_ENGLAND._
Willie Gordon--Custom House Annoyances--Cable Telegram--Post
Office Annoyances--London--Spurgeon’s Tabernacle--An Ancestral
Home--English and United States Hotels--English Reserve--A
Railway Accident--The Land’s End--A Deaf Guest.
As I stood on the landing stage at Liverpool awaiting patiently and
with resignation for the Customs officers to allow the removal of our
luggage, a host of recollections ran through my mind. My thoughts went
back twenty years to another occasion when I landed from an ocean
steamer at an hour equally early. My memory has been aided by one of
those works which appear so frequently from the New York press, so
fertile in this species of encyclopædiac literature, endeavouring to
embrace in a few pages the truths learned only by a life’s experience.
The small volume tells you what not to do, and it sententiously sets
forth its philosophy in a series of paragraphs. There are ninety-five
pages of this philanthropic effort, with about four hundred negative
injunctions. The title of the book is “Don’t.” The injunction that
struck my eye most forcibly may be taken as no bad type of the teaching
of the book. It runs, “Don’t” is the first word of every sentence.
“Don’t go with your boots unpolished, but don’t have the polishing done
in the public highways.” These words met my eye as I was engaged in
these pages, and they brought back the feelings which passed through my
mind on the morning I left the “Parisian.”
My thoughts reverted to my visit to the Mother Country after eighteen
years’ absence; the first made by me since I left home in 1845. I was
a passenger on the “United Kingdom,” due at Glasgow. She had passed
up the Clyde during the night, and arrived opposite the Broomielaw in
the early morning. The night previous the passengers were in the best
of humour, and the stewards had been kept up late attending to us. We
were all in high spirits, and without exception delighted at returning
to Scotland. I was particularly impatient to get ashore, to touch the
sacred ground of my native land. I arose that morning one of the first
of the passengers, before the stewards were visible. The ship was
in the stream off the Broomielaw. A boat came to the side. I jumped
into her and went ashore. I strolled along the quay. My foot was not
literally on “my native heath,” but I enjoyed intensely the pleasure we
all feel in revisiting our native shores, and in being near the scenes
from which we have been long absent. Everything seemed so fresh and
charming. I had no definite purpose in my wandering, but I was at home;
it was Scotland. In my semi-reverie I was interrupted by a young voice
in the purest Clydesdale Doric saying “hae yer butes brushed?” I looked
down mechanically at my feet, and found that the cabin bootblack of our
vessel had neglected this duty, probably owing to the irregular hours
of the last night on board. Moreover, it was the first word addressed
to myself, and I should have felt bound to accept the offer if it had
been unnecessary in the fullest sense. I commenced conversation with
the boy. He was very young. I summoned to my aid my best Scotch for the
occasion. His name was Willie Gordon, and he told me his widowed mother
was a washerwoman, that he had a number of brothers and sisters younger
than himself, that his earnings amounted to about half a crown a week,
and that between him and his mother they managed to earn ten shillings
in that time. “And how do you live, Willie?” “Reel weel,” replied the
boy, with the cheeriest of voices. “And now, Willie,” I said, when
I had paid him his fee, “it is many years since I have been here. I
want to see the places of greatest interest in Glasgow.” “Ou, sir,”
he promptly said, “ye shuld gang ta see Corbett’s eatin hoose.” “Do
you know the way there?” I asked. “Fine, sir. I ken the way vary weel.
I’ll gang wi ye tae the door,” and his face looked even happier than
before. I accepted his guidance, and, if my recollection is correct,
the place was in Jamaica street. The boy walked by my side carrying his
brushes and box, and chatted gaily of himself and his life. Apparently
no prince could be happier. We reached the renowned establishment he
had named. It was a species of home which a benevolent citizen had
instituted, on the same principle on which the coffee taverns are now
established: to furnish an early hot cup of tea or coffee to men going
to work, to offer some other refreshment than whiskey and beer, to give
a meal at cost price with all the comfort possible with cleanliness
good cheer and airy rooms, warm in winter. After some hesitation, and
persuasion on my part, Willie shyly entered with me. The _menu_ was on
the wall. Porridge and milk one penny, large cup of coffee one penny,
bread and butter, thick, one penny, eggs and toast one penny, &c.,
&c.; everything, one penny. I cannot say that I give a precise account
of what appeared, but it was essentially as I describe it. We were a
little early even for that establishment, so Willie and I sat down.
