
throwing an ominous shadow across the Old World and are affecting some
of its habits and practices. But over and above and beyond all these,
the free thought, the liberty of action, the calm independence and the
sense of the dignity of man as man, and the perfect equality of all
before the law and in the eye of the constitution now existing in
America, are developing a race of men who, through correspondence with
home relations, the intercourse of free travel, the transaction of
business, and the free, outspoken language of the press, are gradually
disintegrating the yet strong conservative forces of European society,
and thus preparing the downfall of the monarchical, aristocratic,
military, and ecclesiastic systems which shackle and strangle the people
of the Old World. These thoughts seem to me to convey the meaning of the
great exodus now going on, and he is a wise statesman who reads the
lesson aright."

There's a man after my own heart. He grasps the subject.

  [Sidenote: _Causes of Emigration._]

The editor tells one of the several causes of the exodus which is
embracing many of the most valuable citizens of the old lands where
class distinctions still linger. Man longs not only to be free but to be
equal, if he has much manhood in him; and that America is the home for
such men, numbers of the best are fast finding out. But England will
soon march forward; she is not going to rest behind very long. There
will soon be no superior political advantages here for the masses, nor
educational ones either. England is at work in earnest, and what she
does, she does well. I prophecy that young England will give young
America a hard race for supremacy.

Some of us walked ahead of the coach for several miles, and I had a chat
with a man whom we met. He was a rough carpenter and his wages were
sixteen shillings per week ($4). A laborer gets eleven shillings (not
$2.75), but some "good masters" pay thirteen to fourteen shillings
($3.25 to $3.50), and give their men four or five pounds of beef at
Christmas. Food is bacon and tea, which are cheap, but no beef. Men's
wages have not advanced much for many years (I should think not!), but
women's have. An ordinary woman for field work can get one shilling per
day (24 cents); a short time ago ninepence (18 cents) was the highest
amount paid. Is it not cheering to find poor women getting an advance?
But think what their condition still is, when one shilling per day is
considered good pay! I asked whether employers did not board the workers
in addition to paying these wages, but he assured me they did not. This
is southern England and these are agricultural laborers, but the wages
seem distressingly low even as compared with British wages in general.
The new system of education and the coming extension of the suffrage to
the counties will soon work a change among these poor people. They will
not rest content crowding each other down thus to a pittance when they
can read and write and vote. Thank fortune for this.

Our ladies were unusually gay in their decorations to-day, with bunches
of wild flowers on their breasts and hats crowned with poppies and
roses. They decked the Queen Dowager out until she looked as if ready to
play Ophelia. Their smiles too were as pretty as their flowers. What an
embodied joy bright, happy ladies are under all conditions, and how
absolutely essential for a coaching party! Was it not Johnson's idea of
happiness to drive in a gig with a pretty woman? He wasn't much of a
muff! If anything could have kept him in good humor, this would have
done it. If he could have been on top of a coach with a bevy of them,
not even he could have said a rude thing.

  [Sidenote: _Oxford._]

Oxford was reached before the sun went down. Its towers were seen for
miles--Magdalen, Baliol, Christ Church, and other familiar names. We
crossed the pretty little Isis, marvelling at every step, and drove up
the High Street to the Clarendon.

The next day was to be Commencement, and only a few rooms were to be had
in the hotel, but we were distributed very comfortably among houses in
the neighborhood. Several hours before dinner were delightfully spent in
a grand round of the colleges. We peeped into the great quads, walked
the cloisters, and got into all kinds of queer old-fashioned places. But
the stroll along the Isis, and past Magdalen Tower, and up the long
walk--that was the grand finish! We pardon Wolsey his greed of getting,
he was so princely in giving. To the man who did so much for Oxford much
may be forgiven.

       *       *       *       *       *

      OXFORD, June 21.

This morning was devoted to visiting the principal colleges more in
detail, and also to the ascent of the tower of the Sheldonian Theatre,
which no one should ever miss doing. Below us lay the city of palaces,
for such it seems, palaces of the right kind too--not for idle kings or
princes to riot in, and corrupt society by their bad example, but for
those who "scorn delights and live laborious days."

Our Cambridge member, Mr. B., tells us it does not cost more than L200
($1,000) per annum for a student here. This seems very cheap. The tariff
which we saw in one of the halls gave us a laugh:

          "Commons.
      Mutton,  long,  11_d._
        do.    short,  9_d._
        do.    half,   7_d._"

The long and the half we could understand, but how could they manage the
short? This must be a kind of medium portion for fellows whose appetites
are only so-so. You see how fine things are cut even in Oxford. Our
party thought if the students were coaching there would be little
occasion for them to know anything of either short or half. At least we
were all in for long commons at eleven pence.

  [Sidenote: _Martyrs._]

We drove past the martyrs' memorial, Latimer and Ridley's. Cranmer does
not deserve to be named with them. A visit to such a monument always
does me good, for it enables me to say to those who doubt the real
advancement of mankind: Now look at this, and think for what these grand
men were burnt! Is it conceivable that good, sterling men shall ever
again be called upon in England to die for opinion's sake! That Cranmer
wrote and advocated the right and necessity of putting to death those
who differed from him, and therefore that he met the fate he considered
it right to mete to others, shows what all parties held in those dark
days. I claim that the world has made a distinct and permanent advance
in this department which in no revolving circle of human affairs is ever
to be lost. The persecution of the Rev. Mr. Green, of Professor
Robertson Smith, and of Bishop Colenso in the present day proves, no
doubt, that there is much yet to be done ere we can be very proud of our
progress; but these are the worst of to-day's persecutions, and could
occur only in England and Scotland. There is a long gap between them and
burning at the stake! Grand old Latimer was prophetic when he called out
from amid the faggots to his colleague: "Be of good comfort and play the
man; we shall this day light such a candle by God's grace as I trust
shall never be put out!"

