Chapter II: Part 2

M. Renan says of him that his grasp of a subject was wonderful, his wit extraordinary, and his executive ability unsurpassed. His sister, the brilliant Princess Mathilde, who shares so many of his gifts, has the only _salon_ in Paris to-day, and with her brother's death and the union of his party it will become historical.

Prince Napoleon was so reserved that he went through life without inspiring or receiving any real affection, and without meaning it he unconsciously repelled adherents who wished to become devoted. He had the misfortune of passing for a Republican under the Empire and for an Imperialist under the Republic, which was the more unfortunate as he despised all forms of government, and in his ambition to rule would have put up with any. A curious thing about him was the fact that his followers liked him better at a distance. Only the other day one of his staunchest friends exclaimed: "I never liked him so well as now, when I know I shall not see him again."

At a distance people remembered only his brilliancy, culture, eloquence and the surprising ease with which he mastered every problem, however difficult, in public affairs. He was superior everywhere and popular nowhere, and although he had the personal magnetism which enforces admiration at first sight, he had also the unfortunate power of inducing antipathy toward him on further acquaintance.

The deceased Prince's life was in all its vicissitudes an extraordinary one and is rich in anecdotes and stories. His career was a succession of false steps, and again and again the cup of power was at his lips, only to be dashed to the ground by his own mistake. A man of majestic person, high ambitions and unexcelled ability, his singular lack of tact and knack of doing the wrong thing in the right place ruined his chances of success.

Prince Jerome Napoleon, or the Emperor Napoleon the Fifth--to give him his real title--was the son of Jerome Bonaparte (the brother of the great Napoleon), King of Westphalia, by his marriage with the Princess Catherine of Wurtemburg. He was brought up in Rome, Austria and Geneva, and finished his education under the supervision of his uncle, the King of Wurtemburg, at the military school of Ludwisburg, near Stuttgart. On the establishment of the Empire, under his cousin, he took rank as Heir Apparent before the Prince Imperial's birth, after which he became Heir Presumptive, and was for some time Governor-General of Algeria. The Emperor often employed him upon various diplomatic military and scientific missions. Many people may have forgotten that at one time Prince Napoleon was a prominent rival of the Emperor. When the future Napoleon III. was indulging in various little escapades that made it seem unlikely he would ever rise to any great position, fortune favoured his more youthful cousin. Prince Napoleon had every advantage. In looks he was weirdly like the first Napoleon. I saw him here last year and instinctively looked for the cocked hat and knee breeches associated forever with "_le petit caporal_." No one who saw his massive, clean-shaven, powerful face could doubt that he stood face to face with a veritable Napoleon. He seemed to hold the winning card when the Revolution of 1848 broke out, but every day he lost ground, notwithstanding his active interference in affairs, and every day Prince Louis Napoleon gained more influence in spite of his reserve. And this illustrates French nature. It prefers a man who is impenetrable rather than one who bustles about and allows his plans to be found out. After a few pitched battles Prince Napoleon allowed it to appear that he recognized his cousin as the stronger man, and attached himself to his cause. But he had no sympathy with the men who planned the _coup d'état_. He distrusted and disliked them, and they returned the compliment. But he became Heir Presumptive, was made a general and had the Palais-Royal as a residence with £40,000 a year.

In 1859 he married Princess Clotilde, the daughter of King Victor Emanuel, and sister of the present King of Italy. He leaves three children, Prince Victor Napoleon--now Napoleon the Sixth,--Princess Letitia, widow of the Duke of Aosta, and Prince Louis, a colonel in the Russian Dragoons. And now we come to two mistakes generally made as to the dead Prince's character. He was not a coward and he was not an atheist. Ever since the Crimean war Prince Napoleon has been dogged with a reputation for cowardice and was given the nicknames of "_Plon Plon_" and "_Cringe Plomb_" by the Parisian mob. There is not a doubt, however, that he behaved with all the courage of his race at the battle of the Alma, and that his recall was not due to his own choosing, but to the intrigues of his enemies.