The buxom matron gave us some account of the place and its doings. The
Duke of Argyle had dined with her a few days before. She told us the
establishment was well patronized and prosperous. The time soon came
for our order, for we were the first to be served. I set forth what I
required for myself, and that was no light breakfast, as I had a sea
appetite, sharpened by the early morning walk. I directed the attendant
to bring the same order in double proportions for the boy, so that we
had a splendid _déjeuner_. My little companion was in ecstasies. Never
was hospitality bestowed on a more grateful recipient. He would not
leave me, and he seemed bound to make a morning of it, and from time to
time graciously volunteered, “I’ll tak ye ony gait, Sir.” His customers
were forgotten, but I trust he did not suffer from his devotion to
me, for I did my best to remedy his neglect of professional duty. He
followed me from place to place, carrying the implements of his day’s
work, and he seemed anxious to do something for the trifling kindness I
had shown him and the few pence I had paid for his breakfast. But I was
more than compensated by the pleasure I myself received. I listened to
all he said with fresh interest, for he was open, earnest, honest and
simple-minded. He was deeply attached to his mother, and was evidently
proud to be able to add to her slender earnings, which were just enough
to keep her and her family from want. He certainly seemed determined
to do all in his power to make her comfortable. He never lost sight of
me till I left by the eleven o’clock train, and my last remembrance,
on my departure from Glasgow on that occasion as the train moved out,
was seeing Willie waving his brushes and boot-box enthusiastically in
the air. I often wonder what Willie’s fate is. He appeared to me to be
of the material to succeed in life. In Canada he certainly would have
worked his way up. I never heard of him again, but I certainly shall
not be greatly astonished to hear of Sir William Gordon, distinguished
Lord Provost of Glasgow.
One of the nuisances of travelling throughout the world is the ordeal
of passing the Custom House. Frequently the traveller from Canada
thinks the infliction at Liverpool is pushed a little further than is
requisite. What can we smuggle from Canada? I know quite well that
there is generally a very loose conscience as to the contents of a
lady’s trunk, considered under the aspect of its fiscal obligations,
but surely some form of declaration might be drawn up by means of which
honourable men and women would be spared this grievous and irritating
delay. Apart from the delay, it is no agreeable matter to open out your
carefully packed portmanteau. To ladies it is particularly offensive to
have their dresses turned over and the contents of their trunks handled
by strangers. Canadians, while crossing their own frontier, find the
Custom House officers of the United States, as a rule, particularly
courteous, and, on giving a straightforward declaration that they have
nothing dutiable, they are generally allowed to pass at once. Liverpool
may not be alone in strictly exacting all that the law allows, but is
this course at all necessary or wise? It cannot increase the revenue,
for the additional expense of collection must more than absorb the
trifling receipts. And one is not kindly impressed with this reception,
especially when we feel that it is totally unnecessary. We cross the
ocean from Canada with peculiar feelings of pride and sentiment to
visit our Mother Land, and it is somewhat of a severe wrench to be
treated as foreigners by the Customs authorities on our arrival; I will
not say uncivilly or wrongfully, but as if we were adventurers going
to England on some plundering tour. It is certainly no petty annoyance
to Canadians, when they make their entry into a land they are taught
to call “home,” to have their sense of common honesty thus challenged
at the threshold. Anything which is brought from Canada can only be
some trifling present, such as Indian work, to some relative in the Old
Country; and if, possibly, a few pounds be lost to the exchequer, it is
made up a thousandfold by the good will arising from being courteously
treated on the first landing on English soil. Would it not suffice if
every ordinary passenger were required to make a declaration in some
such form as the following?: “I am a Canadian subject. I declare upon
my honour that my baggage contains nothing whatever for sale. I have
with me my personal effects for my own use only.” Or it may be added,
“I have a few gifts for old friends, of little or no commercial value.”
