"The difficulties under which this plucky match was walked can only
be appreciated by those who were on the ground. To the excessive
rigor of the icy blast and the depth and state of the snow must be
added the constant scattering of the latter into the air and into
the eyes of the men, while heads of hair, beards, eyelashes, and
eyebrows were frozen into icicles. To breathe at all, in such a
rarefied and disturbed atmosphere, was not easy; but to breathe up
to the required mark was genuine, slogging, ding-dong, hard labor.
That both competitors were game to the backbone, doing what they did
under such conditions, was evident to all; but to his gameness the
courageous Bantam added unexpected endurance and (like the sailor's
watch that did three hours to the cathedral clock's one) unexpected
powers of going when wound up. The knowing eye could not fail to
detect considerable disparity between the lads; Chanticleer being,
as Mrs. Cratchit said of Tiny Tim, 'very light to carry,' and
Rossius promising fair to attain the rotundity of the Anonymous Cove
in the Epigram:--
And when he walks the streets the paviors cry,
"God bless you, sir!"--and lay their rammers by.
The dinner at the Parker House, after the fatigues of the day, was a
brilliant success. The Great International Walking-Match was over;
America had won, and England was nowhere. The victor and the vanquished
were the heroes of the occasion, for both had shown great powers of
endurance and done their work in capital time. We had no set speeches at
the table, for we had voted eloquence a bore before we sat down. David
Copperfield, Hyperion, Hosea Biglow, the Autocrat, and the Bad Boy were
present, and there was no need of set speeches. The ladies present,
being all daughters of America, smiled upon the champion, and we had a
great, good time. The banquet provided by Dickens was profusely
decorated with flowers, arranged by himself. The master of the feast was
in his best mood, albeit his country had lost; and we all declared, when
we bade him good night, that none of us had ever enjoyed a festival
more.
Soon after this Dickens started on his reading travels again, and I
received from him frequent letters from various parts of the country. On
the 8th of March, 1868, he writes from a Western city:--
Sunday, 8th March, 1868.
My Dear Fields: We came here yesterday most comfortably in a
"drawing-room car," of which (Rule Britannia!) we bought exclusive
possession. ---- is rather a depressing feather in the eagle's wing,
when considered on a Sunday and in a thaw. Its hotel is likewise a
dreary institution. But I have an impression that we must be in the
wrong one, and buoy myself up with a devout belief in the other,
over the way. The awakening to consciousness this morning on a
lop-sided bedstead facing nowhere, in a room holding nothing but
sour dust, was more terrible than the being afraid to go to bed last
night. To keep ourselves up we played whist (double dummy) until
neither of us could bear to speak to the other any more. We had
previously supped on a tough old nightmare named buffalo.
What do you think of a "Fowl de poulet"? or a "Paettie de Shay"? or
"Celary"? or "Murange with cream"? Because all these delicacies are
in the printed bill of fare! If Mrs. Fields would like the recipe,
how to make a "Paettie de Shay," telegraph instantly, and the recipe
shall be purchased. We asked the Irish waiter what this dish was,
and he said it was "the Frinch name the steward giv' to oyster
pattie." It is usually washed down, I believe, with "Movseaux," or
"Table Madeira," or "Abasinthe," or "Curraco," all of which drinks
are on the wine list. I mean to drink my love to ---- after dinner
in Movseaux. Your ruggeder nature shall be pledged in Abasinthe.
Ever affectionately,