The report of the Marshal Commanding confirms this. But a damning story of his ill-health was circulated at the time by the semi-official papers, and the mob was ready to put the worst construction on it. Report says the Empress Eugénie was in no small degree responsible for these rumours, for she cordially disliked him and he returned the feeling with interest.

Fate was again cruel to him in the war with Prussia in 1870-'71. When he returned from Spitzbergen he was anxious to be given a responsible command in the Imperial army, but instead was sent off to Italy to keep King Victor Emanuel in a good humour. He had one more chance, before the war, of redeeming his honour, when the Duc d'Aumale challenged him to a duel, but lost it by too much conscientiousness. He hastened to the Tuilleries to ask if he ought to fight. Of course the Emperor said no, and then the Empress made her famous but ill-natured _bon mot_, "If a bullet is ever found in our cousin's body it will be that he has swallowed it."

Prince Napoleon was not an atheist. This is proved by his whole life, by his friends and by his death, and will be proved by his memoirs, for in his last moments, while still conscious, he received Extreme Unction from Cardinal Bonaparte, and he has had a religious funeral. He was an anti-clerical, and while certainly not a religious man, he inclined towards the doctrines of Rousseau.

The famous Good Friday dinner at which the Prince and his guests ate _charcuterie_ and drank a somewhat profane toast was the base of the belief respecting his religious opinions--a belief greatly magnified and spread by the Empress Eugénie. Prince Napoleon never knew when to speak and when to remain silent, although a magnificent orator, and his failing has been well summed up by a famous senator: "The Prince speaks well, he is the best of orators--but he says only too well what had best been left unsaid."

His friends were the most famous men of the day, Victor Hugo, Edmond About, Ste. Beuve and Père Hyacinthe, who sent him his blessing as he lay dying. His relations with the Emperor show many instances of his want of tact. Having been complimented by Napoleon upon two speeches delivered in the Senate against the temporal power of the Pope, he resolved to improve upon them, and then delivered his famous anti-Papal speech at Ajaccio, a speech which drew forth the following interesting letter of remonstrance from the Emperor:

"_Monsieur Mon Cousin_,--I cannot help informing you of the painful impression which I received on reading the speech you delivered at Ajaccio. When I left you in Paris with the Empress and my son and as President of the Privy Council, I hoped that you would prove yourself by your acts, conduct and speeches, worthy of the trust which I had placed in you, and that you would set the example of that unity which ever ought to exist in our family. You have raised questions which no longer concern our day. It is necessary to have borne, as I have, the responsibilities of power in order to judge how far the ideas of Napoleon I. are applicable to the present time. Before the great statue of the founder of our family, what are we but pigmies, only able to behold a part and incapable of grasping the whole? One thing, however, is certain, and that is that Napoleon exercised--first of all in his family and then in his government--that severe discipline without which all government is impossible, and without which all liberty leads to anarchy. Having said this much, my cousin, I pray God to have you in his holy keeping.

NAPOLEON."

This letter was written in 1866, when the Emperor was traveling in Algeria.

After the fall of the Empire and the death of the Emperor, Prince Napoleon kept up a sort of armed neutrality with the Empress Eugénie and his young cousin, the Prince Imperial (then Napoleon the Fourth), after whom, he was the head of the Bonapartist party. When the Prince Imperial fell in Zululand in 1879, Prince Napoleon became the head of the family. But the Prince Imperial had made a foolish, boyish will in which he named his cousin, Prince Victor, the eldest son of Prince Napoleon, his heir and successor. The Empress Eugénie was only too glad to annoy her hated foe by pretending to accept this absurd arrangement, and unfortunately Prince Victor Napoleon fell into the hands of foolish advisers, quarreled with his father and set up a party of his own. For several years father and son have not spoken, each claiming to represent the Imperialist party in France. But it is now stated with authority that Prince Victor Napoleon was reconciled to his father on his death-bed, and this will do much towards wiping out the memory of his unfilial conduct. But he was strongly tempted. The Empress Eugénie urged him, all the old adherents of his great family urged him, to set up the Napoleonic standard, while his father seemed apathetic and indifferent. Then, of course, he commanded a divided allegiance. Now he stands at the head of a united party. Thousands of men who would not join Prince Napoleon on account of his anti-clerical opinions and who refused to support Prince Victor Napoleon against his father, are now rallying to the Imperial standard.

