GOD SAVE THE QUEEN.

[Sidenote: _Private Theatricals._]

A great many fine compliments have been paid to performers in this

world, but do you remember one much better than this? Our Prima Donna

sang "My Nannie's awa'," my favorite among twenty favorites; and she did

sing it that night to perfection. We were all proud of her. When she

returned to her seat next to M., there was whispered in her ear: "Oh,

Jeannie, the lump's in my throat yet!" All the hundred warm expressions

bestowed upon her did not weigh as much as that little gem of a tribute.

When you raise the lump in the throat by a song you are upon the right

key and have the proper style, even if your teacher has been no other

than your own heart, the most important teacher of all.

After the theatricals at Merridale came the feast. The supper-table

comes before me, and the speeches. The orator of the Wolverhampton

connection is ex-Mayor B. He speaks well, and never did he appear to

greater advantage than on that evening. It's a sight "gude for sair een"

to see a good-natured, kindly English gentleman presiding at the festive

board, surrounded by his children and his children's children, and the

family connections to the number of seventy odd. They are indeed a

kindly people, but oh dear! those who have never been out of their

little island, even the most liberal of them, have such queer,

restricted notions about the rest of mankind! This, however, is only

natural; travel is in one sense the only possible educator. England has

been so far ahead of the world until the present generation, that it is

difficult for her sons to believe she is sleeping too long. The best

speech of the evening upon our side was made by Our Pard, who said he

felt that after he had forgotten all else about this visit, the smiling

faces of the pretty, rosy-cheeked English young ladies he had been

admiring ever since he came to Wolverhampton, and never more ardently

than this evening, would still haunt his thoughts; and then, with more

emphasis, he closed with these memorable words: "And I tell you, if ever

young men ask me where they can find the nicest, sweetest, prettiest,

and best young ladies for wives, they won't have to ask twice."

(Correct! shake, Pard!)

We were fortunate in seeing the statue of Mr. Villiers unveiled. Earl

Granville spoke with rare grace and ease, his style being so far beyond

that of the other speakers that they suffered by comparison. The

sledge-hammer style of oratory is done. Let ambitious youngsters make a

note of that, and no longer strut and bellow, and tear a passion all to

tatters, to very rags. Shakespeare understood it:

"In the very tempest and I may say whirlwind of your passion,

You must beget a temperance to give it utterance."

[Sidenote: _Coffee Houses._]

The effort now making throughout Great Britain to provide coffee-houses

as substitutes for the numerous gin palaces has not been neglected in

Wolverhampton. The Coffee House Company which operates in the city and

neighborhood has now fourteen houses in successful operation, and, much

to my astonishment and gratification, I learned that seven and a half

per cent. dividends were declared and about an equal amount of profit

reserved for contingencies. In Birmingham there are twenty houses, and

cash dividends of ten per cent. per annum have been made. If they can be

generally made to pay even half as well, a grand advance has been made

in the war against intemperance. I visited one of the houses with

ex-Mayor D., who, I rejoice to say, is Chairman of the Company, and in

this great office does more for the cause than a thousand loud-mouthed

orators who only denounce the evil about which we are all agreed, but

have no plan to suggest for overcoming it. It is so easy to denounce and

tear down; but try to build up once and see what slow, discouraging

labor is involved.

The prices in these coffee-houses are very low: one large cup of good

tea, coffee, or cocoa, at the counter, 1_d._ (2 cents); one sandwich,

1_d._ (2 cents). If taken upstairs in a room at a table, one-half more.

There is a reading-room with newspapers free, bagatelle-table, and

comfortable sitting-rooms; also a ladies' room and a lavatory, and

cigars, tobacco, and all non-alcoholic drinks are provided. Men go there

at night to read and to play games. The company has been operating for

three years, and the business increases steadily. We saw similar houses

in most of the towns we passed, and wished them God-speed.

A chairman of a company like this has it in his power to do more good

for the masses, who are the people of England, than if he occupied his

time as member of Parliament; but the English exalt politics unduly and

waste the lives of their best men disputing over problems which the more

advanced Republicans have settled long ago and cleared out of their way.

They will learn better by and by. We must not be impatient. They are a

slow race and prone to makeshifts politically.

[Sidenote: _Lincoln and the Deserter._]

A delegation of the Charioteers passed a happy day visiting one of the

celebrated homes of England, Bilton Grange, near Rugby, the residence of

Mr. John Lancaster, whom Americans will remember as the owner of the

yacht "Deerhound," who rescued Commander Semmes, when the "Kearsarge"

swept the infamous "Alabama" from the seas. Mr. Lancaster showed us the

pistols presented to him by the Confederate Officer as token of

gratitude. This seems like ancient history already, so rapidly has the

Rebellion and all thoughts thereof faded away. Jefferson Davis goes to

and fro exciting no remark, arousing some pity. Had he been invested

with the crown of martyrdom, how different would be the feeling of his

people to-day! It is with Davis as with the deserter of whom Hon. Daniel

J. Morrell tells: He took the mother of the runaway to see President

Lincoln, in Washington, to plead for the life of her darling boy, who

had been court-martialed and was to be shot in a few days. Lincoln first

upbraided my friend for subjecting him to such an ordeal, but the poor

woman was already in the room, sobbing as if her heart would break, and

there was no help for it. Lincoln conducted her to a seat, asked a great

many questions, learned that the boy had returned to work at Johnstown,

and provided for his mother and sister from his earnings, giving as an

excuse for leaving the army, that it was lying idle on the banks of the

Potomac and he knew it could not move until spring.

The President mused a few moments, apparently undecided what action to

take. Even the woman held her breath for the time and awaited in silence

the word which was to rejoice her or doom her to misery forever.

"Well, I don't believe it would do him any good to shoot him, do you,

madam?" asked Father Abraham of the mother, in a tone of inquiry so

natural that one would have thought he was actually in doubt upon the

subject himself and wanted the opinion of the person who knew the boy

best.

The mother was speechless. During the inquiry the President had been

rolling a small strip of paper into a ball. He handed this to Mr.

Morrell, saying: "Read that when you get out, Daniel, but mind you don't

tell Stanton."

Mr. Morrell beckoned the woman to the door, placed her in the carriage,

read the slip, and ordered the coachman to drive at once to the office

of the Provost Marshal. Here is what he found in that tiny strip: "P.M.

Washington--Send Private Johnston, Company B, 9th Penn. Infantry, to his

regiment. A. L."

That is the kind of thing that took our trusting hearts and gave this

wood-chopper of Illinois such power as all the hereditary monarchs of

the world can never hope to acquire. Just so with Jefferson Davis:--it

wouldn't do anybody any good to shoot him. Happy America! strong enough

to laugh at all powers which talk of assailing you.

[Sidenote: _Moral for Englishmen._]

In driving to and from Bilton Grange, we passed famous Rugby and talked

of our favorite Tom Brown. What a sad pity that Mr. Hughes was carried

away by the fascinations of a scheme for transplanting gentle manly

Englishmen to the Rugby colony in Tennessee! It was foredoomed to

failure, and to much heart-burning and recrimination. Of all men in the

world, your well-educated young Englishman is least adapted for such a

life as Tennessee has to offer. Had the West or North-west been

selected, the result should have been different so far as pecuniary

considerations are concerned, for even poor management there could not

have kept the land from rising in value. The stream of emigration from

the older States to the new might have told these men where to go; but

it seems that whenever foreigners attempt to do anything in America

through an organization, their first thought is how to do it in a

manner as far as possible from that of the Americans. The consequence

is, they generally lose their money. Moral for our English cousins:

"When in America do as the Americans do." If they settle in Iowa do you

go and sit down beside them there. And to my iron and steel friends in

this little island, just one word: If Americans are not overpoweringly

anxious to develop the wonderful resources, say of Alabama, for

instance, just you take Rip Van Winkle's plan "go home and t'ink about

it jest a leetle" before you undertake the task. These Americans do not

know everything, of course, but it is just possible they may know

something about their own country.

"Nae man can tether time nor tide,

The hour approaches, Tam maun ride."

Our six days at Wolverhampton had passed rapidly away in one continual

round of social pleasures, and now we were off again to fresh woods and

pastures new. The horn sounds. We call the roll once more. Mr. B.,

Senior, had left us at Windsor, but the Junior B. he sent us fitly

represented the family. If he couldn't tell as many funny stories nor

quote as much poetry as his sire, the young Cambridge wrangler could

sing college songs and give our young ladies many glimpses of young

England. He was a great favorite was Theodore (young Obadiah).

Miss B. and he left us at Banbury, much to our regret, but London

engagements were imperative. Mr. and Mrs. K. arrived. If ever a couple

received a warmer welcome I never saw nor heard of it. It seemed as if

we had been separated for years, and how often during our journey had

one or another of the party regretted that Aggie and Aaleck were missing

all this.

It was upon the ocean that Ben and Davie conceived the idea that a run

to Paris would be advisable. Leave of absence for two week was

accordingly granted to four--Mr. and Mrs. McC., Miss J. and Mr. V.

We bade them good-bye at Wolverhampton, Thursday, June 30th, and saw

them fairly off, not without tears upon both sides from the weaker sex.

These partings are miserable things always. Their places were taken by

Miss J. R. (a Dunfermline bairn), Miss A. B., and Mr. D. Next morning we

gathered the clans at Mr. G.'s, calling at the houses of several other

friends for the contingent they had so kindly entertained; thence to

Merridale for the remainder and the final start.

It was a sight to see the party on the lawn there as we drove off,

giving three hearty cheers for Wolverhampton. In special honor of the

head of the clan there, the master of Merridale, we had just sung "For

he is an Englishman." Yes, he is the Englishman all over. Our route for

many miles was still in the black country, but near Lichfield we reached

again the rural beauties of England. How thankful to get away once more

from the dirt and smoke and bustle of manufactories!

The new members had not gone far before they exhibited in an aggravated

form all the usual signs of the mania which had so seriously affected

all who have ever mounted our coach. The older members derived great

pleasure from seeing how completely the recent acquisitions were carried

away. Their enthusiasm knew no bounds, and we drove in to the Swan at

Lichfield brimful of happiness. We had left Wolverhampton about noon,

the stage for the day being a short one, only twenty miles.

* * * * *

LICHFIELD, July 1.

[Sidenote: _Lichfield Cathedral._]

The cathedral deserves a visit, out of the way of travel as it is. Its

three spires and its chapter house are the finest we have yet seen; and

then Chantrey's sleeping children is worth travelling hundreds of miles

to see. Never before has marble been made to express the childish sleep

of innocence as this does.

It was strange that I should stumble upon a monument in the cathedral to

Major Hodson, whose grave I had seen in India. He lies with Havelock and

Lawrence in the pretty little English cemetery at Lucknow, poor fellow,

and here his friends and neighbors away in quiet Lichfield have

commemorated his valor.

How well do I remember my visit to that historic burial place in far off

India and the impression made upon me as I stood beside the tombs of the

heroes who fell in the days of the great mutiny! The inscription on

Lawrence's is: "Here lies Henry Lawrence, who tried to do his duty."

What could you add that would not weaken that?

We talked, standing by Hodson's monument, of the long struggle and the

relief at Lucknow, and of what I had written of it in my "Notes of a

Trip round the World." As it pleased the Charioteers, perhaps I may be

pardoned for quoting a part of it.