I think it certain that the candle will never again be put out. The
bigots of to-day can annoy only in Britain. In other English-speaking
communities even that power has passed away, and persecution for
opinion's sake is unknown. "A man may say the thing he will"--there is a
further and a higher stage yet to be reached when a man will consider it
a man's part to have an opinion upon all matters and say what he thinks
boldly, concealing nothing.

We left Oxford with just a sprinkle of rain falling, but we had scarcely
got fairly out of the city when it ceased and left the charming
landscape lovelier than ever. Banbury Cross was our destination, and on
our route lay magnificent Blenheim, the estate given by the nation to
the Duke of Marlborough. See what the nations do for the most successful
murderers of their fellows! and how insignificant have ever been the
rewards of those who preserve, improve, or discover--for a Marlborough
or a Wellington a fortune, for a Howard or a Wilberforce a pittance. It
is only in heathen China that the statesman, the man of letters, heads
the list. No military officer, however successful as a destroyer, can
ever reach the highest rank there, for with them the victories of peace
are more renowned than those of war; that is reserved for the men who
know--the Gladstones and the Disraelis, the Darwins and the Spencers,
the Arnolds and the Ruskins. It is only in civilized countries that the
first honors are given to butchers.

  [Sidenote: _Blenheim._]

Blenheim is superb, grand, and broad enough to satisfy princely tastes.
And that noble library! As we walked through it we felt subdued, as if
in the presence of the gods of ages past, for a worthy collection of
great books ever breathes forth the influence of kings dead yet present,
of

      "Those dead but sceptred sovereigns
      Whose spirits still rule us from their urns."

And to think that this library, in whose treasures we revelled,
reverently taking one old tome after another in our hands, has since
then been sold by auction! Degenerate wretch! but one descended from
Marlborough can scarcely be called degenerate. You may not even be
responsible for what seems like family dishonor; some previous heir may
have rendered the sale necessary; but the dispersion of such treasures
as these must surely open the eyes of good men in England to the folly
of maintaining hereditary rank and privilege. Perhaps, however, the
noble owner had no more use for his books than the lord whose library
Burns was privileged to see, which showed no evidences of usage. The
bard wrote in a volume of Shakespeare he took up:

      "Through and through the inspired leaves,
        Ye maggots, make your windings;
      But oh! respect his lordship's taste
        And spare his golden bindings."

With many notable exceptions, the aristocracy of Britain took its rise
from bad men who did the dirty work of miserable kings, and from women
who were even worse than their lords. It seems hastening to an end in a
manner strictly in accordance with its birth. Even Englishmen will soon
become satisfied that no man should be born to honors, but that these
should be reserved for those who merit them. But what kind of fruit
could be expected from the tree of privilege? Its roots lie in
injustice, and not the least of its evils are those inflicted upon such
as are born under its shadow. The young peer who succeeds in making
somebody of himself does so in spite of a vicious system, and is
entitled to infinite praise; but though our race is slow to learn, the
people hear a wee bird singing these stirring days, and they begin to
like the song. The days of rank are numbered.

       *       *       *       *       *

      BANBURY, June 22.

  [Sidenote: _Banbury Cross._]

Banbury Cross was reached about five o'clock, and few of us were so far
away in years or feeling from the days of childhood as not to remember
the nursery rhyme which was repeated as we came in sight of the famous
Cross. We expected to see a time-worn relic of days long past, and I
verily believe that some of us hoped for a glimpse of the old lady on
the white horse, with "rings on her fingers, and bells on her toes."
Imagine our disappointment, then, when we saw an elaborate Gothic
structure, looking as new and modern as if it had received its finishing
touches but yesterday. And so indeed it had, for it was recently
erected by public subscription. The charm was gone.

I like new political institutions for my native land, but prefer the old
historical structures; and as we drove past this spick-and-span
imitation of antiquity I felt like criticising the good people of
Banbury for the sacrilege I supposed they had committed in thus
supplanting the ancient landmark which had made their town known the
wide world over. I could not help entertaining a hope, too, that the
original "goodly Crosse with many degrees about it," had been put away
in some museum or other safe place where it could receive the homage of
all devoted lovers of Mother Goose. Alas! inquiry developed the fact
that the Puritanic besom of destruction, which demolished so many images
and other ornaments in the churches in good Queen Bess's time, swept
away Banbury Cross as early as 1602, and that not a piece of it remains
to tell of its ancient glory.

Banbury was early noted as a stronghold of Puritanism, and was famous,
as Fuller says, for "zeale, cheese and cakes." The zeal and the cheese
are not now as strong as they were, but Banbury cakes are still in as
high repute as ever, and are largely made and exported. They are
probably the same now as in the days of Ben Jonson, who tells of them in
"Bartholomew Fair,"--a kind of miniature mince pie, generally
lozenge-shaped, consisting of a rich paste with a filling of Zante
currants and other fruits.