Perhaps some British statesman might not think these suggestions
beneath his notice. Let him send a competent agent to examine and
report upon this subject. He will probably discover that the whole
nuisance can be swept away without inflicting the slightest injury
on the national exchequer. It would form no discreditable sentence
in a statesman’s epitaph to read that “he did away with the needless
and offensive restrictions imposed on British subjects from the outer
empire visiting the Imperial centre.”
Having at last passed the Custom House, I drove to Rock Ferry, one
of the most pleasant suburbs of Liverpool, to visit a family I was
acquainted with, and with them I passed a most enjoyable day. The
greeting I received was most cordial and gratifying. In the afternoon I
started for London, leaving my daughter behind me, and I found myself
once more whirling through the green meadows and cultivated fields
of England. I was alone, but I did not feel solitary. How charming
everything looked! The air was fresh with passing showers, and the
rain played for some quarter of an hour on the landscape only to make
it look fresher and fairer, and, when the sun came out, more full of
poetry. Why, we are at Harrow-on-the-Hill! Has time gone so quickly?
There is so much to think about, so many fresh scenes to gaze upon, and
so many events seem to crowd into the hours that the traveller, in his
bewilderment, loses count of time.
I am again in London, at Batt’s hotel, Dover street, and I walk to the
Empire Club to learn if there are any letters for me. I am disappointed
to find there is no cablegram. I despatched one from Moville, and one
word in reply would have told me if all was well. I recollect well the
depression I experienced at the time at not receiving news. It was an
inexplicable feeling; not exactly one of impatience or disappointment,
but rather of keen anxiety. “Why should there be silence,” I murmur,
when everything points to the necessity for a reply.
Next day my business took me to the city, and I returned as rapidly
as I could. In the afternoon, to relieve my suspense, I went to the
Geological Society’s rooms, and mechanically looked over the books
and specimens. I wandered into the rooms of the Royal Society, and
found before me the well known features of Mary Somerville as they
are preserved in her bust. I then strolled into the parks and down to
the Club, and still no cablegram. These facts are of no interest to
any but the writer, but possibly they may suggest, not simply to the
transmitter of telegrams but to the officials who pass them through
their hands, how much often depends upon their care and attention,
and that there is something more required than simply receiving
and recording a message. There is the duty of seeing to its proper
delivery, and it was precisely on this ground that my trouble took its
root.
I was three days in London when I received a telegram from Mr. George
Stephen, President of the Canadian Pacific Railway Company, stating
that he was desirous that I should proceed to British Columbia as soon
as possible. It was my acceptance of this proposition which has led
to the production of these pages, but at that hour I felt that Mr.
Stephen’s communication only increased my bewilderment. My telegraphic
address was properly registered at the General Post Office in London,
and it had been used over and over again during my annual visits to
England. The cablegram I had just received bore the registered address,
and yet I had received no message from my family in Halifax. I have
often sent cablegrams, and never more than twenty-four hours elapsed
before receiving a reply. Consequently I again telegraphed, plainly
stating my anxiety, and then wandered out to call on some friends.
Later in the evening I at last found an answer, and, in order that it
might not again miscarry, the sender put on my address five additional
words, held as quite unnecessary, at two shillings each, making ten
shillings extra to pay. On my return to Canada I learned that no less
than three cablegrams had been sent to me, each one of which remains
to this day undelivered. Two of the despatches were sent before,
one subsequently to, the message last mentioned. All were properly
addressed. I felt it a public duty to write to the Secretary of the
Post Office Department in London, but no satisfactory explanation has
yet been given. Life is a mass of trifles, as a rule. The exceptions
are our griefs and our sufferings, our triumphs and joys; the latter,
as a French writer says, “counting by minutes, the former by epochs.”
I passed three particularly unpleasant days during this period, my own
personal affair, of course, and one in which the world may seem to have
no interest. But the public has really a deep interest in having a more
perfect system of Atlantic telegraphy than we now possess, and the
facts I have described, have their moral. At least it is to be hoped
that the authorities may remember that anyone separated by the ocean
from his correspondents is not content that telegrams should be delayed
for days, and still less content not to have them delivered at all.