"Our first visit was to the ruins of the Residency, where for six long

months Sir Henry Lawrence and his devoted band were shut up and

surrounded by fifty thousand armed rebels. The grounds, which I should

say are about thirty acres in extent, were fortunately encompassed by an

earthern rampart six feet in height. You need not be told of the heroic

resistance of the two regiments of British soldiers and one of natives,

nor of the famous rescue. Hour after hour, day after day, week after

week, and month after month, the three hundred women and children, shut

in a cellar under ground, watched and prayed for the sound of Havelock's

bugles, but it came not. Hope, wearied out at last, had almost given

place to despair. Through the day the attacks of the infuriated mob

could be seen and repelled, but who was to answer that as darkness fell

the wall was not to be pierced at some weak point of the extended line?

One officer in command of a critical point failing--not to do his duty,

there was never a fear of that--but failing to judge correctly of what

the occasion demanded, and the struggle was over. Death was the last of

the fears of those poor women night after night as the days rolled

slowly away. One night there was graver silence than usual in the room;

all were despondent and lay resigned to their seemingly impending fate.

No rescue came, nor any tidings of relief. In the darkness one piercing

scream was heard from the narrow window. A Highland nurse had clambered

up to gaze through the bars and strain her ears once more. The cooling

breeze of night blew in her face and wafted such music as she could not

stay to hear. One spring to the ground, a clapping of hands above her

head, and such a shriek as appalled her sisters who clustered around;

but all she could say between the sobs--'The slogan! the slogan!' Few

knew what the slogan was. 'Didna ye hear? Didna ye hear?' cried the

almost demented girl, and then listening one moment that she might not

be deceived, she muttered, 'It's the Macgregors Gathering, the grandest

o' them a',' and fell senseless to the ground.

[Sidenote: _Jessie of Lucknow._]

"Truly, my lassie, the 'grandest o' them a',' for never came such

strains before to mortal ears. And so Jessie of Lucknow takes her place

in history as one of the finest themes for painter, dramatist, poet, or

historian, henceforth and forever. I have some hesitation whether the

next paragraph in my note-book should go down here or be omitted.

Probably it would be in better taste if quietly ignored, but then it

would be so finely natural if put in. Well, I shall be natural or

nothing, and recount that I could not help rejoicing that Jessie was

Scotch, and that Scotchmen first broke the rebel lines and reached the

fort, and that the bagpipes led the way. That's all. I feel better now

that this also is set down."

In Lichfield cathedral are seven very fine stained-glass windows which

were found stowed away in a farm-house in Belgium, and purchased by an

English gentleman for L200, and now they rank among the most valuable

windows in the world. What a pity that the treasures wantonly destroyed

during the Reformation had not found similar shelter, to be brought from

their hiding-places once more to delight us!

[Sidenote: _Church Music._]

We heard service Saturday morning, and mourned over the waste of

exquisite music--twenty-six singers in the choir and only ten persons to

listen in the vast cathedral, besides our party. It is much the same

throughout England. In no case during week days did we ever see as many

persons in the congregation as in the choir. Surely the impressive

cathedrals of England are capable of being put to better uses than this.

It seems a sin to have such choirs and not conduct them in some way to

reach and elevate greater numbers. In no building would an oratorio

sound so well. Why should not these choirs be made the nucleus for a

chorus in every district, and let us have music which would draw the

masses within the sacred walls? But maybe this would be sacrilegious.

Theological minds may see in the music suggested an unworthy intruder in

domains sacred to dogma; but they should remember that the Bible tells

us that in heaven music is the principal source of happiness--the sermon

seems nowhere--and it may go hard with such as fail to give it the first

place on earth. In this view of the case it was decided to-day upon the

coach that what some had hitherto thought a scandal, viz., that the

choirs of most of our fashionable churches cost more than all the other

expenses of the church, and that organists and sopranos receive a much

larger salary considering the time given than the ministers; or, as one

of the young ladies put it, "More is paid for music than for

religion"--all this, instead of being reprehensible, as some have

unthinkingly believed, may really be, and probably is, quite in

accordance with the proper order of worship. Well, I am not going to

grudge Miss B. her three thousand dollars a year any longer, said a

vestryman; so he was converted to the theory that music stands upon

strong ground. Some day, however, my lord bishop and lazy crew, the

cathedrals of England will not be yours alone to drone in, but become

mighty centres of grand music, from which shall radiate elevating

influences over entire districts; and the best minds of the nation,

remembering how narrow and bigoted the church was when these structures

were built, will change the poet's line and say:

"To what great uses have they come at last!"

The world moves and the church establishment must move with it, or--this

is a splendid place to stop--there is as great virtue in your "or" as in

your "if," sometimes. Here is the best description of service in an

English cathedral:

"And love the high embower'd roof,

With antique pillars massy proof,

And storied windows richly dight,

Casting a dim religious light:

There let the pealing organ blow,

To the full voic'd choir below,

In service high and anthems clear,

As may with sweetness, through my ear,

Dissolve me into ecstasies,

And bring all heaven before mine eyes."

The music at Lichfield does indeed draw you into regions beyond and

intimates immortality, and we exclaim with friend Izaak Walton, "Lord,

what music hast thou provided for the saints in heaven, when thou

affordest bad men such music on earth!"

I remember that when in China I read that Confucius was noted for his

intense passion for music. He said one day to his disciples that music

not only elevates man while he is listening, but that to those who love

it music is able to create distinct images which remain after the

strains cease and keep the mind from base thoughts. Think of the sage

knowing this when he had probably only the sing-song Chinese fiddle to

console him! I forget, he had the gongs, and a set of fine gongs of

different tones make most suggestive music, as I have discovered.

The position of Lichfield Cathedral is peculiarly fine. Three sides of

the square surrounding it are occupied by splendid ecclesiastical

buildings connected with the diocese, including the bishop's palace. A

beautiful sheet of water lies upon the lower side, so that nothing

incongruous meets the eye.

We obtained there a better idea of the magnitude of the church

establishment and its to us seemingly criminal waste of riches than ever

before. To think of all this power for good wasting itself upon a

beggarly account of empty benches, the choir outnumbering the

congregation!

[Sidenote: _The Coach._]

We had ordered the coach to come and await us at the cathedral, but had

not expected Perry to drive up to the very door. There the glittering

equipage was, however, surrounded by groups of pretty, rosy children and

many older people gazing respectfully. There is something about a

well-appointed coach and four which is calculated to puff a man up with

vanity. I remember I had been absorbed in the service, and afterward in

wandering about the cathedral had had my thoughts carried back to India.

I was again in the crowded streets of Benares mounted upon the richly

caparisoned elephants of the Rajah, and anon strolling upon the Apollo

Bunder in Bombay, one of a crowd the gorgeous coloring of which equals

any scene ever given in grand opera. I reached the cathedral door in a

kind of trance; the gay coach, the horses and their sparkling harness,

and Joe and Perry in their livery burst upon me, and looking up and

around I did feel that we were a "swell" party, and had ever so much to

be thankful for. It is a source of never failing pleasure to stand and

see the Charioteers mount the coach--they are all so happy, and I am "so

glad they are glad." And so we mounted and drove off, taking a last fond

look of grand old Lichfield.

* * * * *

DOVEDALE, July 2-3.

Our objective point was Dovedale, thirty miles distant. When three miles

out we stopped at Elmhurst Hall for Miss F., who had preceded us to pay

a visit to Mr. and Mrs. F--x, who very kindly invited the party to

dismount and lunch with them; but the thirty miles to be done would not

permit us the pleasure. The next time we pass, however, good master and

mistress of Elmhurst Hall, you shall certainly have the Charioteers

within your hospitable walls, if you desire it, for such an inviting

place we have rarely seen.

[Sidenote: _Sudbury Park._]

We were to lunch in Sudbury Park, the residence of Lord Vernon. This was

the first grassy luncheon of the five new-comers, and we were all

delighted to see their enjoyment of this most Arcadian feature of our

coaching life. It proved to be one of our pleasantest luncheons, for

there is no finer spot in England than Sudbury Park. Of course it is not

the glen nor the wimpling burn of the Highlands, but for quiet England

it is superb.

The site chosen was near a pretty brook. Before us was the old-fashioned

brick Queen Anne mansion, and behind us in the park was a cricket

ground, where a match between two neighboring clubs was being worthily

contested. The scene was indeed idyllic. There was never more fun and

laughter at any of our luncheons. Aaleck had to be repressed at last,

for several of the members united in a complaint against him. Their

sides ached, but that they did not mind so much; their anxiety was about

their cheeks, which were seriously threatened with an explosion if they

attempted to eat. To avoid such results it was voted that no one should

make a joke nor even a remark. Silence was enjoined; but what did that

amount to! The signs and grimaces were worse than speech. Force was no

remedy. It took time to get the party toned down, but eventually the

lunch was finished.

We strolled over and watched the cricketers. It all depends upon how you

look at a thing. So many able-bodied perspiring men knocking about a

little ball on a warm summer's day, that is one way; so many men

relieved from anxious care and laying the foundation for long years of

robust health by invigorating exercise in the open air, that is the

other view of the question. The ancients did not count against our

little span of life the days spent in the chase; neither need we charge

those spent in cricket; and as for our sport, coaching, for every day so

spent we decided that it and another might safely be credited. He was a

very wise prime minister who said he had often found important duties

for which he had not time; one duty, however, he had always _made_ time

for, his daily afternoon ride on horseback. Your always busy man

accomplishes little; the great doer is he who has plenty of leisure. The

man at the helm turns the wheel now and then, and so easily too,

touching an electric bell; it's the stoker down below who is pitching

into it with his coat off. And look at Captain McMicken promenading the

deck in his uniform and a face like a full moon; quite at his ease and

ready for a story. And there is Johnnie Watson, chief engineer, who

rules over the throbbing heart of the ship; he is standing there

prepared for a crack. Moral: Don't worry yourself over work, hold

yourself in reserve, and sure as fate, "it will all come right in the

wash."

Leaving the contestants, we walked down to the lake in front of the

mansion, and with our usual good fortune we were just in time to see the

twenty acres of ornamental water dragged for pike, which play such havoc

with other fish. The water had been drained into a small pond, which

seemed alive with bewildered fish. We sat and watched with quiet

interest the men drawing the net. Hundreds were caught at every haul,

from which the pike were taken. A tremendous eel gave the men a lively

chase; three or four times it escaped, wriggled through their legs and

hands one after the other, and made for the water. Had the gamekeeper

not succeeded in pinning it to the ground with a pitchfork, the eel

would have beaten the whole party.

[Sidenote: _Adam and Eve._]

Lord Vernon's park is rich in attractions. An old narrow picturesque

arched bridge, which spans the pretty lake, has a statue of Adam at one

end and Eve at the other. Over the former the ivy clusters so thickly as

to make our great prototype a mass of living green; poor Eve has been

less favored, for she is in a pitiable plight for a woman, with "nothing

to wear."

But Eve was not used to kind treatment. Adam was by no means a modern

model husband, and never gave Eve anything in excess except blame. Here

she is still, the Flora McFlimsy of my friend William Allen Butler

(minus the flora as I have said); but let her be patient, her dress is

sure to come, for kind nature in England abhors nakedness. She is ever

at work clothing everything with her mantle of green.

"Ever and ever bringing secrets forth,

It sitteth in the green of forest glades

Nursing strange seedlings at the cedar's root,

Devising leaves, blooms, blades.

This is its touch upon the blossomed rose,

The fashion of its hand-shaped lotus leaves;

In dark soil and the silence of the seeds

The robe of Spring it weaves."

