And now she has fallen to this!"

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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."