Banbury has the celebrated works of my friend, Mr. Samuelson, M.P.; and
before dinner I walked out to see them, and if possible to learn
something of Mr. Samuelson's whereabouts. Upon returning to the hotel I
found that he was at that moment occupying the sitting-room adjoining
ours. We had an evening's talk and compared notes as brother
manufacturers. If England and America are drawing more closely together
politically, it is also true that the manufacturers of the two countries
have nearly the same problems to settle. Mr. Samuelson was deep in
railway discriminations and laboring with a parliamentary commission to
effect changes, or rather, as he would put it, to obtain justice.

I gave an account of our plans, our failures, and our successes, of
which he took note. This much I am bound to say for my former colleagues
upon this side (for before I reformed I was a railway manager), that the
manufacturers of Britain have wrongs of which we know nothing here,
though ours are bad enough. I add the last sentence lest Messrs.
Vanderbilt, Roberts, Cassatt, and the Garretts (father and son), might
receive a wrong impression from the previous admission; for these are
the gentlemen upon whom our fortunes hang.

  [Sidenote: _Political Economy Club._]

The evidence given before the Parliament Commission in Britain, proves
that the people there are subjected to far worse treatment at the hands
of railway companies than we are here. American grain is transported
from Liverpool to London, for one-half the rate charged upon English
grain from points near Liverpool--I give this as one instance out of
hundreds. The defence of the railway company is that unless they carry
the foreign article at half rates the ships will carry it to London
direct, or that it will go by sea from Liverpool. I attended a meeting
of the Political Economy Club, in London, where the question of
legislative interference with railway charges was ably discussed. The
prevalent opinion seemed to be that it was doubtful whether the evils
could be cured by legislation. Being called upon to state our experience
here, I gave them an account of the unwise policy pursued by the
Pennsylvania Railroad Company (now happily reversed) at Pittsburgh and
its consequences; for the great riot in Pittsburgh had for its real
source the practice of the Railway Company of carrying the manufactures
of the East, from New York and Philadelphia, through the city of
Pittsburgh to the West for less than it would carry the same articles
for from Pittsburgh, although the distance was twice as great. Many such
anomalies as this still exist in England.

The members seemed interested in hearing that the result was that the
railway company finally agreed that in no case should the rates to and
from the shorter exceed those charged for the greater distance, and
Pittsburgh manufactures are now taken East and West at ten per cent.
less than the through rates between Chicago and the seaboard, no matter
how these may be forced by competition. While this rule does not ensure
exact justice nor cover all cases, it is nevertheless a great step in
advance and removes most of the more serious causes for just complaint.

The club spoken of is a notable one. It consists of twenty-five members,
only vacancies caused by death being filled by election. Admission is
considered a great honor. It is said that every question within the
range of practical politics upon which the club has declared its
opinion, has been legislated upon within a short time in accordance with
its decision. Every member is well known and must have a national
reputation. Among those present were Sir John Lubbock, who learnt early
in youth a rare secret, the way to learn--"_consider the ways of the
ant, and be wise_"--and Mr. Fawcett, the blind Postmaster-General, a man
whose career proves, as clearly perhaps as ever was proved, the truth
that there is no difficulty to him who wills.

Mr. Leonard Courtney, one of the coming men, took a leading part in the
discussion on railways; Mr. Giffen, however, read the paper of the
evening, which of course was able, although on the wrong side, as I
think. He is the noted man of figures, whose recent article, read before
the Statistical Society, showing the hundreds of millions America is
soon to contain, produced so startling an effect here, as well as in
Europe. Mr. Shaw Le Fevre, Lord Sherbrooke (Robert Lowe), and the
father of the Corn Law Repeal movement, Mr. Villiers, and several
others of note were present.

  [Sidenote: _Satires and Epigrams._]

I was indebted to one of the members, my friend Prof. Thorold E. Rogers,
M.P., for the coveted opportunity to visit this club. By the way, I
wonder the Professor's book of Satires and Epigrams has not been
republished in America. It is wonderfully clever, and the Charioteers
have had many a laugh and many a pleasant half hour enjoying it.

Here is a specimen, which I may be pardoned quoting, as I found upon
inquiry that the hero Brown was no less than one of my own friends, a
Dunfermline man too, at that, Mr. Reid, M.P.:

      "Sent to a distant land in early youth,
      Brown made his way by honor, thrift, and truth;
      Ten years he worked and saved, then, satisfied,
      Back to his native land our merchant hied.
      A man of worth as well as wealth, he sought
      How he might wisely use the cash he'd brought:
      He clearly saw his fortune could be graced
      Only by prudence, candor, judgment, taste;
      Assumed no airs, indulged in no pretence,
      Guided his words, his acts, by common sense;
      Maintained his self-respect, though glad to please,
      Seemed not to aim, but won his aims with ease,
      And proved that he had learnt the highest tact,
      When no one feared and no one dared detract.
      (I don't say hate, for some men are so nice
      They cannot bear a man without a vice);
      Well, such a hater, with a well-bred sneer,
      (He took good care that all the room could hear):
      Said, 'Dawdle asked me, Brown, if I could tell
      What are your shield, your arms, your motto?' Well,
      Brown winced, grew red, looked puzzled for a while,
      Then answered gayly with a pleasant smile,
      'My shield is _or_, sir, and the arms I bear,
      Three mushrooms rampant.'--Motto, '_Here we are_.'"