Scoffers said the Napoleonic legend was dead when the first Napoleon died. Scoffers say so now. Yet Napoleon III. proved that it was very much alive in the fifties, and it is well on the cards that Napoleon VI. may do so in the nineties. The new Emperor _de jure_, is clever, eloquent and possesses tact, above all the _sine qua non_ of one in his position. He has few enemies and many friends and will inherit the Empress Eugénie's large fortune upon her death.

And so the greatest service Prince Napoleon has ever done for his family and cause is by dying, for his death unites, while his life divided, his party.

History will judge him fairly. Brilliant, clever, witty, statesmanlike, eloquent and masterful, his life has been ruined by want of tact. His last words are significant: (I quote from the London _Times_.)

"He declared that he died an Emperor, adhering to the principles of the _Concordat_, and fully imbued with the religious sentiments of the Bonapartes."

Such was the Emperor Napoleon the Fifth, a man misjudged by many and loved by few, but a man whose talents will one day be recognized by France.

A DEVONSHIRE MARKET TOWN.

NEWTON ABBOT, DEVON.--At the first blush the sudden change from the balmy breezes of the Riviera to the comparatively harsh winds that blow over Dartmoor, would seem to be a trial. But such is hardly the case. I am writing to-day in a private sitting room of the quaint Globe Inn in this little-visited town, with the windows wide open and the sun streaming in with a warmth that is almost too genial. One never hears of a tourist visiting Newton Abbot, and from all I can gather Newton Abbot is in the same position. It is a queer, quiet little market town in South Devon, about six miles from Torquay, the great southern watering place, and not far from Dartmouth and the moors. One can have hunting and fishing in the neighbourhood, for the South Devon fox hounds meet near by three times a week and the rivers Eske and Culme supply capital salmon fishing. Several big country houses are close by, and to the casual observer Newton Abbot exists simply to form a coterie of tradespeople for the benefit of the County Families in the neighbourhood. It has no society of its own, and even its Mechanics' Institute gives entertainments only by the suffrages of the "surrounding Nobility and Gentry," to quote from its programmes. And yet it is a happy, quiet little town enough, sunning itself in its own small valley, and with many of its by-streets running up the numerous hills at the back, whose brows are dotted with genteel (how popular that word is among the lower-middle class in England) semi-detached "villas." The London papers get down at mid-day, and until noon Newton Abbot gets on very well with a local print which reproduces the news from yesterday's _Times_.

By the way, "The Thunderer" is too dear for the average man (it is three-pence a copy as against a penny for the other London dailies) and so it is lent out to read by the local library which advertises itself as "in connection with Mudie's." One rather wonders where the "connection" comes in when a copy of "Robert Elsmere" is handed one as the "last thing out, sir, just down from London."

But Newton Abbot has some historical interest. In the midst of the town, just in front of the old ivy-covered tower of St. Leonard's, is a remarkably ugly stone surmounted by a modern lamp-post. The stone bears an inscription to the effect that in 1688 the then Mayor of the town, standing thereon, read the first proclamation made by William of Orange after landing in England. Enthusiastic Orangemen visit the stone to this day, and zealous members of the Order of the White Rose curse it heartily, as they regret King James and the Stuart dynasty; which, whatever its faults, at least inspired more romantic loyalty and personal devotion than the phlegmatic Dutch Prince ever did.

I visited several houses near Newton Abbot with a view to taking one furnished for the sake of the good fishing near, and although none was found to suit I had some droll experiences. One house was very well furnished, and the family seemed in a remarkable hurry to get away while offering the place at a low rent, but it afterwards turned out that the paterfamilias--a clergyman--had just eloped with the parlourmaid.