We had rare enjoyment at the lake, and envied Lord Vernon his princely

heritage. The old forester who once showed me over a noble estate in

Scotland was quite right. I was enchanted with one of the views, and

repeated.

"Where is the coward who would not dare

To fight for such a land!"

"Aye," said the old man, "aye, it's a grand country, _for the lairds_."

It will be a grander country some day when it is less "for the lairds"

and more for the toiling masses; but may the destroying angel of

progress look kindly upon such scenes of beauty as Sudbury Park. The

extensive estate may be disentailed and cultivated by a thousand small

owners in smiling homes, with educated children within them, and the

land bring forth greater harvests touched by the magic wand of the sense

of ownership--for it makes an infinite difference to call a thing your

own--and yet the mansion and park remain intact and give to its

possessor rarer pleasures than at present. I think one of the greatest

drawbacks to life in Britain in grand style must be the contrast

existing between the squire and the people about him. It is bad enough

even in Chester Valley, where the average condition and the education of

the inhabitants are probably equal to any locality in the world, but in

England it is far too marked for comfort, I should think.

While we were still lingering on the banks of the lake Perry's horn

sounded from the main road to call us from the enchanting scene, and we

were off for Dovedale through pretty Ashbourne.

[Sidenote: _Horseback Riding._]

As we bowled along the conversation turned upon horseback riding, and

some one quoted the famous maxim, "the outside of a horse for the inside

of a man." "But what about a woman?" asked F. "Oh," answered Puss, "the

outside of a horse for the inside of a woman and the outside as well,

for in no other position can a woman ever possibly look so captivating

as on a horse. Girls who ride in the park have double chances." A voice

from the front--"You are right." Our Pard there admits that he had no

idea of falling in love with Annie until he saw her on horseback; and

when he had ridden with her a few times he was conquered. A woman looks

her loveliest on horseback.

"That is not Mrs. Parr's opinion," rejoined a young lady on the front

seat. "I think it is in her splendid 'Dorothy Fox' she says that a woman

never shows so clearly the angel of beauty which dwells in a good

woman's heart as when she murmurs her yes to her lover."

"Oh, that's not fair," came from the back row. "That's too short, only a

moment; and besides only one man sees it. That doesn't count. We mean

that a woman shows off better on horseback than anywhere else."

"Oh!" said the cynic, "is that it, Miss? Nothing counts without the

showing off, _eh_!" And so we rattled on interrupted at intervals by

exclamations called forth by England's unique beauty.

Can any one picture a resting-place so full of peace and beauty as the

old Izaak Walton Inn? We arrived there in the twilight, and some of us

walked down the long hill and got our first sight of the Dove from the

bridge at the foot across the stream.

I got the memorable verses near enough from memory to repeat them on the

bridge. Let me put them down here, for in truth, simple as they are, who

is going to predict the coming of the day when they will cease to be

prized as one of the gems of literature?

"She dwelt among the untrodden ways,

Beside the springs of Dove,

A maid whom there were none to praise,

And very few to love.

"A violet by a mossy stone,

Half hidden from the eye;

Fair as a star when only one

Is shining in the sky.

"She lived unknown, and few could know

When Lucy ceased to be;

But she is in her grave, and oh,

The difference to me!"

But think of dear old Izaak and of his fishing excursions to this very

spot. He actually stayed at our inn! He too is secure of his position as

the author of a classic for as long a time as we care to look forward

to. Is it not strange that no one has ever imitated this man's unique

style? "God leads us not to heaven by many nor by hard questions," says

the fisherman, and he knew a thing or two. There is a flavor about him

peculiarly his own, but especially rich when read in this old inn,

sacred to his memory. I enjoyed him with a fresh relish during the few

hours of Sunday which I could devote to him, for there is a good sermon

in many a sentence of the "Complete Angler." Dear old boy, your place in

my library and in my heart too is secure.

[Sidenote: _Ilam Hall._]

Ilam Hall, near the inn, is the great place, and there is a pretty

little church within a stone's throw of it. We walked over on Sunday

morning and saw the squire come into church with his family and take his

seat among his people, for I take it most of the congregation were

connected with the hall. The parson, no doubt, was the appointee of the

squire, and we tried to estimate the importance of these two men in the

district, their duties and influence--both great--for to a large extent

the moral as well as the material well-being of a community in rural

England depends upon the character of the hall and parsonage. The squire

was Mr. Hanbury, M.P., who courteously invited our party to visit the

hall after service, and to stroll as we pleased through his grounds. He

had been in America, and knew our erratic genius and brother

iron-master Abram S. Hewitt. In the evening we received from him some

fine photographs of the hall (a truly noble one), which we prize highly.

The accompanying note was even more gratifying, for it said that he had

been so warmly received in America that it was always a pleasure when

opportunity offered to show Americans such attentions as might be in his

power. It is ever thus, cold indifference between the two

English-speaking branches is found only among the stay-at-homes. The man

who knows from personal experience the leading characteristics of the

people upon both sides of the ferry is invariably a warm and sincere

friend. The two peoples have only to become acquainted to become

enthusiastic over each other's rare qualities.

This is a sheep-grazing district, quite hilly, and the rainfall is much

beyond the average; but the weather question troubles us little; the

Charioteers carry sunshine within and without. Our afternoon walk was

along the Dove, which we followed up the glen between the hills for

several miles, finding new beauties at every turn. Mr. H. has the stream

on his estate reserved for five miles for his own fishing, but our

landlord said he was very generous and always gave a gentleman a day's

sport when properly applied for. We were offered free range by Mr. H., a

privilege which Davie and I hold in reserve for a future day, that we

may most successfully conjure the shade of our congenial brother of the

angle; "for you are to note," saith he, "that we anglers all love one

another." We at least all love Izaak Walton, "an excellent angler and

now with God." Reading the ingenious defence of fishing by our author,

"an honest man and a most excellent fly-fisher," is not waste time in

these days of violent anti-vivisectionists, who have seen poor hares

chased down for sport all their lives, and their Prince shoot pigeons

from a trap without a protest, but who affect to feel pity for a cat

sacrificed upon the holy altar of science. Miserable hypocrites, who

swallow so large a camel and strain at so very small a gnat! It shows

what demoralization is brought about in good people by rank and fashion;

one rule for the Prince who disgraces himself by cruel sports, another

for the medical student who exalts himself working for the good of his

race.

[Sidenote: _Izaak Walton._]

But to quaint Izaak's defence; and first as to the fish themselves.

"Nay, the increase of these creatures that are bred and fed in water is

not only more and more miraculous, but more advantageous to man, not

only for the lengthening of his life, but for the preventing of

sickness; for 'tis observed by the most learned physicians that the

casting off of Lent and other fish days hath doubtless been the chief

cause of those many putrid, shaking, intermitting agues into which this

nation of ours is now more subject than those wiser countries which feed

on herbs, salads, and plenty of fish. And it is fit to remember that

Moses (Levit. 11: 9; Deut. 14: 9) appointed fish to be the chief diet

for the best commonwealth that ever yet was; and it is observable not

only that there are fish, as namely the whale, three times as big as the

mighty elephant that is so fierce in battle, but that the mightiest

feasts have been of fish."

Is not that capital? It calls to mind Josh Billings' answer to his

correspondent who wrote saying that he had heard many times that a fish

diet was most favorable for increase of brain power, but he had never

been able to find out the best kind of fish for the purpose. Could he

inform him? "In your case," replied Josh, "try a whale or two."

[Sidenote: _Fishing._]

Here is Izaak's argument for the lawfulness of fishing:

"And for the lawfulness of fishing it may very well be maintained by our

Saviour's bidding St. Peter cast his hook into the water and catch a

fish for money to pay tribute to Caesar. And it is observable that it was

our Saviour's will that four fishermen should have a priority of

nomination in the catalogue of his twelve disciples (Matt. 10: 2, 4,

13), as namely: St. Peter, St. Andrew, St. James, and St. John, and then

the rest in their order. And it is yet more observable that when our

blessed Saviour went up into the mount when he left the rest of his

disciples and chose only three to bear him company at his

transfiguration, that those three were all fishermen; and it is to be

believed that all the other apostles after they betook themselves to

follow Christ, betook themselves to be fishermen too: for it is certain

that the greater number of them were found together fishing by Jesus

after his resurrection, as it is recorded in the 21st chapter of St.

John's Gospel, v. 3, 4. This was the employment of these happy

fishermen, concerning which choice some have made these observations:

first that he never reproved these for their employment or calling as he

did the scribes and the money-changers; and secondly, he found that the

hearts of such men were fitted for contemplation and quietness, men of

mild, and sweet, and peaceable spirits, as indeed most anglers are;

these men our blessed Saviour, who is observed to love to plant grace in

good natures, though indeed nothing be too hard for him, yet these men

he chose to call from their irreprovable employment of fishing and gave

them grace to be his disciples and to follow him and do wonders. I say

four of twelve."

There I think we may safely rest the defence of our favorite sport,

especially upon secondly; for it is all very well to say animals must be

slain that we may live, and yet it does not give one a high idea of the

fineness of the man who chooses the occupation of a butcher, and is

happiest when he is killing something. Blood! Iago, blood! For my part,

while recognizing the necessity that the sheep should bleat for the lamb

slain that I may feast, I don't profess to see that the arrangement is

anything to rave over as an illustration of the wisdom or the goodness

of God. Let us eat, asking no questions, but trusting that some day we

shall see clearly that all is well. Meanwhile I give up coursing, fox

hunting, and pigeon shooting as unworthy sports, and never again will I

kill a deer in sport. I once saw the mild, reproachful eyes of one

turned upon me as it lay, wounded, as much as to say: "I am so sorry it

was _you_ who did this." So was I, poor innocent thing. It is years

since I saw that look, but it haunts me yet at intervals. It is one of

the many things I have done for which I am ever sorry.

Too much fishing! It is no use to try to give you the good things of

Izaak Walton, for it is with him as with Shakespeare. Two volumes of his

"beauties" handed to gentle Elia. "This is all very well, my friend, but

where are the other five volumes?" We must get out of Dovedale--that is

clear. _Allons donc!_

Our stage to-day was to Chatsworth, twenty-four miles, where our Fourth

of July dinner was to be celebrated. As we passed Ilam Hall we stopped,

sounded our horn, and gave three cheers for the squire who had been so

kind to his "American cousins."

Our luncheon was beside the pretty brook at Youlgreaves, on the estate

of the Duke of Rutland, and a beautiful trout-stream it is. We could see

the speckled beauties darting about, and were quite prepared to believe

the wonderful stories told us of the basketfuls taken there sometimes.

There is something infectious in a running stream. It is the prettiest

thing in nature. Nothing adds so much to our midday enjoyment as one of

these babbling brooks,

"Making music o'er the enamelled stones,

And giving a gentle kiss to every sedge

It overtaketh in its pilgrimage."

If there be "sermons in stones," I think it must be when the pure water

sings as it rushes over them.

[Sidenote: _The Burnie._]

The Charioteers demanded that I should repeat "The Burnie," a gem by a

true poet, Ballantyne. Would you, my gentle reader, like also to know

it? I think you would, for such as have followed me so far must have

something akin to me and surely will sometimes like what I like, and I

like this much:

"It drappit frae a gray rock upon a mossy stane,

An doon amang the green grass it wandered lang alane.

It passed the broomie knowe beyond the hunter's hill;

It pleased the miller's bairns an it ca'd their faether's mill.

"But soon anither bed it had, where the rocks met aboon,

And for a time the burnie saw neither sun nor moon.