There are many similar good things in the book, so I venture to point it
out to the enterprising publishers of America as something worthy
of--"conveying."

There is much discussion this morning as to the best route to take,
there is so much to tempt us on either of several ways. Shall we go by
Compton Verney (there is a pretty English name for you), Wellesbourn,
and Hastings? or shall we take our way through Broughton Castle,
Tadmarton, Scoalcliffe, Compton Wynyate, and Oxhill? In one way Wroxton
Abbey, one of the real genuine baronial abbeys, if one may say so, and
Edgehill. Surely no good Republican would miss that! But on the other
route we shall see the stronghold of Lord Saye and Sele, older yet than
Wroxton, and Compton Wynyate, older and finer than all--"a noble wreck
in ruinous perfection," and a third route still finer than either as far
as scenery is concerned. Such is this treasure house, this crowded grand
old England, whose every mile boasts such attractions to win our love.

      "Look where we may, we cannot err
      in this delicious region--change of place
      Producing change of beauty--ever new."

Every day's journey only proves to us how little of all there is to see
we can see; how much we miss on the right and on the left. One might
coach upon this Island every summer during his whole life and yet die
leaving more of beauty and of interest to visit than all that he had
been able to see. When one does not know how to spend a summer's holiday
let him try this coaching life and thank heaven for a new world opened
to him.

  [Sidenote: _Wroxton Abbey._]

We chose the first route, and whatever the others might have proved we
are satisfied, for it is unanimously decided that in Wroxton Abbey we
have seen our most interesting structure. Though it dates only from the
beginning of the seventeenth century, it is a grand building and a fine
example of the domestic architecture of the period. Its west front is a
hundred and eighteen feet long, and its porch is an elegant specimen of
the Italian decorated entrances of the time. Blenheim and Windsor are
larger, but had we our choice we would take Wroxton in preference to
either. With what interest did we wander through its quaint irregular
chambers and inspect its treasures! James I. slept in this bed, Charles
I. in that, and George IV. in another; this quilt is the work of Mary
Queen of Scots--there is her name; Queen Elizabeth occupied this chamber
during a visit, and King William this. Then the genuine old pictures,
although in this department Blenheim stands unrivalled. Marlborough knew
the adage that "to the victor belongs the spoils," and acted upon it
too, for he had rare opportunities abroad to gather treasures. But for a
realization of your most picturesque ideal of a great old English house,
betake yourselves to Wroxton Abbey. Its little chapel, rich in very old
oak carving, is in itself worth a journey to see.

A pretty story is told of the visit of James I. to the Abbey. The wife
of Sir William Pope, the owner, had lately presented him with a
daughter, and on the King's arrival the babe was brought to him bearing
in her little hand a scroll containing the following verses:

      "See this little mistres here,
      Did never sit in Peter's chaire,
      Or a triple crowne did weare;
          And yet she is a Pope.

      "No benefice she ever sold,
      Nor did dispence with sins for gold;
      She hardly is a sev'nnight old,
          And yet she is a Pope.

      "No King her feet did ever kisse,
      Or had from her worse look than this:
          Nor did she ever hope
          To saint one with a rope;
          And yet she is a Pope.
      A female Pope, you'll say, a second Joan;
      No sure--she is Pope Innocent or none."

  [Sidenote: _Edgehill._]

We lunched off deal tables and drank home-brewed ale in the tap-room of
the Holcroft Inn, a queer old place, but we had a jolly time amid every
kind of thing that carried us back to the England of past centuries.
Beyond Holcroft we came suddenly upon the grandest and most extensive
view by far that had yet rejoiced us. We were rolling along absorbed in
deep admiration of the fertile land that spread out before us on both
sides of the road, and extolling the never-ceasing peacefulness and
quiet charm of England, when, on passing through a cut, a wide and
varied panorama lay stretched at our feet. A dozen picturesque villages
and hamlets were in sight, and by the aid of our field-glass a dozen
more were brought within range. The spires of the churches, the poplars,
the hedgerows, the woods, the gently undulating land apparently giving
forth its luxuriant harvest with such ease and pleasure, all these made
up such a picture as we could not leave. We ordered the coach to go on
and wait at the foot of the hill until we had feasted ourselves with the
view. We lay upon the face of the hill and gazed on Arcadia smiling
below. Very soon some of the neighboring residents came, for one is
never long without human company in crowded England; and we found that
we were indeed upon sacred ground. This was Edgehill! As sturdy
republicans we lingered long upon the spot, gazing on the scene of that
bloody fight between king and people which, however, was almost without
immediate result--for it was a drawn battle--but which eventually led
to so much. Charles's army lay at Banbury, whence we had just come, that
of the Parliament at Kineton yonder, and spread out before us was the
plain where they met. The ground is now occupied by two farms called the
Battle Farms, distinguished as Battleton and Thistleton. Between the
farm-houses, on the latter place, are the places where the slain were
buried, appropriately called the Grave Fields. A copse of fir trees in
one place is said to mark the site of a pit into which five hundred were
thrown.