At another house I was received by a smartly-dressed person who tried hard to give me the impression that she was a lady, and who at length airily inquired: "And would you like to move in, at once, forthwith directly?" But her drawing room was decorated with wax flowers under glass shades; and mottoes done in Berlin wool, with a chromo-lithograph of the late Lord Palmerston over the mantel; so I was not exposed to much temptation. The occupant of another cottage waxed confidential as she showed me over the house, told me her name was Mrs. Mudge and that she "laundered" for a living. She looked as if she did something for a living, for her face was fiery red and she diffused an odour of gin and cloves as she slowly maundered on.

Nearly every street in the town shows by its name some connection with the Courtenay family--Earls of Devon--who in the old days owned most of the property in South Devon. Now evil times have come upon them and beautiful old Powderham Castle, near Dartmouth, alone remains to them. But they are venerated still in the county and the "Courtenay interest" is a great help to the candidate for Parliamentary honours.

Newton Abbot has the distinction--if it be a distinction, which is very strongly debated--of having as its representative in Parliament the only Liberal member from Devonshire.

Mr. Seale-Hayne is a wealthy follower of Mr. Gladstone and is faithful to his chief, but even he owes his seat to a prudent refusal to accept Mr. Gladstone's extreme views on the subject of home rule. The sturdy farmers of Devon have ideas of their own and do not see why the efforts of a few Irish agitators should be allowed to break up an Empire.

The Conservatives and Liberal-Unionists divide the representation of Devon between them, with the solitary exception of the aforesaid Mr. Seale-Hayne, and the Conservatives are working hard to defeat him at the next general election. The echoes of the great gathering at Exeter last year, when Lord Salisbury addressed an audience of several thousand working people upon the fallacies of home rule for Ireland, have not yet died away, and his speech will bear fruit at the next general election. The tactics of the Gladstonians in the rural districts are now devoted to drawing off the attention of the rural voters from home rule--an attention that, to Gladstonian minds, is too closely fixed upon the struggles of the rival Irish parties, and the probability of their following the lead of the famous Kilkenny cats--and fixing it upon co-called "rural reforms." The Conservatives and Liberal-Unionists, on the other hand, place home rule in the front and make it the main issue; so the curious spectacle is presented of the party responsible for the measure placing it in the background, and the party opposed to it making it the main issue in the campaign.

Turning to sweeter subjects--who, having once tasted Devonshire clotted cream can forget it? And when to a glass dish of clotted cream is added a sunny morning, a well-laid breakfast table and a hissing tea urn, life looks at least cheerful.

OXFORD--FROM A STUDENT'S NOTE BOOK.

OXFORD.--Everything at Oxford is quaint and charming, but its inns are unique and it is impossible to find one that sells bad beer,--the undergrads would never stand it,--and where a better judge of bitter beer than a Christ-Church, or a Magdalen, or a "Johns" man is to be found, it is hard to say. The names even of these inns are soothing. It is such a relief to get away from the American hotel abomination, with its gilded radiator, and from its cold, stiff restaurants and pretentious name; to the sanded coffee room of the quaint, cosy "Mitre," or to the bar-parlour of the "Bell" or the "Plough." And although these small, low-built inns are old--older than New York City several of them--they are radiant with a fresh lavender-smelling cleanliness that is never found in the big American hostelries, where the befringed and be-ribboned Irish importation reigns in her pride.