But the licht o' heaven cam' again, its banks grew green and fair,

And many a bonnie flower in its season blossomed there;

"And ither burnies joined till its rippling song was o'er,

For the burn became a river ere it reached the ocean's shore.

And the wild waves rose to greet it wi' their ain eerie croon.

Working their appointed wark and never, never done.

"Nae sad repinings at the hardness o' their lot,

Nae heart-burnings at what anither got;

The good or ill, the licht or shade, they took as it might be,

Sae onward ran the burnie frae the gray rock to the sea."

There's a moral for us! There is always peace at the end if we do our

appointed work and leave the result with the Unknown. Let us, then,

follow Mrs. Browning,

"And like a cheerful traveller, take the road,

Singing beside the hedge. What if the bread

Be bitter in thine inn, and thou unshod

To meet the flints?--At least it may be said,

'Because the way is short, I thank thee, God!'"

And so at the sea the burnie's race was run and it found peace.

Immensity gives peace always. It is so vain to strive in the presence of

the ocean, for it tells of forces irresistible. It obeys its own laws,

caring for nought:

"Libel the ocean on its tawny sands, write verses

In its praise; the unmoved sea erases both alike.

Alas for man! unless his fellows can behold his deeds,

He cares not to be great."

Not so. O poet, when man stands on the shore and _thinks_, for then he

feels his nothingness, and the applause of his fellows is valued as so

much noise merely, except as it serves as proof that he has stirred them

for the right. This state lasts unless he lifts his eyes to the skies

above the waste, and renews his vows to the Goddess of Duty. He learns,

not in the depths nor on the level of ocean's surface, but from higher

and beyond--that life is worth living, then he takes up his task and

goes on, saying

"And whether crowned or crownless when I fall

It matters not, so as God's work is done.

I've learned to prize the quiet lightning deed--

Not the applauding thunder at its heels

Which men call fame."

[Sidenote: _Daft Callants._]

The Queen Dowager and Aggie were off to paidle in the burn after

luncheon, and as a fitting close they kilted their petticoats and danced

a highland reel on the greensward, in sight of the company, but at some

distance from us. They were just wee lassies again, and to be a wee

lassie at seventy-one is a triumph indeed; but, as the Queen Dowager

says, that is nothing. She intends to be as daft for many years to come,

for my grandfather was far older when he alarmed the auld wives of the

village on Halloween night, sticking his false face through the windows.

"Oh!" said one, recovering from her fright, "it is just that daft

callant, Andrew Carnegie!" I remember one day, in Dunfermline, an old

man in the nineties--a picture of withered eld, a few straight,

glistening white hairs on each side of his head, and his nose and chin

threatening each other--tottered across the room to where I was sitting,

and laying his long, skinny hand upon my head, murmured:

"An' ye're a gran'son o' Andrew Carnegie's! Aye, maan, I've seen the day

when your grandfaether an' me could have hallooed ony reasonable maan

oot o' his judgment."

I hope to be a daft callant at seventy-one--as daft as we all were that

day. Indeed, we were all daft enough while coaching, but the Queen

Dowager really ought to have been restrained a little. She went beyond

all bounds, but life is an undoubted success if you can laugh till the

end of it.

Let me try to give an idea how this blessed England is crowded. Here is

a signboard we stopped at to-day, to make sure we were taking the right

way; for, even with the Ordnance map upon one's knee, strict attention

is required or you will be liable to take the wrong turn.

A voice from the General Manager: "Perry, stop at the post and let us be

sure."

"Right, sir."

The post points four ways, east, west, north, and south.

First arm reads as follows: Tissington, 3; Matlock Bath, 10;

Chesterfield, 21.

Second arm: Ashbourne, 3; Derby, 16; Kissington, 19.

Third arm: Dovedale, Okedon, Ilam.

Fourth arm: New Haven, 6; Buxton, 17; Bakewell, 13; Chatsworth, 16.

All this the guide-post said at one turn, and fortunate it was that

Chatsworth, our destination, happened to be upon the fourth arm, for

had the worthy road-surveyors not deemed it necessary to extend their

information beyond Bakewell, you see we might as well have consulted the

Book of Days.

[Sidenote: _Tissington Hall._]

The entrance to Tissington estate was near the post, and we were very

kindly permitted to drive through, which it was said would save several

miles and give us a view of another English hall. We managed, however,

to take a wrong turn somewhere, and added some eight miles to our

journey; so much the better--the longer the route the happier we were.

Every English hall seems to have some special features in which it

surpasses all others. This is as it should be, for it permits every

fortunate owner to love his home for acknowledged merits of its own. If

one has the nobler terrace, another boasts a finer lawn; and if one has

woods and a rookery, has not the other the winding Nith through its

borders? One cannot have the best of everything, even upon an English

estate; neither can one life have the best possible of everything,

"For every blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' dew."

Let us, then, be thankful for our special mercies, and may all our ducks

be swans, as friend Edward says mine are.

Have you never had your friend praise his wife to you in moments of

confidence, when you have been fishing for a week together? You wonder

for a few moments, as you recall the Betsey or Susan he extols; for, if

the truth is to be spoken, you have, as it were, shed tears for him when

you thought of his yoke. Well, that is the true way: let him make her a

swan, even if she is not much of a duck.

We stopped at Rowsley for Miss F., who was to come there by rail from

Elmhurst Hall. She brought the London _Times_, which gave us the first

news of the terrible catastrophe in Washington. We would not believe

that the shot was to prove fatal. It did not seem possible that

President Garfield's career was to end in such a way; but, do what we

could, the great fear would not down, and we reached Chatsworth much

depressed. Our Fourth of July was a sad one, and the intended

celebration was given up. Fortunately, the news became more encouraging

day after day, so much so that the coaching party ventured to telegraph

its congratulations through Secretary Blaine, and it was not until we

reached New York that we knew that a relapse had occurred. The cloud

which came over us, therefore, had its silver lining in the promise of

recovery and a return to greater usefulness than ever.

We stopped to visit Haddon Hall upon our way to Chatsworth, but here we

come upon tourists' ground. Every one does the sights of the

neighborhood, and readers are therefore respectfully referred to the

guide-books. We had our first dusty ride to-day, for we are upon

limestone roads, but the discomfort was only trifling; the weather,

however, was really warm, and our umbrellas were brought into use as

sunshades.

Haddon Hall is a fine specimen of the old hall, and Chatsworth of the

new, except that the latter partakes far too much of the show feature.

It is no doubt amazing to the crowds of Manchester and Birmingham

workers who flock here for a holiday and who have seen nothing finer,

but to us who have seen the older gems of England, Chatsworth seems much

too modern, for our fastidious tastes. I speak only of the interior, of

course, for the house itself and its surroundings are grand; so is the

statuary in the noble hall set apart for it--really the best feature in

the house.

* * * * *

EDENSOR, July 4.

[Sidenote: _Edensor._]

Edensor is the model village which the Duke of Devonshire has built

adjoining the park--a very appropriate and pretty name, for it is

perhaps the finest made-to-order village in England. Every cottage is

surrounded by pretty grounds and is built with an eye to

picturesqueness. It is entered by a handsome lodge from the park, and

the road at its upper end is also closed by gates. The church, erected

in 1870 from designs of Gilbert Scott, occupies the site of an older

one. Opening from the south side of the chancel is a mortuary chapel

containing monuments of the Cavendish family. In the churchyard is the

monument of Sir Joseph Paxton, builder of the Crystal Palace, who was

formerly head gardener at Chatsworth.

One or two epitaphs in the churchyard are worth noting. The following is

dated 1787:

"I was like grass, cut down in haste,

For fear too long should grow;

I hope made fit in heaven to sit,

So why should I not go!"

To be sure, why not? But is there not a little ambiguity in the "too

long should grow?"

The next one, dated 1818, seems to commemorate the decease of a

plough-boy who was rash enough to leave his proper vocation for

another--a sad illustration of _ne sutor ultra crepidam_.

"When he that day with th' waggon went,

He little thought his glass was spent;

But had he kept his Plough in Hand,

He might have longer till'd the Land."

[Sidenote: _A Modern Phaethon._]

One could not expect that the moral inculcated here would find favor

with our Americans. How could the Mighty Republic ever have been brought

to its present height and embraced the majority of all English-speaking

people in the world, if her sons had not been ambitious and changed from

one occupation to another? "Stick to your last" is only fit for

monarchical countries, where people believe in classes. This young man

was of the right sort and should have a verse of praise on his

tombstone instead of this one which reflects upon him. One of the party

declared that the man must have been the best workman on the place, and

that in America he would soon have owned the acres he ploughed instead

of ploughing here for some landlord who spent the resources of the land

in London or on the continent. The poetess of the party was commissioned

to provide a substitute for the obnoxious verse which should applaud the

act of this modern Phaethon who _would_ try to drive the wagon, after he

had learned all he could about ploughing. We were driving homeward, and

as the discussion ended in the manner aforesaid, a sweet voice broke

forth:

"I winna hae the laddie that drives the cart and ploo,

Although he may be tender, although he may be true;

But I'll hae the laddie that has my heart betrayed,

The bonnie shepherd laddie that wears the crook and plaid."

The Charioteers gave it the swelling chorus:

"For he's aye true to his lassie,

Aye true to his lassie.

Aye true to me."

Who knows but the refusal of some rural beauty like her of the song to

have the laddie that "ca'd the ploo" may have stirred our unfortunate

youth to a change of occupation? The "sex" is at the bottom of most of

man's misfortunes (and blessings too, let it be noted) and why not of

this lamentable end of the would-be wagoner!

The day was so warm, and our next stage to Buxton being not very long

(twenty-six miles), we decided to spend the day at Edensor and take an

evening drive. We met here, enjoying their honeymoon, a bride and groom

who were well known to our Wolverhampton delegation, and how do you

suppose they were travelling? Not in the ordinary mode, I assure you. I

mention this incident that some of my charming young lady friends, who

give me so much pleasure riding with me, may make a note of it. They

were doing beautiful Derbyshire on horseback! It was delightful to see

them start off in this way. I became interested in the bride, who must

be no ordinary woman to think of this plan; she told me it was proving a

wonderful success; and the happy young fellow intimated to me, in a kind

of confidential way, that her novel idea was the finest one he had ever

been a party to. I asked him if he could honestly recommend it, and he

boldly said he could. We must think over this.

The evening ride was one of our pleasantest experiences. How entrancing

England is after a warm day, when everything seems to rejoice in the

hours of peace, succeeding the sunshine which forces growth!

"When the heart-sick earth

Turns her broad back upon the gaudy sun,

And stoops her weary forehead to the night

To struggle with her sorrow all alone,

The moon, that patient sufferer, pale with pain,

Presses her cold lips on her sister's brow

Till she is calm."

[Sidenote: _Buxton._]

It is thus the earth appeared to me as we drove along; it was resting

after its labors of the sunny day. The night was spent at Buxton, that

famous spa, which has been the resort of health-seekers for more than a

thousand years, for it was well known to the Romans and probably to

their predecessors. We saw many invalids there drinking the waters,

which are chiefly chalybeate; but I take it, as is usual with such

places, the change of air and scene, of thought and effort, and, with

most, change of diet and freedom from excess, count for ninety-nine

points, and the waters, may be, for one. But it is of no consequence

what does it, so it is done, therefore Buxton continues to flourish.

How wise a physician was he who cured the Great Mogul when all other

remedies had failed! The miraculous Tree of Life was upon a mountain

five miles from the palace, and had to be visited daily, in the early

morning, by the sufferer, who was required to repeat an incantation

under its boughs. The words literally translated were no doubt something

like this: "Pray away, you old fool! but it's the walk that does it."