Some of the royalist writers have tried to prove that Cromwell was not
present at Edgehill, and one has even countenanced an idle tale that he
witnessed the battle from a steeple on one of the neighboring hills, and
that he incontinently took to his heels, or rather to his horses' legs,
when he thought the meeting had resulted disastrously to the forces of
the Parliament. But Carlyle characterizes this story as it deserves, for
Lord Nugent expressly mentions Cromwell's troop of dragoons as among
those that charged at the close of the battle. No, no, stern old Oliver
was not the man to stand aloof when he once had scent of a battle; and
we may be sure, although he was then but a captain of horse, that he did
good service at Edgehill.

There were good men on both sides that day, and not the least among them
was brave Sir Jacob Astley, who commanded Charles's foot. He was withal
a man of piety, for the Parliamentarians did not have a monopoly in
that line, however much their chroniclers may claim it; and I have
always regarded his prayer on that momentous Sunday morning as a model
which many clergymen might study with profit to themselves and to their
congregations. "O Lord!" said he, as he settled himself firmly in the
saddle, "Thou knowest how busy I must be this day. If I forget Thee, do
not Thou forget me. March on, boys!" Is not that to the purpose?

Let such as are at their appointed work have no fear that they will ever
be forgotten--the performance of a duty ranks before the offering of a
prayer, any day--nay, is of itself the best prayer. There's plenty of
time for lip service when we have served the Lord by hard work in a good
cause. When people have nothing better to do let them pray, but don't
let them be too greedy and ask much for themselves.

  [Sidenote: _Warwick Castle._]

Our route lay through Warwick and Leamington. The view of the castle
from the bridge is, I believe, the best of its kind in England. "From
turret to foundation stone" it is all perfect. The very entrance tells
of the good old days. As we pass beneath the archway, over the
drawbridge, and under the portcullis, it all comes back to us.

      "Up drawbridge, grooms. What, Warder, ho!
      Let the portcullis fall!
      To pass there was such scanty room
      The bars descending razed his plume."

Warwick, the king-maker! This was his castle. His quarrel with the king
was one of our most taking recitations. The Scribe was considered heavy
in this:

      "Know this, the man who injured Warwick
      Never passed uninjured yet."

He found that out, did he not, my lord of the ragged staff!

The view from the great hall looking on the river below is fixed in my
mind. Don't miss it; and surely he who will climb to the top of Guy's
Tower will have cause for thankfulness for many a year thereafter. You
get a look at more of England there than is generally possible. I
sympathize with Ruskin in his rage at the attempt to raise funds by
subscription to mend the ravages of a recent fire in the castle. A
Warwick in the role of a Belisarius begging for an obolus! If the
king-maker could look upon this! But historical names are now often
trailed in the dust in England; and it must be some consolation to him,
wherever he may be, to know that the bearer of the title, if responsible
for this, is no scion of the old stock.

  [Sidenote: _Guy of Warwick._]

The legend of Guy of Warwick, accepted as an historical fact by the
early writers, has been relegated to the garret of monkish superstition,
with the ribs of the dun cow and other once undoubted relics; but its
romance will always lend an interest to the old castle and attract the
traveller to the site of the hermitage on Guy's Cliff where the fabled
hero died and was buried. You must not suppose that Guy's Tower had any
connection with the original Guy, for the building dates only from the
close of the fourteenth century, while the latter boasts an antiquity of
nearly a thousand years. Indeed, we can place him to a dot, for the
antiquary Rous is very precise in his statement. He says: "On the
twelfth of June, 926, being the third year of the reign of Athelstan, a
most terrible single combat took place between the champions of the
kings of England and Denmark--Guy, Earl of Warwick, and Colebrand the
Pagan, an African giant; through the mercy of God the Christian
undertook the combat, being advised thereto by an angel; and the
faithful servant of God and the Church fortunately vanquished the enemy
of the whole realm of England."

Is it not dreadful to contemplate what might have been the consequences
if Colebrand the African had got the upper hand of that faithful servant
of God and the Church! But it was not to be. The Pagan had a lost fight
from the start, for, though the chronicle does not expressly say so, it
is very evident to the reflecting mind that Guy was backed throughout by
the angel--a mean advantage which, but for the immensity of the stake,
would have led any ordinary lover of fair play to side with the weaker
party. But not so with the wily monks of those days. In their easy
consciences the end justified the means, and so they glorified Guy as
the champion of all that was good, and so sedulously trumpeted his fame
that the Norman barons who succeeded to the ownership of the old Saxon
stronghold saw their interest in adopting the victor as an ancestor. In
time these Normans came to believe implicitly in the family tree with
Guy at the root, just as some silly people pin their faith to the
parchment evidences of the professional genealogists proving their
descent from some fabulous hero who followed William and his crew from
Normandy. They named their sons after Guy, called the tower his tower,
and hung up his arms and armor in the great hall, while their wives and
daughters worked his exploits in tapestry.