Rosy-cheeked country lasses serve the public here, and are shining examples of civil service, while behind the bar stands a lively, neat and pretty barmaid, who is an adept in chaffing the college men, but with too much self-respect to allow any vulgar jesting in her domain. We undergrads were not allowed to frequent every inn, but the "Clarendon" was a great favourite, and I have heard many jolly stories in its quaint old "Smoke Room," lined with prints after Hogarth. When I was "in residence" at the University, three years ago, there used to be a very pretty barmaid who officiated at the "Plough," opposite my rooms, and I noticed that she was usually at the window when Connigsby Disraeli, nephew to the great Earl of Beaconsfield, who was then a student at "New," passed by. A queer fellow, Disraeli, and sure to make his mark if he lives. I met him at the theatre constantly, where he always led the applause. He is very popular still in Oxford, for he is hail fellow well met with everyone, be it "town" or "gown"; and he is "up" on dogs and horses as well as in the classics. His kennels were famous when he was "in residence" or "up," as it is sometimes called. If his uncle had not been the first Earl, and had the title not therefore been confined to his direct line (he had no sons), Disraeli would have been "Milord"; but he is sure to make his own way. At the last general election he was elected to Parliament from the Altrincham Division of Sussex by a large majority over his Liberal opponent. The Queen is said to take a personal interest in his success, and Her Majesty's partiality for his uncle is well known. He has already begun to attract attention by active work in the Conservative cause and by clever addresses at Primrose League meetings all over England.

My rooms in the college days were in Cornmarket Street, near the "High," and my landlord (who was duly licensed by the all-powerful Proctors) rejoiced in the name of Huckings. He was formerly valet to the Marquis of Queensberry, and never allowed one to forget the fact; few were the days when allusions to "His Lordship the Markis" failed to greet my ears. Huckings is very proud of his "acquaintance" with the Nobility, and often boasted that Prince Christian-Victor, a grandson of Her Majesty and a student of Magdalen, once knocked him down in the cricket field. But Huckings is eminently respectable and very civil.

His furniture was usually covered with a green material stiffly starched, that crackled and rustled like an Irish-American servant out for a Sunday walk,--no English housemaid would dream of taking the liberty of allowing herself to rustle. Huckings was a capital cook and an experienced butler, and his welsh-rarebits were as light as air.

There is but one theatre in Oxford, and that is directly under the supervision of the Vice-Chancellor, and no play can be performed without his sanction. The programmes are headed "By permission of the Reverend the Vice-Chancellor, and the Right-Worshipful the Mayor." For Oxford, as a 'Varsity town, is under the control of the head of the University as well as of the Mayor.

The unsophisticated crowd in the gallery always hisses the villain, who is usually the best actor, and applauds the hero, who is often a poor one; but this is usual all through England, and is taken by the heavy villain of the play as a tribute to his genius. Very good entertainments are given as a rule: "The Pirates," Toole in "The Don," and the inimitable Corney Grain have appeared among others. The bar is forbidden to sell whiskey to the undergrads, so the call is for "lime-juice," which answers the same purpose!

I met my old tutor, or coach for "cramming," in the street to-day, and I have just had him to dine. He is typical--a short, squat man with a heavy, unkempt beard, and with countless lines seaming his face. He has not been out of Oxford for twenty years and spends all his time in coaching backward students. He reminds one in some ways of a ripe and somewhat mouldy Stilton cheese.

His rooms are musty and cobwebby, for he tells me no one has dusted them for two years, as he cannot stand having his papers disturbed. And how he smokes! His pipe rack must hold twenty pipes at least, and most of them are beautifully coloured.

The walks about Oxford are charming and on returning from a long tramp it is delightful to stand on Folly Bridge at dusk and watch the punts and canoes come dropping down the "Char," or to see a college eight dash swiftly down the Isis to Iffley. The old inn at Godstow, just opposite the ruins of the famous Nunnery, is very quaint; and the fame of Mumby's cherry brandy is known to all the colleges in Oxford.

The author of "Alice in Wonderland" is a Fellow of Christ Church College, and lives in two rooms looking out over the green old "Quad." He is fond of children and has them always with him. They tell a droll story of him in Oxford. The Queen enjoyed "Alice" so much that she requested the author, by letter, to send her another of his "charming books." Much flattered, he forwarded Her Majesty his "Treatise on the Differential Calculus."

