Chapter VII: Part 7

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!"

SCOTLAND.

"Away, ye gay landscapes, ye gardens of roses!
In you let the minions of luxury rove;
Restore me the rocks where the snowflake reposes,
Though still they are sacred to freedom and love:
Yet, Caledonia, beloved are thy mountains,
Round their white summits though elements war;
Though cataracts foam 'stead of smooth flowing fountains,
I sigh for the valley of dark Loch na Garr."

It was on Saturday, July 16th, that we went over the border. The bridge across the boundary line was soon reached. When midway over a halt was called, and vent given to our enthusiasm. With three cheers for the land of the heather, shouts of "Scotland forever," and the waving of hats and handkerchiefs, we dashed across the border. O Scotland, my own, my native land, your exiled son returns with love for you as ardent as ever warmed the heart of man for his country. It's a God's mercy I was born a Scotchman, for I do not see how I could ever have been contented to be anything else. The little plucky dour deevil, set in her own ways and getting them too, level-headed and shrewd, with an eye to the main chance always and yet so lovingly weak, so fond, so led away by song or story, so easily touched to fine issues, so leal, so true! And you suit me, Scotia, and proud am I that I am your son.