These proud descendants of a fabulous ancestor remind one of the general
in the "Pirates of Penzance" who is found weeping at the tomb in the
abbey belonging to the property he has purchased. When it is suggested
to him that his tears are misplaced, he replies: "Sir, when I bought
this property I bought this abbey and this tomb with its _contents_. I
do not know whose ancestors these _were_, but I do know whose ancestors
they _are_." And he falls to sobbing again, bound to have an ancestry of
some kind, the more important the more to belittle himself by
comparison. But the general is very English for all that. Tennyson's
lines,

      "Trust me, Clara Vere de Vere,
      From yon blue heavens above us bent
      The grand old gardener and his wife
      Smile at the claims of long descent,"

are well known and repeated by the school children all over the land,
but the grown men and women, entirely free from the weakness of trying
to figure out a family tree of respectable antiquity, will be found
unexpectedly small in this old land. Josh Billings settled the matter as
far as Americans are concerned, for the malady is even more ridiculous
in the New World. "We can't boast old family here," says he, "the
country ain't _long_ enough, unless a feller has Injun in him." That is
what the lawyers call an estoppel, I take it.

  [Sidenote: _Kenilworth Castle._]

Driving through Leamington we reached Kenilworth Castle for luncheon, to
which we had looked forward for several days. Alas! the keeper informed
us that no picnic parties are admitted since the grounds have been put
into such excellent order by the kind Earl Clarendon (for which thanks,
good earl). But he was a man of some discrimination, this custodian of
the ruins, and when he saw our four-in-hand and learned who we
were--Americans! Brighton to Inverness!--he made us an exception to the
rule, of which I trust his lordship will approve, if he ever hears. We
had one of our happiest luncheons beneath the walls under a large
hawthorn tree, which we decided was the very place where the enraged
Queen Bess discovered dear Amy Robsart on that memorable night.

A thousand memories cluster round this ruin; but what should we have
known of it had not the great magician touched with his wand this dead
mass of stone and lime and conferred immortality upon the actors and
their revels? In his pages we live over again the days of old, and take
part with the Virgin Queen and her train of lords and ladies in the
grand reception so lavishly prepared for her amusement by the then
reigning favorite; ruined walls and towers and courts assume their
ancient proportions and resound with music and revelry, and the noble
park, now so quiet, is alive once more with huntsmen and gayly clad
courtiers. But vivid as is Scott's picture, it is exceeded in quaint
interest by the original account of the festivities from which the great
romancer drew his facts, but which is as little known to the ordinary
reader of "Kenilworth" as is the prototype of Hamlet to the common
play-goer. Master Robert Laneham, the writer, was a sort of hanger-on of
the court, and appears to have accompanied Leicester to Kenilworth. His
account is in the form of a letter addressed to "my good friend, Master
Humfrey Martin, Mercer," in London, and is written, says Scott, "in a
style of the most intolerable affectation, both in point of composition
and orthography."

After a brief account of the preliminary journey of the queen, this
veracious chronicler informs us that she was "met in the Park, about a
flight shoot from the Brayz and first gate of the castl" by a person
representing "one of the ten Sibills, comely clad in a Pall of white
Sylk, who pronounced a proper Poezi in English Rime and meeter."...
"This her majestie benignly accepting, passed foorth untoo the next gate
of the Brayz, which, for the length, largenes, and use they call now
the Tylt-yard; whear a Porter, tall of Person, big of lim and stearn of
countinance, wrapt also all in Sylke, with a club and keiz of quantitee
according, had a rough speech full of Passions, in meeter aptly made to
the purpose."

  [Sidenote: _A Giant's Portrait._]

Be it here recorded that the Charioteers had the pleasure while in
London of looking upon the portrait of this giant porter, which hangs in
the King's Guard Chamber at Hampton Court Palace. It is supposed to have
been painted by the Italian artist Ferdinando Zucchero, who, it will be
remembered, visited England. The fellow is truly called "big of lim,"
for the canvas is more than nine feet high and the figure, which is said
to be of life size, measures eight and a half feet. His hand is
seventeen inches long. He stands with his left hand on his hip and his
right on a long rapier; is dressed in large balloon breeches, with black
stockings, and a white quilted vest with a black waistcoat over it; and
wears a cap with a feather in it and a small ruff. The picture was
painted after the queen's visit to Kenilworth, for the date 1580 is
plainly to be seen in one of the upper corners.

When the great porter had concluded, "six Trumpetoours, every one an
eight foot hye in due proportion of Parson beside, all in long garments
of Sylk suitabl," who stood upon the wall over the gate, sounded a "tune
of welcum." These "armonious blasterz mainteined their music very
delectably," while the queen rode into the inner gate, "where the Ladye
of the Lake (famous in King Arthurz Book) with two Nymphes waiting uppon
her, arrayed all in Sylks, attended her highness' coming. From the midst
of the Pool, whear uppon a moovable Iland bright blazing with Torches,
she floating to land, met her majestie with a well-penned meeter,"
expressive of the "Anncientie of the castl" and the hereditary dignity
of its owners.

"This Pageant was cloz'd up with a delectabl harmony of Hautboiz,
Shalmz, Cornets, and such oother loord Muzik," that held on while her
majesty crossed a bridge over a dry valley in front of the castle gate,
the different posts of which were decorated with fruits, flowers, birds,
and other decorations emblematic of the gifts of Sylvanus, Pomona,
Ceres, Neptune, and other divinities. Having passed this, the main gate
of the castle was reached. Over it, on a "Tabl beautifully garnisht
aboove with her Highness' Arms" was inscribed a Latin poem descriptive
of the various tributes paid to her arrival by the gods and goddesses.
The verses were read to her by a poet "in a long ceruleoous garment,
with a side and wide sleevz Venecian wize drawen up to his elboz, his
dooblet sleevz under that Crimson, nothing but Sylk: a Bay garland on
his head, and a skro in his hand."... "So passing into the inner Coourt,
her majesty (that never rides but alone), thear sat down from her
palfrey, was conveied up to Chamber: When after did follo so great peal
of gunz, and such lightning by fyrwork a long space toagither, as
Jupiter woold sheaw himself too be no furthur behind with his welcoom
than the rest of his gods."