I was a month in England, chiefly in London, remaining until the 26th
of July. I must say that when in London I often thought of, although
I can not fully endorse, the words of that enthusiastic Londoner who
held that it was the “best place in the world for nine months in the
year, and he did not know a better for the other three.” In London you
can gratify nearly every taste, and although it always takes money
to secure the necessaries and luxuries of life, especially in great
cities, still, if one can content himself with living modestly, it
does not require a wonderfully large income to enjoy the legitimate
excitements and amusements of London. In this respect it is a marked
contrast to New York, where, generally speaking, a large income must be
at your command for even a moderate degree of respectable comfort.
In London, to those who cannot afford a carriage, there is a cab, and
those who have no such aspirations as a “hansom” can take the omnibus.
It is not necessary to go to the orchestra stalls to see a performance,
nor are you obliged to pay six guineas per week for your lodgings or
one pound for your dinner. The reading room of the British Museum is
open to every respectable, well-ordered person. You can look at some of
the best pictures in the world for nothing, and, if you are a student
of history and literature, there are localities within the ancient
boundaries of the city which you cannot regard without emotion. You
have two of the noblest cathedrals in the world; Westminster Abbey,
with its six centuries of history, and with its tombs and monuments,
setting forth tangibly the evidences of the past national life. Then
you have Wren’s classical masterpiece St. Paul’s, one of the most
perfect and commanding edifices ever erected anywhere. Its interior has
never been completed. Will it ever be so? Yet, as Wren’s epitaph tells
us, if you wish to see his monument “look around you.”
Again, in London, by way of recreation, you have public parks,
river-side resorts, and by the river itself and underground railway you
can easily reach many pleasant haunts about the suburbs. Indeed, by
the aid of the steamboat or rail you can take the most charming outings
any person can desire to have. London may be said to be inexhaustible.
As one of the directors of the Hudson Bay Company I had often to
visit the city, and some very pleasant relationships grew out of my
attendance at the various board meetings. I was constantly meeting
Canadians, and certainly we hold together in a peculiar way when away
from the Dominion. It is a strong link we are all bound by, and yet we
would find it hard to explain why. Even men who are not particularly
civil to one another in Canada will cross each other’s path with
pleasure when from home, and intimacies never anticipated are formed,
and associations entered upon once thought impossible.
One of my visits was to Spurgeon’s Tabernacle. The name is familiar to
everyone, and as I had been many times in London without hearing this
celebrated preacher, I was anxious not to return to Canada without
making the attempt. I was told to be in good time, and, acting on the
suggestion, I obtained a good seat, and formed, I should suppose, one
of four thousand people. Just in front of me, strange to say, I beheld
a familiar form, which I recollected last to have seen at Queen’s
College convocation, Kingston: the Premier of Ontario! Mr. Oliver Mowat
was the gentleman who was seated two pews in front of me. He was the
last person I expected to meet in such a place, as I did not even
know he was in England. He was the only one in that vast assemblage I
recognized. Spurgeon is, undoubtedly, worthy of his great reputation,
and on this particular Sunday his sermon was forcible, marked by
rare good sense, and perfectly adapted to his auditory. I felt fully
rewarded for my effort to be present. When the service was over I had
a few words with Mr. Mowat, but our interview was but short, for I had
an engagement, and it was necessary for me to hurry to the Waterloo
Station to take the train for Guildford, in order to reach ---- Park,
in its neighbourhood.
This was a most agreeable visit to me. I do not think there is any
country but England where scenes and associations are known such as I
there witnessed. At the station a carriage met us, for I found myself
in company with a gentleman going to the same hospitable mansion. He
was an Irish M. P. On our entering the grounds we passed amidst grand
old elms, along a noble avenue, and through walks beautiful with roses,
ivy and laurel. My welcome was most courteous and graceful. There were
several guests, but it was my privilege to sleep in the haunted room.