You need not laugh. This put into such Latin as the schools delight in

might be made to sound frightful to the Mogul "and scare him good," as

the negro exhorters deem to be essential for spiritual recovery.

Our hotel was a magnificent "limited company" affair. The start next

morning was a sight, in the first real downpour in dead earnest we had

experienced. The sky was dark--not one tiny ray of light to give us the

slightest hope of change; the barometer low and still falling. Just such

a morning as might have begun the flood. Clearly we were in for it;

nevertheless, at the appointed hour the Gay Charioteers, arrayed in

their waterproofs, with the good hats and bonnets all inside the coach,

passed through the crowds of guests who lined the hall, wondering at

these mad Americans, and took their accustomed seats with an alacrity

that showed they considered the weather "perfectly lovely."

There are two miles of steep ascent as we leave the town, and a few of

us decided to walk, two of the ladies among the number. Those who

started upon the coach were all right; the pedestrians, however, found

themselves far from dry when the top was reached--feet and knees were

wet. By noon the rain had ceased, and we stopped at a little inn, where

fires were made, our "reserve" clothing brought into use, and our wet

clothes dried, and we were as happy as larks when we sat down to

luncheon. Is not that a wise test which Thackeray puts into the mouth of

one of his waiters: "Oh, I knew he was a gentleman, he was so easily

pleased!" Well, our host and hostess at that little inn,

who were taken so by surprise when a four-in-hand stopped at the door,

said something like this about the American ladies and gentlemen as they

left. Why not? Nothing comes amiss to the Gay Charioteers, and so on we

go to Manchester, getting once more into the grim, smoky regions of

manufacturing enterprise.

* * * * *

MANCHESTER, July 6.

[Sidenote: _Manchester._]

Mine host of The Queen's takes the prize for the one best "swell" dinner

enjoyed by the party; but then the rain and the moderate luncheon at the

little inn, so different from the picnics on flowery banks, may have

given it a relish. The Queen's was evidently determined that its

American guests should leave with a favorable impression, and so they

did.

There was time to visit the Town Hall and walk the principal streets,

but all felt an invincible repugnance to large towns. It was not these

we had come to see. Let us get away as soon as possible, and out once

more to the green fields; we have cotton-mills and warehouses and dirty,

smoky manufactories enough and to spare at home. The morning was cloudy,

but the rain held off, and we left the hotel amid a great crowd. The

police had at last to step in front of the coach and clear the way. The

newspapers had announced our arrival and intended departure, and this

brought the crowd upon us. Getting into and out of large cities is the

most difficult part of our driving, for the Ordnance map is useless

there--frequent stoppages and inquiries must be made; but so far we have

been fortunate, and our horn keeps opposing vehicles out of our way in

narrow streets and in turning corners. We were bound for Anderton Hall,

to spend the night with our friend Mr. B----. Luncheon was taken in a

queer, old-fashioned inn, where we ate from bare deal tables, and drank

home-brewed ale while we sang:

"Let gentlemen fine sit down to their wine,

But we will stick to our beer, we will,

For we will stick to our beer."

The number and variety of temperance drinks advertised in England is

incredible. Non-alcoholic beverages meet us in flaming advertisements at

every step--from nervous tonics, phosphated, down to the most startling

of all, which, according to the London _Echo_ of June 2d, the Bishop of

Exeter advertised when he opened a coffee-house, saying:

"It looks like beer,

It smells like beer,

It tastes like beer,

Yet it is not beer."

Better if it had been, your reverence, for your new beverage was

probably a villanous compound, certain to work more injury than genuine

beer. In this country we also try to cheat the devil. I mean our unco

good people try it; but we call it "bitters," and the worse the whiskey

the better the bitters.

* * * * *

CHORLEY, July 7.

[Sidenote: _Anderton Hall._]

As we approached Anderton Hall the English and American flags were seen

floating from the archway, earnest of cordial welcome. We were quite at

home immediately. Mr. and Mrs. B---- had their family and friends ready

to greet us. The dining-hall was decorated with the flags of the old and

the new lands, gracefully intertwined, symbolizing the close and warm

friendship which exists between them--never, we hope, to be again

disturbed. We had a long walk about the place and on the banks of the

famous Rivington Reservoir, which supplies Manchester with water. In the

evening, after dinner, came speeches. The evening passed delightfully.

Next day we were sorely tempted. Mr. M---- was to have the

school-children at his house to be entertained, and an opportunity to

see a novel celebration was afforded us. Our host and hostess were

pressing in their invitation for us to stay, but one night of fourteen

guests, two servants, and four horses, was surely enough; so we blew our

horn, and, with three ringing cheers for Anderton Hall and all within

it, drove out of its hospitable gates. We stopped and paid our respects

to Mr. and Mrs. M---- as we passed their place, and left them all with

very sincere regret. How pleasant it would be to linger! but Inverness

lies far in the north. We are scarcely one-third of our way thither and

the time-table stares us in the face. We do not quite "fold our tents

like the Arabs and silently steal away," but at the thrilling call of

the horn we mount, and with cheers and God-speeds take our departure for

other scenes, but many a long day shall it be ere the faces of the kind

people we leave behind fade from our memory.

Chorley has been one of the seats of the cotton manufacture in England

for more than two hundred years, the business having been begun there

about the time of the Restoration. During the American Revolution it was

visited, like other places in Lancashire, by mobs who broke up the

spinning machines because they feared that they would deprive the poor

of labor. Similar mobs once destroyed sewing-machines in France. What a

commentary upon such short-sightedness has been the success of the

spinning-jenny and the sewing-machine, and the revolution they have made

in the manufacturing industry of the world!

* * * * *

PRESTON, July 8.

[Sidenote: _Strolling Players._]

Preston, sixteen miles away, is our destination, permitting a late start

to be made. Our route is still through a manufacturing district; for

Manchester reaches her arms far out in every direction. We pass now and

then a company of show-people with their vans. Sometimes we find the

caravan at rest, the old, weary-looking horses nibbling the road-side

grass, for the irregularity of the hedges in England gives fine little

plots of grass along the hedge-rows, and nice offsets, as it were, in

the road, where these strolling players, and gypsies, pedlers, and

itinerant venders of all sorts of queer things, can call a halt and

enjoy themselves. Every van appears to be invested with an air of

mystery, for was not our Shakespeare,

"Th' applause, delight, the wonder of our stage,"

a strolling player, playing his part in barns and outhouses to wondering

rustics? There are such possibilities in every van that I greet the

sweet little child as if she were a princess in disguise, and the

dark-eyed, foreign-looking boy as if he might have within him the soul

of Buddha. I do not believe that any other form of life has the

attractions of this nomadic existence. To make it perfect one should put

away enough in the funds as a reserve to be drawn upon when he could not

make the pittance necessary to feed and clothe him and buy a few old

copies of good books as he passed through a village. The rule might be,

only when hungry shall this pocket-book be opened. I should have one

other contingency in order to be perfectly happy--when I wanted to help

a companion in distress. Elia was truly not very far from it when he

said that if he were not the independent gentleman he was he would be a

beggar. So, if I were not the independent gentleman I am, I would be a

member of a strolling band, such as we often pass in this crowded land,

and boast that Shakespeare was of our profession. What are the

Charioteers, after all, in their happiest dream, but aristocratic

gypsies? That is the reason we are so enraptured with the life.

But in Preston there is no scope for idealism. It is a city where cotton

is king. No town can be much less attractive; but, mark you, a few steps

toward the river and you overlook one of the prettiest parks in the

world. The Ribble runs at the foot of the sloping hill upon which the

city stands, and its banks have been converted into the pleasure-ground

I speak of, in which the toilers sport in thousands and gaze upon the

sweet fields of living green beyond far into the country. It is not so

bad when the entire district is not given over to manufactures, as in

Birmingham and Manchester. There is the cloud, but there is the silver

lining also.

If ever the people of England and America are estranged in some future

day, which God forbid, I could wish that every American were duly

informed of the conduct of the people of Lancashire during the

rebellion, and, indeed, of England, Ireland, and Scotland as well, but

more particularly of such as were directly dependent upon the supply of

cotton for work, as was the case here. The troops of Pennsylvania did

not more truly fight the battle of the Union at Gettysburg, than did the

thousands of men and women here under the lead of Bright and Cobden,

Potter, Forster, Storey, and others, who held the enemies of

Republicanism in check. The sacrifices they bore could never have been

borne except for a cause which they felt to be their own and held as

sacred. The ruling classes of the land were naturally against the

Republic. This we must always expect till the day comes in Britain (and

it is coming) when all forms of hereditary privilege are swept away and

the people are equal politically one with another. Nothing could

possibly please the aristocracy of Britain, or any aristocracy, more

than the failure of a nation which ignores aristocracy altogether. That

is obvious. Human nature would not be what it is were this not so, and

they are not blamable for it, but, resisting every temptation, the

working men of Britain--those to whom a Republic promises so much, for

it gives all men political equality--these stood firm from first to

last, the staunch and unflinching friends of the Republic. Some day,

perhaps, it may be in the power of America to show that where the

interests of the masses of Britain are concerned, she has not forgotten

the deep debt she owes to them; no matter what the provocation, the

people of America must remember it is their turn to forbear for the

sake, not of the ruling classes, but for the sake of the masses of

Britain who were and are her devoted friends.

[Sidenote: _Preston._]

Preston, that is, Priest's Town, for it received its name from the many

ecclesiastics resident there as early as the eighth century, was once

the principal port of Lancashire; and when Charles I. collected

ship-money it was assessed for nearly twice the amount of Liverpool.

This was the Charles of whom Lincoln knew so little. Mr. Blaine tells

this good story among a hundred, for he is wonderful in this line: When

Lincoln and Seward went to Fortress Monroe to meet Mr. Hunter, who

represented the Confederate Government, the latter was exceedingly

anxious to get the President to promise that if the rebels would lay

down their arms no confiscation of property (slaves, of course,

included) should follow, and that no man should be punished for taking

part in the rebellion. Mr. Hunter concluded by saying that this would

only be following the course pursued in England after the contest with

King Charles. "Well, Mr. Hunter," said that sagacious and born leader of

men, Father Abraham, "my friend Seward here is the historian of my

Cabinet, but the only thing I remember about King Charles is _that

Cromwell cut his head off_!" Lincoln did not know very much, you see,

but then he knew the only part much worth knowing upon the subject,

which is one of the differences between a great man and a learned one.

It was at this celebrated interview that Lincoln took up a blank sheet

of writing-paper and said to the Confederates, let me write

_Emancipation_ here at the top and you can fill the rest of the page

with your conditions.

Lincoln seized the key of a political position as Napoleon did of a

military one, and never relaxed his grasp. He would tell stories all

night and make his auditors shout with laughter, but whenever the real

business was touched upon, he made his opponents feel that the natural

division was that the buzzard should fall to them while his long bony

fingers were already fast upon the turkey. He could afford to joke and

be patient, for he saw the end from the beginning, and had faith in the

Republic.

[Sidenote: _Richelieu and Cromwell._]

See what the whirligig of time brings round. Near Preston, in the valley

of the Ribble, was fought in 1648 the battle of Preston or Ribblesdale,

in which Cromwell defeated the Scotch army under the Duke of Hamilton,

and the English army under Sir Marmaduke Langdale. The Royalists were

driven at the point of the bayonet through the streets of Preston, and,

though they made a stand at Uttoxeter, were finally overthrown and both

generals and many thousand men made prisoners. It was a notable

struggle, for the Royalists had more than twice as many men as the

Parliamentarians; but then the latter had the great Oliver, who knew how

and when to strike a blow.