The chronicler then gives an account of the festivities, which lasted
seventeen days and comprised nearly every amusement known to the period.
On Sunday, after "divine servis and preaching," the afternoon was spent
in "excellent muzik of sundry swet Instruments and in dauncing of Lordes
and Ladiez, and other woorshipfull degreez, uttered with such lively
agilitee and commendable grace az whither it moought be more straunge
too the eye, or pleazunt too the minde, for my part indeed I coold not
discern."

  [Sidenote: _Bearbaiting._]

One morning was devoted to a bearbaiting, in which thirteen bears and
bandogs took part, "with such fending and prooving, with plucking and
tugging, skratting and byting, by plain tooth and nayll a to side and
toother, such expens of blood and leather waz thear between them, as a
moonths licking I ween will not recoover."

Refined amusement, you say, for the Queen of England and her court only
three hundred years ago. But not so fast, my dear lady; think what three
hundred years hence will say of you and your amusements. Did you not
give us a lively description the other evening of your riding after the
hounds? Lady Gay Spanker herself, I thought, could not have done it
better, and I am sure she was not more fascinating than you. But long
before one hundred years shall pass, my friend, ladies in your station
will be equally amazed that you could so torture a poor hare or fox and
feel it to be not only not _unworthy of a lady_ but a source of
enjoyment to you. I say your grandchild will blush for her grandma as
she shows to her children the picture of your lovely face. What Queen
Elizabeth is now in your eyes, what Roman emperors in the bloody
Coliseum were in hers, you will be in the eyes of the third generation
after you. Think of this. Remember what Cowper says:

      "I would not rank among my list of friends,
      Though graced with polished manners and fine sense,
      That man who needlessly sets foot upon a worm."

Men will give up such sports after a time; but surely we may expect
women to find even in this day not only no pleasure but even positive
pain in such sports and leave them to coarser natures.

  [Sidenote: _Sunday Amusements._]

Another day was marked by the exhibition of an Italian tumbler, who
displayed "such feats of agilitee, in goinges, turninges, tumblinges,
castings, hops, jumps, leaps, skips, springs, gambaud, soomersauts,
caprettiez, and flights; forward, backward, sydewize, a doownward,
upward, and with sundry windings, gyrings and circumflexions; allso
lightly and with such eaziness, as by me in feaw words it is not
expressibl by pen or speech I tell yoo plain." On the second Sunday,
after a "frutefull Sermon," a "solemn Brydeale of a proper Coopl was
appointed in the tylt-yard," attended by all the country folk in holiday
costume. This was followed by Morris dances, a Coventry play, and other
games. "By my troth, Master Martyn, 'twaz a lively pastime; I beleeve it
woold have mooved sum man to a right meerry mood, though had it be toold
him hiz wife lay a dying." And all this on the Holy Sawbath--for shame,
Queen Bess!

Nearly every hour had its appointed sport, one amusement following
another in endless variety, and the park was peopled with mimic gods and
goddesses who surprised the queen with complimentary dialogues and
addresses at every turn. Dancing and feasting were kept up all day long
and far into the night, for no note was taken of time. "The clok bell
sang not a note all the while her highness waz thear; the clok also
stood still withall; the handz of both the tablz stood firm and fast,
allwayz poynting at two a clok," the hour of banquet.

The day of our visit to Kenilworth was very warm, even for Americans,
and after luncheon we became a lazy, sleepy party. I have a distinct
recollection of an upward and then a downward movement which awoke me
suddenly. One after another of the party, caught asleep on a rug, was
treated to a tossing amid screams of laughter. We were all very drowsy,
but a fresh breeze arose as the sun declined, and remounting the coach
late in the afternoon we had a charming drive to Stratford-on-Avon.

       *       *       *       *       *

      STRATFORD-ON-AVON, June 23.

Our resting-place was the Red Horse Inn, of which Washington Irving has
written so delightfully. One can hardly say that he comes into
Shakespeare's country, for one is always there, so deeply and widely has
his influence reached. We live in his land always; but, as we approached
the quiet little village where he appeared on earth, we could not help
speculating upon the causes which produced the prodigy. One almost
expects nature herself to present a different aspect to enable us to
account in some measure for the apparition of a being so far beyond all
others; but it is not so--we see only the quiet beauty which
characterizes almost every part of England. His sweet sonnets seem the
natural outbirth of the land. Where met he the genius of tragedy, think
you? Surely not on the cultivated banks of the gentle Avon, where all is
so tame. But as Shakespeare resembled other burghers of Stratford so
much, not showing upon the surface that he was that

                      "largest son of time
      Who wandering sang to a listening world,"

  [Sidenote: _Shakespeare's Tomb._]

our search for external conditions as to his environment need not be
continued. Ordinary laws are inapplicable--he was a law unto himself.
How or why Shakespeare was Shakespeare will be settled when there shall
be few problems of the race left to settle. It is well that he lies on
the banks of the Avon, for that requires us to make a special visit to
his shrine to worship him. His mighty shade alone fills the mind. True
monotheists are we all who make the pilgrimage to Stratford. I have been
there often, but I am always awed into silence as I approach the church;
and when I stand beside the ashes of Shakespeare I cannot repress stern,
gloomy thoughts, and ask why so potent a force is now but a little dust.
The inexplicable waste of nature, a million born that one may live,
seems nothing compared to this--the brain of a god doing its work one
day and food for worms the next! No wonder, George Eliot, that this was
ever the weight that lay upon your heart and troubled you so!