The walls were hung with tapestry; the floor was of oak; the fireplace
was a huge structure of sculptured stone from floor to ceiling. No
ghost disturbed my slumbers, and, in the words of Macbeth, “I slept in
spite of thunder.” I awoke at dawn, and drew back the heavy curtains
to admit the light. It was about sunrise. Shall I ever forget that
magnificent view from the old windows, with their quaint transoms and
quarterings, and circular heads! the sight of those fine old trees,
stately beeches, tall ancient elms, venerable blue beech, and many a
noble oak of from two to three centuries’ growth! It was one of those
old ancestral domains, with glades, avenues and forest, which seem to
take you out of the present world and back in thought to one altogether
different, in many of its conditions, from the life of to-day. The
most carefully developed homestead of old Boston, or one of the finest
mansions on the Hudson, with the outline of mountain scenery, and its
associate stream; any one of the well built halls south of the Potomac,
elaborated with all the wealth of the planter; or even one of our
own palatial Canadian residences; all appear a thing of yesterday as
compared with that stately edifice, with its delightful lawns, walks
and avenues, which bear the ancient impress of their date and of their
early greatness. No doubt these paths were trod by men in the troublous
times of Henry VIII. and his three children, men who then may have
debated mooted points of history in this very neighbourhood. There
is a tradition also that the virgin Queen has looked upon this same
landscape “in maiden meditation fancy free.”
The morning was peculiarly fine, and as I opened the window to admit
the pure, fresh air I really breathed again to enjoy it, and inhale the
perfume of foliage and of the garden flowers; flowers whose ancestors
may have traced three centuries of life, at least the early known
plants indigenous to English soil; while those of foreign origin could
boast of sires, perhaps, the first of their genus brought from the
Continent. The air was vocal with music; the trees seemed peopled with
scores of blackbirds and mavis, and there was many a proverbial “early
bird” busy with the yet earlier worm, who had gained so little by his
rising. All nature seemed teeming with life and gladness. I can only
here acknowledge the courtesy I received from my host and hostess. The
hours passed away unclouded by the slightest shadow, and I know no more
pleasant memory than that of my visit to this English ancestral home.
I was highly pleased, on my return to Batt’s Hotel, to receive
intimation that my daughter was shortly to join me in London. There is
a certain solitude in a London hotel, which is much the opposite of
the continental life, and entirely distinct from the _table d’hote_
system of this continent. In England the desire is to secure extreme
quiet and privacy, while on this side of the Atlantic every auxiliary
is provided for publicity and freedom of movement. This is especially
the case in the United States. In Canada it may be said that a middle
course is taken. In many large hotels on this continent, in addition
to the drawing and breakfast rooms, parlours and halls and writing
and news rooms are open, where papers are furnished and sold, seats
at the theatre obtained, telegrams sent, books, especially cheap
editions of novels, purchased, with photographs of the professional
beauties, leading politicians and other celebrated people. All of
these places are marked by busy, bustling life. The dining room, from
its opening in the morning till a late hour at night, is one scene
of animation, be the meal what it may. Some of the _beau sexe_ even
visit the breakfast room with elaborate toilets, and many a pair of
earrings glitter in the sun’s early rays. A walk up and down the
wide passage or hall at any hour is proper and regular, and it is
stated that it is often the only exercise indulged in by many living
in the great hotels of the United States, the street car furnishing
the invariable means of locomotion. In the large cities the hotels
are situated, as a rule, on the main streets. There are always rooms
where one may from the windows look upon the crowds passing and
repassing. Thus a drama of ever-changing life can be comfortably
witnessed from an armchair placed at the right point of observation.
There is no such thing as loneliness. Almost everyone is ready, more
than ready, to converse with you. If you yourself are courteous and
civil you will probably find those around you equally so, whether
they be guests or belong to the establishment. With a little tact
and judgment you can always obtain useful information. My experience
likewise is that the information is invariably correct: for there
never seems to be any hesitation in a negative reply when those you
address are not acquainted with the particular point of inquiry. The
gentleman who presides over the cigars, the controller of the papers
and the photographs and the official of the bar, an important field
of action in a high class hotel, each and all make it a point of
duty impressively to patronize your local ignorance when you ask for
information. In an English hotel the general rule is for no one person
to speak to another. If you do venture on the proceeding, Heaven only
knows what reply you may receive. In the class divisions of the Mother
Country there may be social danger in not observing the lines defined
by etiquette. There are always men of good address and appearance who
are not unknown to the police, and whose photographs may be destined
at no distant period to figure in the Rogues’ Gallery. But such men
are to be found in all countries. Whatever necessity there may be for
prudence and circumspection, it has struck me that there is really no
ground for that absolute uncompromising offensiveness of manner which
often well-meaning men in England feel bound to show to any person
who addresses them, as the joke goes, “to whom they have not been
introduced.”