Booth may not be great in anything, as some think, but I do not know his

equal in "Richelieu;" and in one scene in particular he has always

seemed to me at his very best. The king sits with his new minister,

Baradas, in attendance at his side. Richelieu reclines upon a sofa

exhausted while his secretaries "deliver up the papers of a realm." A

secretary is on his knee presenting papers. He says:

"The affairs of England, Sire, most urgent. Charles

The First has lost a battle that decides

One half his realm--craves moneys, Sire, and succor.

KING. He shall have both. Eh, Baradas?

BARADAS. Yes, Sire.

RICHELIEU. (_Feebly, but with great distinctness._) My liege--

Forgive me--Charles's cause is lost. A man,

Named Cromwell, risen--_a great man_--"

That is enough, a great man _settles_ things; a small one nibbles away

at petty reforms, although he knows nothing is settled thereby, and that

the question is only pushed ahead for the time to break out again

directly. English politicians are mostly nibblers, though Gladstone can

take a good bite when put to it.

Will you lay "violent hands upon the Lord's anointed?" "I'll anoint ye!"

says Cromwell, and then, I take it, was settled for the future the

"divine right of kings" theory; for since that time these curious

appendages of a free state have been kept for show, and we hear nothing

more of the "divinity which doth hedge a king." Some one of the party

remarked that we had not seen a statue or even a picture of England's

great Protector. I told them a wise man once said that the reason

Cromwell's statue was not put among those of the other rulers of England

at Westminster was because he would dwarf them. But his day is coming.

We shall have him there in his proper place by and by, and how small

hereditary rulers will seem beside him!

[Sidenote: _Cromwell at Drury Lane._]

We noticed in the _Pall Mall Gazette_ a curious proof of Cromwell's

place in the hearts of the people of England. The pantomime at Drury

Lane had a scene in which all the Kings and Queens of England marched

across the stage in gorgeous procession. Each was greeted with cheers or

hisses or with more or less cordial greeting as the audience thought

deserved. When Cromwell appeared in the line a few hisses were answered

by round after round of cheering, and the Lord Protector nightly

received a popular ovation far beyond that accorded to any other ruler.

That the manager of the leading theatre in London should have thought it

admissible to introduce the Republican among the Kings is a straw which

shows a healthy breeze blowing in the political currents of English

life.

He was truly a host in himself; besides, his men were fighting for

something better than had been, the others only for maintaining what had

before existed. It is this which drives Conservatives to the wall when

radicalism moves in earnest upon them. The aspirations of the race for

further and higher development nerve the arm which strikes down the

barriers of an ignorant past. Who could battle enthusiastically only for

such incomplete and unsatisfactory development as we have already

reached and pronounce it good! The prize is not worth it. What the race

is capable of achieving in the broad future is the mainspring of our

assault upon every abuse or privilege, the heritage of the past which

disgraces the present.

At Preston many of us received letters from home. Harry's funny one from

his little daughter Emma (a namesake of our Emma of the Charioteers)

gave us a good laugh. I remember there was one announcement particularly

noteworthy: "Ninety dollars gone to smash, papa. The pony's dead." There

is your future special correspondent for you.

At eleven o'clock this evening the party received a notable

addition--Andrew M., my old schoolfellow and "the Maester's son,"

arrived from Dunfermline. He was received at the station by a committee

especially appointed for the purpose, and shortly thereafter duly

initiated into all the rites and mysteries of the Gay Charioteers. He

was required, late as it was, to sing two Scotch songs to determine his

eligibility. There may be some man who can sing "Oh! why left I my

hame?"--my favorite at present, and written by Gilfillan in Dunfermline,

note that--or "When the kye come hame," better than our new member, but

none of us has been so fortunate as to meet him, nor have I ever heard

one who could sing them as well for me; but there may be a touch of Auld

Lang Syne in his voice which strikes chords in my heart and sets them

vibrating. There are subtle sympathies lurking in the core of man's

nature, responsive to no law but their own, but I notice all press

Andrew to sing, and keep very quiet when he does. We had the pleasure of

seeing the new member get just as daft as the rest of us next day,

gathering wild flowers along the hedgerows, the glittering, towering

coach coming up to us. He had time to say: "Man, this canna be _vera_

bad for us!" No, not very; only we did not know then how bad it would be

for us when, after the dream-like existence had passed and we were back

once more to our labors of this work-a-day world, thrown out as it were

from a paradise and falling as Milton's Satan fell; but it's better to

have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.

Fortunately we did not know then that for months after our fall there

were to be only sad memories of days of happiness so unalloyed that they

can never again be equalled. It is not at all desirable to be honestly

persuaded that you never again can have seven weeks of such days as made

us happy, innocent children; but we shall see. There are as good fish in

the sea as were ever caught, and though it is true they do not seem to

bite as they used to, may be we can venture to try coaching again. The

height of our musical season was during this part of the journey. Miss

R., Miss J., and Mrs. K. are all musical and blessed with the power of

song. Messrs. M., McC. and K. differ only as one star differs from

another in glory; and there was another gentleman, who shall be

nameless, who sang without being asked, and who, as usual, was not

encored by his unappreciative audience, his being evidently the music of

the future.

[Sidenote: _Scotch Songs._]

Davie deserves notice. He sang a beautiful Scotch song to-day, "Cowden

Knowes," and when he was done Andrew immediately asked: "Whaur did ye

get that? Ye didna get that out of a book!"

Right, my boy. It was at his father's knee. Who ever learnt a Scotch

song out of books? They are possessed of souls, these songs, to be

caught only from living lips. The bodies alone are to be found within

the bars.

Passing Bolton we saw the first bowling green, sure proof that we are

getting northward, where every village has its green and its bowling

club, the ancient game of bowls still offering to rural England

attractions paramount to more modern sports.

We lunched at Grisdalebrook, ten miles from Lancaster, which was to be

our stopping-place. To-day's drive was made fragrant by the scent of

new-mown hay, and we passed many bands of merry haymakers. When Dickens

pronounced no smell the best smell, he must have momentarily forgotten

that which so delighted us. I do give up most of the so-called fine

smells, but there are a few better than Dickens's best, and surely that

of to-day is of them. We went into a Catholic church in one of our

strolls--for let it be remembered many a glorious tramp we had--and the

coach was rarely honored with all the party when a chance to walk

presented itself. The requests posted upon the door of this church

seemed to carry one back a long way:

"Of your charity pray for the soul of Rebecca Robinson,

who died June 7th, 1880, fortified with rites of Holy

Church, on whose soul sweet Jesus have mercy. R. I. P."

There were several such requests. What a power that church has been and

is, only one who has travelled the world round can know. In England here

it is but a sickly, foreign plant, so fearfully foreign. We can all

repeat Buddha's words and apply them to it, but they should not stop

here:

"And third came she who gives dark creeds their power,

Silabbat-paramasa, sorceress,

Draped fair in many lands as lowly Faith,

But ever juggling souls with rites and prayers;

The keeper of those keys which lock up Hells

And open Heavens. 'Wilt thou dare?' she said,

'Put by our sacred books, dethrone our gods,

Unpeople all the temples, shaking down

That law which feeds the priests and props the realm?'

But Buddha answered, 'What thou bidd'st me keep

Is form which passes, but the free truth stands;

Get thee unto thy darkness.'"

[Sidenote: _The Roman Church._]

Say what we will about the Roman Church, there is something sublime in

her attitude. Neither sense nor reason make the slightest impression

upon her; for she stands confident in her power and her right to save,

denying the power to others, regardless of the conclusions of science

and the fuller knowledge of to-day. This gives her the hold she obtains

among the ignorant masses, whether at home or abroad.

The world-wide influence of this faith can never be rightly estimated

until one has visited the missions throughout India, China, and Japan.

The converts are generally to the Catholic church. To-day on the coach

in speaking of this, I told an inquirer that in my opinion one, if not

the chief, obstacle to the success of missions to the heathen, lies in

the differences between the Christian sects, and I illustrated it by a

story:

One day in China I asked our guide Ah Cum, a gentleman and a scholar,

and a man of excellent mind, why he did not embrace Christianity. His

eyes twinkled as he replied: "Where goee, eh? Goee Bishopee? (pointing

to the Cathedral). He say, allee rightee. Go there? (pointing to the

English church). Bishop say damme! Goee Hopper? (the American

Presbyterian Missionary). He sayee Bishop churchee no goodee--hellee

firee. What I do'ee? eh!"

"Stay where you are, you rogue." Confound the fellow! I did not expect

to be picked up in that manner.

Ah Cum was severely let alone after that upon the subject of his

conversion. I have no hope of him until we agree among ourselves exactly

what we wish the heathen to accept. It is in vain we preach one God and

five different religions; there must be only one true religion as well.

Ah Cum's defence of the worship of ancestors was clever. It ran thus:

All religions acknowledge the Creator of life as the true object of

worship. Taking hold of his watch chain he began at the first link and

said: "I worshipee my parents (passing one link), my parents worshipee

their parents" (passing another link, and so on till he had passed quite

a number); "by by come to firstee, lifee Goddee. You jump up sky all

oncee, miss him, may be."

He thought he had a sure thing passing up link by link to the end. We

need clever missionaries to hold their own with these Celestials.

* * * * *

LANCASTER, July 9, 10.

[Sidenote: _Lancaster._]

We had done our twenty-nine miles from Preston and reached Lancaster in

good season. There we had a treat. The High Sheriff for the county had

just been elected and made his entry into town according to immemorial

custom. He represents royalty in the county during his term of office,

which I believe is only two years. It costs the recipient of the honor a

large sum to maintain the dignities of the office, for its emoluments

are nil. The sheriff was staying at our hotel, a very fine one, The

County. He is wakened every morning by two heralds richly dressed in the

olden style and bearing halberds. They stand in front of the hotel and

sound their bugles to call His Highness forth. It is the Lord Mayor's

procession on a small scale. Nobody laughs outright at the curious

mixture of feudal customs with this age's requirements, however much

everybody may laugh in his sleeve; but England will have lost some

picturesque features when all the shams are gone. If mankind were not

greatly influenced by forms, I could wish that just enough of the "good

old times"--which were very bad times indeed--could be preserved, if

only to prove how far we have outgrown them; but every form and every

sham, from royalty downward, carries its good or evil with it. That not

only the substance should be right, but that the form should correspond

truly to it, is important if we are to be honest; so I reconcile myself

to the passing away of all forms which no longer honestly represent what

they imply.

Lancaster is a beautiful place and noted for its admirable charitable

institutions. The lunatic asylum and an orphanage attracted our special

attention. These and kindred institutions abound in England, and are

ably conducted. Rich Englishmen do not leave their fortunes for uses of

this kind as often as Americans do. The ambition to found a family, and

the maintenance of an aristocratic class by means of primogeniture and

entail, tend to divert fortunes from this nobler path into the meaner

end of elevating a name in the social scale; but the general public in

Britain is most generous, and immense sums in the aggregate are annually

collected for charitable institutions. It is common for a class to

support its own unfortunates. The commercial travellers, for instance,

have an extensive home near London for children of their fellows and for

members in their old age, and there is scarcely a branch of industry

which does not follow this example.