A cheery voice behind me. "What is the matter? Are you ill? You look as
if you hadn't a friend in the world!" Thanks, gentle remembrancer. This
is no time for the Scribe to forget himself. We are not out for lessons
or for moralizing. Things are and shall be "altogether lovely." One must
often laugh if one would not cry.

Here is a funny conceit. A worthy draper in the town has recently put an
upright stone at the head of his wife's grave, with an inscription
setting forth the dates of her birth and death, and beneath it the
following verse:

      "For the Lord has done great things for us, whereof we are
      exceeding glad."

The wretch! One of the wives of our party declared that she could not
like a man who could think at such a crisis of such a verse, no matter
how he meant it. She was confident that he was one of those terribly
resigned kind of men who will find that the Lord has done great things
for him in the shape of a second helpmeet within two years.

This led to a search for other inscriptions. Here is one which struck
our fancy:

      "Under these ashes lies one close confined,
      Who was to all both affable and kind;
      A neighbor good, extensive to ye poor,
      Her soul we hope's at rest forevermore."

This was discussed and considered to go rather too far. Good
Swedenborgians still dispute about the body's rising again, and make a
great point of that, as showing their superior wisdom, as if it mattered
whether we rise with this body or another, any more than whether we wear
one suit of clothes or another; the great matter being that we rise at
all. But this good friend seems to bespeak rest forever for the soul.
One of us spoke of having lately seen a very remarkable collection of
passages from Scripture which seemed to permit the hope that all for
whom a kind father has nothing better in store than perpetual torture
will kindly be permitted to rest. One of the passages in question was:
"For the wicked shall _perish_ everlastingly." The question was remitted
to the theologians of our party, with instructions to give it prayerful
consideration and report.

  [Sidenote: _Everlasting Punishment._]

If there be Scriptural warrant for the belief, I wish to embrace it at
once. Meanwhile I am not going to be sure that any poor miserable sinner
is to be disturbed when after "life's fitful fever he sleeps well" on
the tender, forgiving bosom of mother earth, unless he can be _finally_
fitted for as good or a better life than this. Therefore, good Emma and
Ella and the rest who are staunch dogmatists, be very careful how you
report, for it is a fearful thing to charge our Creator unjustly with
decreeing everlasting torture even to the worst offender into whom He
has breathed the breath of life. Refrain, if possible,

      "Under this conjuration speak;
      For we will hear, note, and believe in heart
      That what you speak is in your conscience washed
      As pure as sin with baptism."

I have not yet been favored with the report asked for, and therefore the
question rests.

The Charioteers got upon delicate ground occasionally, as was to be
expected, and although in all well regulated families two
subjects--politics and religion--are proscribed, we came near running
foul of the latter to-day. There were wide differences of opinion among
us, of course, from the true blue Presbyterian, strong for all the
tenets of Calvin, down to the milder Episcopalian who took more hopeful
views and asked:

      "Shall there not be as good a 'Then' as 'Now'?
      Haply much better! since one grain of rice
      Shoots a green feather gemmed with fifty pearls,
      And all the starry champak's white and gold
      Lurks in those little, naked, gray spring-buds."

I related an incident which happened in Rome. As I entered the general
drawing room one evening, an exciting discussion was going forward on
the very subject which we were then considering. A lady of rank was
giving expression to very advanced ideas which others were combatting.
An old gentleman at last said: "Ladies and gentlemen, all this reminds
me of a discussion we young men were having once in my good old father's
hall, when my father happened to enter. After listening to us a few
minutes he said: 'Young men, you may as well cease your arguing. I'll
tell you all about it. In this life

        "Our ingress is naked and bare,
        Our progress is trouble and care,
        Our egress is--no one knows where.

      If you do well here, you'll do well there,--
      I could tell you no more if I preached for a year."'"

The effect was instantaneous. Unanimous adhesion was given to the old
gentleman's conclusion, and the party bid each other a cordial good
night and went reconciled to bed. I am happy to record that such was
also the effect upon the Charioteers.

  [Sidenote: _Shakespeare Stories._]

It will be taken for granted that while the Charioteers were in this
hallowed region many stories were told about Shakespeare. Two of the
gentlemen of our party, at least, dated our love of letters to the
circumstance that we were messenger boys in the Pittsburgh telegraph
office; and when we carried telegrams to the managers of the theatre,
good kind Mr. Porter (followed by one equally kind to us, Mr. Foster)
permitted us after delivering them to pass up to the gallery among the
gods, where we heard now and then one of the immortal plays. Having
heard the melodious flow of words, which of themselves seem to have some
spiritual meaning apart from the letter--differing in this from all
other combinations of words--how could

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