If you are quite alone very little experience in the English hotel is
enough to throw you back on yourself, and to depress even a gay and
blithsome nature. You walk with a listless air through the corridors,
you take your meals with a sort of mechanical impassiveness which you
cannot help feeling, and you seem to drop into the crowd of reserved,
self-contained individuals, who act as if they thought that courtesy
to a stranger was a national crime. I do not speak of the clubs,
where, if you are a member, you can always meet some acquaintance.
But comparatively few Canadians visit England who are club men. I
know no solitude so dreary, nor any atmosphere so wearying, as that
of the London hotel in a first class lateral street when you have
nobody to speak to, where you can see scarcely a living soul out of the
window, where the only noise is the distant rumble of vehicles in the
neighbouring thoroughfare, and where, when you are tired with reading
or writing, you have no recourse but to put on your hat and sally out
into the street.
A circumstance crosses my mind as I am writing which gives some
insight into English life and character. It happened to a friend, now
no more, with whom I had crossed the Atlantic. He was travelling
from Liverpool to London, and took his place in the railway carriage,
sitting on the back middle seat, while opposite in the corner seats
were two gentlemen, each with a newspaper. The train had been an hour
on its journey, but the silence was unbroken. At last my friend spoke.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “I am L---- D----. I have come from ----”, and
he named a city in the Dominion. “I have been a merchant for fifty
years, and now I am living in ease. I am eighty-three years of age,
and, like the large majority of Canadians, I have two eyes and one
tongue, and, like a great many of my countrymen, I feel a pleasure in
using them. My eyes feel the period of time they have done me service.
I cannot read from the motion, but I can take part in a conversation.
My business in Britain is to see my daughters. One is married to an
officer quartered at the Royal barracks in Dublin. I am just returning
from a visit to her, and I am on my way to see my second daughter,
whose husband is stationed at Woolwich. Having now introduced myself, I
trust, gentlemen, you will not look upon me as a pickpocket or anything
of that sort.” One of the gentlemen carefully drew out his card-case
and gave his card. This example was followed by his opposite neighbour.
“What, gentlemen,” my friend said, looking at the cards through his
spectacles, which he deliberately put on, “you do not seem to know
one another; let me introduce you.” At the same moment he crossed
his arms and presented the card of the one to the other. The curtest
and least definable bow was given. One query followed another, and
my friend had a great deal to say and much to enquire about. He had
occupied the highest position in the city he came from, and had mixed
a good deal with the men of his world. The three or four hours which
followed were most pleasing to the trio. My friend’s fellow travellers
were county men, and he was cordially invited to spend a week with each
of them. The invitations were accepted, the acquaintance renewed, he
met with the most cordial English welcome, and the visits proved to be
particularly agreeable to all parties.