[Sidenote: _A Noble Charity._]

One cannot travel far without seeing that the British are a people most

mindful of the unfortunate. These pretty homes of refuge and of rest we

see scattered everywhere over the land, nor are they the least glorious

of the many monuments of England's true worth.

A Mr. Ripley, of Lancaster, left his fortune for an orphanage, open to

all orphan children born within fifteen miles of Lancaster. Three

hundred are now provided for, but so rapidly has the fund grown that it

has been found practicable to extend the boundaries of its beneficence,

and children from distant Liverpool are now admitted. Bravo! Mr. Ripley.

What is an earldom for your eldest son to this! His father's name will

carry him farther with the best, and he should be prouder of it. Show me

the earl who has done as much for his neighborhood!

Lancaster Castle is a noble one. Here John o' Gaunt hundreds of years

ago put his finger upon the dire root of England's woes, as far as the

land goes:

"This dear, dear land,

Dear for her reputation through the world,

Is now _leas'd_ out."

There you have it--this England is leased out. The soil is not worked by

its owners, and never, till England changes its practice and can boast a

peasant proprietary working its own acres in small farms, untrammelled

by vicious laws, will she know what miracles can be wrought by those who

call each little spot their own--their home. Englishmen are slow to

change, but the day is not far distant when ownership of land will

depend upon residence on it and its proper cultivation. Denmark's

example will be followed. Cumulative taxes will be levied upon each

number of acres beyond a minimum number, and large proprietors taxed out

of existence as they have been in Denmark, to the country's good and

nobody's injury. We tax a man who keeps racing-horses or who sports

armorial bearings. It is the same principle: we can tax a man who keeps

a larger amount of land than he can work to the State's advantage. The

rights of property are all very well in their place, but the rights of

man and the good of the commonwealth are far beyond them. I wish England

would just let me arrange that little land matter for her. It would save

her a generation of agitation.

Lancaster was an ancient Roman station, as is shown by its name--Lune or

Lone Castrum, the castle or camp on the Lune or Lone, the little river

which washes its plain. For what saith Spencer in the Faery Queen:

"----After came the strong shallow Lone

That to old Lancaster its name doth lend."

The memory of man goeth not back to the time when the first castle was

built. Indeed it is of little consequence now, for it was almost

entirely razed by the Scots in the fourteenth century.

[Sidenote: _Lancaster Castle._]

The present noble structure, or rather the older part of it, is the work

of John O'Gaunt, that son of a king who was almost a king himself, and

who became the father of kings. To him is due the magnificent Gateway

Tower, flanked by two octagonal turrets sixty-six feet high, surrounded

by watch-towers. Around the towers and across the curtain, perforated by

the gate, which connects them, are overhanging battlements with vertical

openings for pouring down molten metal or hot water on the heads of

assailants. In a niche in front is a full-length statue of John O'Gaunt

in the costume of his day, placed there in 1822. The sole remaining

turret of the Lungess Tower, eighty-eight feet high, is called John

O'Gaunt's Chair. It commands a view of great extent, comprising the

hills of Cumberland and Westmoreland and nearly the whole extent of the

valley of the Lune, with the Irish Sea in the distance.

Some moralists, who believe that men and times are degenerate, may

lament that this grand old castle--the ancient residence of

nobles--should now be the abode of criminals; but, while equally

desirous that its architectural wonders may be preserved, I am not

inclined to admit that the thieves and cutthroats who now have their

homes within its walls through the puissance of the law are any worse

morally than were many of the noble barons who robbed and ravished in

the good old times when the question of might versus right was always

settled in favor of the plaintiff. Some of them indeed more richly

merited a halter than the comfortable seclusion from the outer world

accorded to their modern representatives. Even good old John O'Gaunt

himself was not so virtuous that he could shy moral stones at his

neighbors.

[Sidenote: _Bicycles._]

Sunday was spent in Lancaster, and much enjoyed. The service in church

was fine and the afternoon's excursion to the country delightful. Here

Miss A. B. and Mr. D. left us after receiving the blessing of the party.

Miss G. and Miss D., who were to join us here, failed us, but we

fortunately found them waiting at Kendall. We started for that town,

twenty-two miles distant, on Monday morning. It is the entrance to the

celebrated Lake District. Messrs. T. and M., whom we had met at Anderton

Hall, passed us on Saturday, before we reached Lancaster, on bicycles.

They were out for a run of a hundred and five miles that day, to visit

friends beyond that city. We meet such travellers often. Their club now

numbers seven thousand members. For an annual payment of half a crown

(62 cents), a member has lists of routes and hotels sent him for any

desired district, with the advantage of reduced charges. It is nothing

to do a hundred miles per day; many have ridden from London to Bath, two

hundred miles, within the twenty-four hours.

The country swarms with these fellows. I saw fifteen hundred in Bushy

Park one day at a meet. I think seventy-five clubs were there, each in a

different uniform. Bicycles are also growing in use for practical

purposes, and many post-routes in the country are served by men who use

these machines. But it takes roads like the English, and a level

country, to do much with them.

Our evening was spent in visiting the ruined castle and admiring a

pretty Japanese kind of garden, so much in so little space, which

attracted our attention as we passed. The owner, Mr. T., a solicitor,

kindly invited us in, and afterward showed us his house. We are always

receiving kindnesses from all sorts and conditions of men.

Next day, July 12th, our objective point was Grassmere, eighteen miles

away. Such a lovely morning! but, indeed, we are favored beyond measure

with superb weather all the time. This stage in our progress introduced

us to the scenery of the lakes, and we all felt that it deserved its

Wordsworth; but were we ever to let loose and enter the descriptive,

where would it lead? This is the rock upon which many a fair venture in

story-telling has suffered shipwreck. Great mountains always carry one

upward, but those of the Lake District are not great, nor is there

anything great in the region. All is very sweet and pleasing and has its

own peculiar charm, like the school of Lake Poets.

At Bowness, about midway of the lake, we left the coach for the first

time for any other kind of conveyance. After enjoying a rare treat in a

sail up and down the lake in the pretty steamer, we rejoined the coach

at Ambleside, where we had ordered it to await us.

Passing Storr's Hall, the mind wandered back to the meeting there of

Wordsworth, Southey, Coleridge, Christopher North, and greater than all,

our own Walter Scott; and surely not in all the earth could a fitter

spot than this have been found for their gathering. How much the world

of to-day owes to the few names who spent days together here! Not often

can you say of one little house, "Here had we our country's honor

roofed" to so great an extent as it would be quite allowable to say in

this instance. But behold the vanity of human aspirations! If there was

one wish dearer than another to the greatest of these men, it was that

Abbotsford should remain from generation to generation the home of his

race. This very hour, while sailing on the lake, a newspaper was handed

to me, and my eye caught the advertisement, "Abbotsford to let,"

followed by the stereotyped description, so many reception-rooms,

nursery, outbuildings, and offices, suitable for a gentleman's

establishment. Shade of the mighty Wizard of the North, has it come to

this! Oh, the pity of it! the pity of it! Well for your fame that you

built for mankind other than this stately home of your pride. It will

crumble and pass utterly away long before the humble cot of Jeannie

Deans shall fade from the memory of man. The time will come when the

largest son of time, who wandering sang to a listening world, shall be

as much forgot

"As the canoe that crossed a lonely lake

A thousand years ago."

[Sidenote: _Abbotsford to Let!_]

But even the New Zealander who stands on the ruins of London Bridge will

know something of Walter Scott if he knows much worth knowing.

"Abbotsford to let!" This to come to us just as we were passing one of

the haunts of Scott, than whom no greater Scot ever lived save one.

Fortunately no such blow is possible for the memory of Burns.

"After life's fitful fever, he sleeps well;

Treason has done his worst: nor steel, nor poison,

Malice domestic, ... nothing,

Can touch him further!"

For this let us be thankful. We visited Wordsworth's grave reverently in

the twilight. Fresh, very fresh flowers lay upon it. God bless the hand

that strewed them there this day! I think the following the one very

great thing he gave the world; it contains "the golden guess which ever

is the morning star to the full round of truth." The thought of the

age--whether right or wrong we need not discuss--is hitherward:

"For I have learned

To look on Nature, not as in the hour

Of thoughtless youth; but hearing oftentimes

The still, sad music of humanity,

Not harsh nor grating, though of ample power

To chasten and subdue. And I have felt

A presence that disturbs me with the joy

Of elevated thoughts: a sense sublime

Of something far more deeply interfused,

Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns,

And the round ocean, and the living air,

And the blue sky, and in the mind of man

A motion and a spirit that impels

All thinking things, all objects of all thought,

And rolls through all things."

There's a platform upon which this sceptical age may eventually stand.

It is not materialistic and it is not dogmatic; perhaps it is the golden

mean between extremes. I commend its teachings to both sides of all the

cock-sure disputants, one of whom knows it is just so, and the other as

presumptuously knows there is nothing to know. Let them shake hands and

await patiently the coming of clearer light, and get together in solid

work here. Surely there is enough to keep them busy. We still "see

through a glass darkly."

We spent our night at Grassmere, and had a fine row upon the lake; and

can anything be finer than music upon the waters, the dip of the oar,

the cadence of the song which seems to float upon the glassy lake? It

came to us again lulling us to sleep--the sweetest lullaby, sure

precursor of happy dreams.

* * * * *

GRASSMERE, July 13.

[Sidenote: _Carnegie Weather._]

"Right, Perry!" Off for Keswick, only twelve miles distant; but who

wants to hurry away from scenes like these? It rained heavily through

the night, but this morning is grand for us. The mist was on the

mountains though, and the clouds passed slowly over them, wrapping the

tops in their mantle. The numerous rills dashing down the bare mountains

were the themes of much praise. They reminded me of two fine verses from

the "Light of Asia" upon "Being's ceaseless tide,"

"Which, ever-changing, runs, linked like a river

By ripples following ripples, fast or slow--

The same, yet not the same--from far-off fountains

To where its waters flow

Into the seas. These steaming to the sun,

Give the lost wavelets back in cloudy fleece

To trickle down the hills, and glide again;

Knowing no pause or peace."

We seem to be miraculously protected from rain. Many times it has poured

during the night, and yet the days have been perfect. "Carnegie weather"

begins to be talked about, and we are all disposed to accept the

inference that the fair goddess Fortune has fallen deep in love with us,

since Prosperity seems to be our page during this journey.

The influence of America and of American ideas upon England is seen in

various ways. We meet frequently one who has visited the Republic, whose

advanced ideas, in consequence of the knowledge derived from actual

contact with American affairs, are very decidedly proclaimed.

While on the train to-day we met a rattler of this kind, who gave many

instances of the non-receptivity of his countrymen. I remember one of

his complaints was in regard to a pea-sheller which he had seen at work

in one of our monster hotels. He was so pleased that he bought one and

took it in triumph to his innkeeper at home: "Blessed if the servants

would work it, sir; no, sir, wouldn't shell a pea with it, sir. Look

where we are in the race of new inventions, sir. _We're not in it._ Lord

bless you, sir, _England isn't in it_."

This man, like converts in general to new ideas, went much too far. Any

one who thinks that England is not in the race, and pretty well placed

too, has not looked very deep. We did what we could to give him a juster

conception of his country's position than he apparently entertained.