In my experience, and in that of others who come under the name of
Canadians, whose fortunes now lie in the Dominion, whatever our place
of birth, all that the Englishman wants to know regarding us is that
we are Canadians; in other words, that we are not dubious members of
an uncertain phase of English society. We then at once receive the
most genial courtesy and kindness; real, true, honest, hospitable
kindness. I reason from this that we must be outside the circle in
which this frigid intercourse is observed as a protection. We are in
England for a brief time; then we pass from the scene, and there is
no fear entertained on the part of our English neighbours of forming
an unpleasant and unprofitable, that is scarcely the word, an
embarrassing, relationship. I have heard the explanation given for this
peculiarity that its very defects spring from the loyalty of character
which marks the high-bred Englishman. The theory is that, if he knows
you once, he is always to know you. He wishes to run no risk of being
placed in a false position, and hence avoids any intercourse which,
although in a way agreeable to him, he will not accept at the cost of
his own self-respect. And there are men who in no way incur blame for
want of courtesy in a railway carriage, but they will pass their fellow
traveller after a week’s interval as if they had never seen him. It
may be urged that those who live in the state of society which obtains
in England are the best able to understand its conditions and the
wisdom of its laws. It is quite possible that this mode of treatment
of a stranger may be commended by experience. There are many examples
where the opposite course has led to trouble, but prudence and good
sense would surely avoid annoyance, and they are requisite under all
circumstances. But is it not also advisable to avoid the extraordinary
discourtesy with which sometimes a remark from a stranger is received,
as if it were designed to serve some deliberate scheme of wrong, or to
lead up to some act of swindling and imposture. Surely we may always be
able to detect any attempt of this kind and protect ourselves; and in
all conditions of life good manners cost little and entail no risk.
In one of my excursions from London I was travelling by the Great
Western Railway. A lady and gentleman were in the same compartment.
I made the third. Shortly after leaving Paddington the lady suffered
from a spark in her eye, certainly a most painful annoyance. Her fellow
passenger appeared much troubled and as much bewildered. Neither seemed
to know what to do, and the lady did not conceal how much she suffered.
I ventured to address the gentleman, and said, as was the case, that
I had frequently experienced this unfortunate accident, and that if
the eye was kept moist the pain would be lessened. He barely answered
me. The lady continued in pain. The train stopped for three minutes
at Swindon. I took my flask, made a rush to the refreshment room,
carefully washed the cup, filled it with water, and brought it to the
carriage. I offered it, I believe with ordinary good manners, to the
gentleman, and suggested that a handkerchief moistened with cold water
should be applied to the eye. My offer was curtly declined! There was
nothing more to be done. I threw the water out of the window, replaced
my flask in my travelling bag, and turned to my book. I did not forget
the incident during my trip, nor, indeed, have I ever done so.
I continued on my journey, and proceeded to visit some friends in the
West of England, after which I found my way to the Land’s End, which
I felt a great desire to see. I went to Torquay, and the sight of so
many invalids in Bath chairs made me melancholy; to Dartmouth, at
the entrance of the River Dart, near the birthplace of the great Sir
Walter Raleigh; to Totness, to Davenport and to Penzance; thence to
the treeless, bleak-looking district of the Land’s End, to look at a
landscape which I shall always remember.
At a little inn on the most westerly point of England I found I could
get a chop and a glass of ale. Having ordered luncheon, I strolled out
in the meantime to have a look at the blue water and the wide expanse
of ocean. The place is certainly solitary enough, but in its way the
boldness of the landscape and the never-ceasing roar of the waves
elevated it from dreariness. I returned to the room of the inn and
found a gentleman seated at the table. I had a perfect recollection of
my experience in the railway carriage a few days previously. But it
seemed to me to meet a stranger at this spot, seldom visited, gave a
guarantee of a certain similarity of tastes, and that it might possibly
be agreeable to both to exchange a few words. Indeed, I thought it
would be perfect folly for us to remain together in silence for about
half an hour as if ignorant of the presence of each other. I therefore
made up my mind that, at any rate, the fault should not be mine,
and that I would make bold to break the ice. We were certainly not
introduced, but at all risks I would make an effort to begin by saying
some ordinary words about the weather. The sky was cloudy and the air
cold, but I raised my voice to a cheerful tone and said, “It is rather
raw to-day, sir.” The gentleman addressed took not the slightest notice
of what I had said! And how ridiculous and embarrassing it did seem to
me at the time to think that two rational beings should be lunching
together at a little round table in the last house in England in solemn
silence! I fear that not a few disagreeable thoughts passed through
my mind, but I could do nothing. In due time I was ready to return to
Penzance. I entered the vehicle which had brought me hither, and at no
great distance away from the inn we passed the individual I had lunched
with, walking by himself. I took the opportunity, when out of hearing,
of asking the driver if he knew who he was. I received the reply that
he was a deaf and dumb gentleman who lived in the neighbourhood!