"What on earth," I said to him, "has a small English hotel to do with a

pea-sheller? I have never heard of this Yankee notion, but I doubt not

that one pea-sheller would shell all the peas required by all the guests

of all the hotels in town, if they fed the inmates on nothing but pea

soup!" But he would not be convinced. It was just the same with any

other improvement, he said, and he got out at a station, muttering as

he went: "No, sir, she isn't in it, I tell you; she _isn't in it_." All

right, you constitutional grumbler, have it your own way. If this man

were upon our side, he would not live twenty-four hours without finding

fault with something. He is one of those who carry their pea-sheller

with them, or find it at every turn. He belongs to the class of

grumblers--those who cannot enjoy the bright genial rays of the sun for

thinking of the spots upon it--just such another as he who found that

even in Paradise "the halo did not fit his head exactly."

[Sidenote: _American Presidents and Royalty._]

The coaches in the Lake District have now the English and the American

flags upon their sides, and we often see the Stars and Stripes displayed

at hotels. Our present hostelry has a flaming advertisement ending with:

"Patrons--Royalty and American Presidents." There must be slender

grounds for both claims, I fancy General Grant, however, may have been

there. As the elected of the largest division of the English-speaking

race, he no doubt outranked all other patrons, and the proper way to put

it would be "American Presidents and Royalty."

At luncheon to-day it was found that our drinkables had better be cooled

in the brook--an unusual performance this for England; but how vividly

this little incident brings to mind the happy scene--the row of bottles

(contents mostly harmless) in the stream, sticking up their tiny heads

as if resentful at the extraordinary bath! Do not imagine that our

party were worse to water than to corn; sixteen hungry people need a

good many bottles of various kinds, for we had many tastes to gratify.

We were all temperance people, however; a few of us even total

abstinence, who required special attention, for their milk and lemonade

were often more difficult to procure than all the other fluids. The

guest who gives least trouble in England, in the drinkable department,

is he who takes beer.

At Keswick we wandered round the principal square and laughed at the

curious names of the inns there. In this region inns abound. Almost

every house in that square offered entertainment for man and beast. Here

is a true copy of names of inns noted in a few squares in the village:

"Fighting Cocks," "Packhorse," "Red Lion," "Dog and Duck," "Black Lion,"

"Deerhound," "White Hart," "Green Lion," "Pig and Whistle," "White

Lion," "Black Bull," "Elephant and Castle," "Lamb and Lark," "The Fish."

If the whole village were scanned there would be beasts enough

commemorated in its inns to make a respectable menagerie. Indeed, for

that one "Green Lion" Barnum might safely pay more than for Jumbo.

[Sidenote: _Freedom and Equality._]

The names of English inns we have seen elsewhere are equally odd; let me

note a few: "Hen and Chickens," "Dog and Doublet," "King and Crown,"

"Hole in the Wall," "Struggling Man," "Jonah and the Ark," "Angel and

Woolsack," "Adam and Eve," "Rose and Crown," "Crown and Cushion." We

laughed at one with an old-fashioned swinging sign, upon which a groom

was scrubbing away at a naked black man (you could almost hear his

pruss, pruss, pruss). The name of the house was "Labor in Vain Inn"--a

perfect illustration, no doubt, in one sense; in the higher sense, not

so. Under the purifying influences of equality, found only in republican

institutions, America has taught the world she can soon make white men

out of black. Her effort to change the slave into a freeman has been

anything but labor in vain; what is under the skin can be made white

enough always, if we go at it with the right brush. None genuine unless

stamped with the well-known brand "Republic." "All men are born free and

_equal_" is warranted to cure the most desperate cases when all other

panaceas fail, from a mild monarchy up to a German despotism; and is

especially adapted for Irishmen. To be well shaken, however, before

taken, and applied internally, externally, and eternally, like Colonel

Sellers' eye-wash.

Harry and I were absent part of this day, having run down to Workington

to see our friend Mr. G., at the Steel Rail Mills. Pardon us!--this was

our only taste of business during the trip; never had the affairs of

this world been so completely banished from our thoughts. To get back to

blast-furnaces and rolling mills was distressing; but we could not well

pass our friend's door, so to speak. We have nothing to say about

manufacturing, for it is just with that as with their political

institutions: England keeps about a generation behind, and yet deludes

herself with the idea that she is the leader among nations. The truth

is, she is often not even a good follower where others lead, but

exceptions must be noted here: a few of her ablest men are not behind

America in manufacturing, for there are one or perhaps two

establishments in England which lead America. A great race is the

British when they do go to work and get rid of their antiquated

prejudices. Visitors to America like Messrs. Howard, Lothian Bell,

Windsor Richards, Martin, and others, have no prejudices which stick.

But let Uncle Sam look out. If he thinks John Bull will remain behind in

the industrial or the political race either, I do not; and I believe

when he sets to work in earnest he cannot be beaten. The Republic of

England, when it comes, will excel all other republics as much as the

English monarchy has excelled all other monarchies, or as much as

Windsor Richards' steel practice and plant excel any we can boast of

here at present. It is our turn now to take a step forward, unless we

are content to be beaten. This is all right. Long may the two branches

of the family stimulate each other to further triumphs, the elder

encouraging us to hold fast that which is good, the younger pointing the

way upward and onward--a race in which neither can lose, but in which

both must win! Clear the course! Fair play and victory to both!

[Sidenote: _Democracy in England._]

The report of the annual public debate of University College, London,

attracted our notice to-day before leaving Kendal. The subject debated

was: "That the advance of Democracy in England will tend to strengthen

the Foundations of Society."

Lord Rosebery presided, and it is his speech at the close which

possesses political significance as coming from one who wears his rank

"For the sake of liberal uses

And of great things to be done,"

and of whom almost any destiny may be predicted if he hold the true

course. He said:

"As regards government, there seemed to be great advantage in democracy.

With an oligarchy the responsibility was too great and the penalty for

failure too high. He did not share the asperity manifested by one of the

speakers against American institutions, and, having visited the country

on several occasions, he felt the greatest warmth for America and the

American people. Persons who elected by free choice a moderate intellect

to represent them were better off than those who had a leviathan

intellect placed over them against their will, and this free choice the

people of the United States possessed. It had been said by the opponents

of democracy that the best men in America devoted themselves to

money-getting; but this was a strong argument in its favor, as showing

that democracy was not correctly represented as a kind of grabbing at

the property of others."

Never were truer words spoken than these, my lord. What a pity you were

not allowed the privilege of starting "at scratch" in life's race, like

Gladstone or Disraeli! From any success achieved there must be made the

just deduction for so many yards allowed _Lord_ Rosebery. Receive the

sincere condolences of him who welcomed you to honorary membership of

the Burns Club of New York, not because of these unfortunate, unfair

disadvantages, for he would not have welcomed a prince for his rank, but

for your merits as a man.

* * * * *

PENRITH, July 14.

We reached Penrith, July 14th, after a delightful day's drive. Never

were the Gay Charioteers happier, for the hilly ground gave us many

opportunities for grand walks. When these come it is a red-letter day.

The pleasure of walking should rank as one of the seven distinct

pleasures of existence, and yet I have some friends who know nothing of

it; they are not coaching through England, however.

I have omitted to chronicle the change that came over the Queen Dowager

shortly after we started from Wolverhampton; till then she had kept the

seat of honor next to Perry, inviting one after another as a special

honor to sit in front with her. She soon discovered that a good deal of

the fun going on was missed; besides, she had not all of us under her

eye. Her seat was exchanged for the middle of the back form, where she

was supported by one on each side, while four others had their faces

turned to hers, giving an audience of no less than six for her stories

and old ballads. Her tongue went from morning till night, if I do say

it, and her end of the coach was always in for its share of any frolic

stirring. She was "in a gale" all day to-day, and kept us all roaring.

[Sidenote: _On the Borders._]

Our next stage would take us to Carlisle, the border-town behind which

lay the sacred soil, "Scotia dear." Mr. B. and his son joined us here

and went on with us the last day upon English soil, waving adieu, as it

were, as we plunged into Scotland. Mr. and Mrs. K. left us for Paisley

to see the children, and what a loss I here record no one but the

members can possibly understand. Aaleck and Aggie gone! If anything

could long dampen the joyous spirits of the party, this separation

surely would have done it; but we were to meet again in Edinburgh, where

the reconstruction of the Charioteers was to take place. At Carlisle,

too, the Parisians were to be welcomed back again--plenty to look

forward to, you see. We started for Carlisle July 15th, the day superb

as usual.

We had left the Lake District, with its hills and flowing streams, to

pass through a tamer land; but our luncheon to-day, in a field near

"Hesketh in the Forest," was not unromantic. The members from Anderton

Hall caught the fever, as was usual with neophytes, and regretted that

their return was imperatively required. One day gave them a taste of the

true gypsy life. Hesketh was "in the Forest," no doubt, but this was

many long years ago. To-day there is nothing to justify its name.

Smiling green fields, roads as perfect as they can be made, pretty

houses, trim hedge-rows and gardens, and all so intensely civilized as

to bring vividly before you the never ceasing change which the surface

of the earth undergoes to fit it for the sustenance of dense masses of

men.

* * * * *

CARLISLE, July 15.

Here is reconstruction for you with a vengeance! First, let us mourn the

unhappy departures: Mr. and Mrs. K. went yesterday and Miss R., Miss G.,

the Misses B., Miss D. and Mr. B. and son go to-day. Cousin Maggie, who

had become absorbed in this kind of life, so dazed with happiness, her

turn has come too, even she must go; Andrew M., with his fine Scotch

aroma and his songs, must report to his superior officer at the

encampment, for is he not a gallant volunteer and an officer under Her

Majesty, "sworn never to desert his home except in case of invasion!"

Well, we cannot help these miserable changes in this world, nor the

"sawt, sawt tears" of the young ladies as they kiss each other, swearing

eternal friendship, and sob good-byes.

But if farewell ever sighs, welcome comes in smiling. Look! Cousin E.

in my arms and a warm kiss of welcome! That is the very best of

consolation. Clever, artistic Miss R., too, from Edinburgh; and then are

we not to have our four originals back again, after two long weeks'

absence! It was fortunate that our sad farewells were so promptly

followed by smiling welcomes.

Do any people love their country as passionately as the Scotch? I mean

the earth of it, the very atoms of which its hills and glens are

composed. I doubt it. Now here is Maggie, a douse, quiet, sensible girl.

I tried to say something cheery to her to-day as we were approaching

Carlisle, where we were to part, reminding her jokingly that she had

received five weeks' coaching while her poor sister Eliza would have

only two. "Ah! but she has Scotland, Naig!" "Do you really mean to tell

me that you would rather have two weeks in your own country than five

weeks seeing a new land, and that land England, with London and

Brighton, and the lakes and all?" I just wish you could have seen and

heard how the "Of course" came in reply. The Scotch always have Scotland

first in their hearts, and some of them, I really believe, will get into

trouble criticising Paradise if it be found to differ materially from

Scotland.

[Sidenote: _Farewell to England._]

To-morrow we are to enter that land of lands. Fair England, farewell!

How graciously kind has been the reception accorded by you to the

wanderers! How beautiful you are! how tenderly dear you have become to

all of us! Not one of us but can close his eyes and revel in such quiet

beauty as never before was his.

"Not a grand nature ...

On English ground

You understand the letter ... ere the fall

How Adam lived in a garden. All the fields

Are tied up fast with hedges, nosegay like;

The hills are crumpled plains--the plains pastures,

And if you seek for any wilderness

You find at best a park. A nature

Tamed and grown domestic ...

A sweet familiar nature, stealing in

As a dog might, or child, to touch your hand,

Or pluck your gown, and humbly mind you so

Of presence and affection."

"There is no farewell to scenes like thine." From the depths of every

heart in our company comes the trembling "God bless you, England!"