When I was an undergrad it was almost impossible to pay for what one bought in Oxford, for the tradespeople insist on one's taking long credits--a neat little plan by which they make a good deal in the long run, as they charge heavy interest. Oxford changes little as the years go by. It was lovely spring weather to-day and everyone wandered to the river, through the green Christ Church meadows, just as they have done for hundreds of years and will do in future centuries; and they are wise, for nothing is so delightful on a warm afternoon in June as to take a punt and slowly glide along the Cherwell, or to drop down the Isis in a canoe and take a plunge at "Parson's Pleasure."

Descriptions of College life at Oxford have been done to death and it is hardly worth while to go over the well-worn ground. "The Adventures of Mr. Verdant Green" still give a fair idea of 'Varsity life, and "Tom Brown" is as good to-day as when it was written.

The contrast between American and English college life is sharply marked. A short experience of Yale made me enjoy Oxford all the more. There is no class spirit, but the tone in the twenty-odd colleges--each a small Yale--is more athletic and more _Commencement-de-siècle_ in every way.

A curious thing is the way in which cap and gown are worn here. The gown with its two short tails reaches only to the small of the back, and is only worn when absolutely necessary. There has been a good deal of amused talk "in Hall" over the report that some upper classmen at Yale actually wear a long gown reaching to the feet. It would be considered bad form for Oxford undergrads to wear such a thing, as long gowns are worn only by dons and tutors.

Americans are coming in increased numbers every year; and for some unknown reason they usually go to New College, or to "Ch. Ch.," as Christ Church is familiarly called. But I found St. John's College--or "Johns,"--with its lovely gardens and long, low, time-worn buildings, a delightful place to study in or at. "Ch. Ch." is pre-eminently the "swell college." Balliol is for hard students, and Magdalen is very aristocratic; Jesus is for Welshmen, Wadham for men who want an easy time, and Brazenose and Oriel for athletes. "Johns" combines the happiest features of each. The others have no marked characteristics.

The good old dons are a feature of Oxford, and it is easy to see from their rosy cheeks and well-fed look that they do not despise the famous Oxford ale, which is pure and wholesome, while the wine is bad and dear. Consequently everyone drinks beer, except a few old Deans and Masters of Colleges, whose gout confines them to toast and water.

The thought of dons brings up memories of the payment of gate fines, if one happened to be out of college after the great bell of Christ Church had boomed out the hour of nine; and it was harder than may be supposed to dodge the Proctor and his "bull dogs" if one was out "in mufti," _i. e._, without cap or gown. But take it all in all, college life at Oxford is an enviable thing, and Oxford itself is a delightful place.

THE ENGLISH LITTORAL.

BOURNEMOUTH.--Imagine a few houses set down in the midst of a forest of pines on two great cliffs overhanging the sea; with a sandy soil, and you have Bournemouth. There are shops, indeed, and a principal street, but they are so mixed up with the pines and so divided, one from the other, that they do not give an impression of town life at all, and one easily imagines oneself to be in the depths of the country. The pines are the fetishes of Bournemouth. You breathe in their healing balsam, you bathe in pine juice and sleep on pine pillows. You walk in pine groves, and sit on furniture made exclusively of pine and, when you die, you are laid under the shade of the pines. I don't doubt the fact that pines are healthy in moderation, but they are monotonous.

Bournemouth is a new place, for everything dates back only forty years. Before that there were only plantations of pines on the cliff. The name of the discoverer of Bournemouth is unknown, but the man who has "made" the place, and made it, too, with wonderful taste and skill, building all the houses in the pine woods and cutting hardly any of them down, is Sir George Meyrick, ably assisted by the Lord of the Manor who owns the half not belonging to Sir George. One cannot call Bournemouth wildly gay, but it is eminently select--so are the prices, which are high enough to frighten away any one under the rank (and income) of a Marquis. There is no theatre in the town, the aforesaid Lord of the Manor who owns most of the freehold objecting to such worldly amusements; but the inhabitants have managed to get around him by fitting up the town hall as an amateur play-house, where occasional third-rate companies perform.

But people hardly come here to go to the play. They come for rest and change. Bournemouth is a good long way from London: three hours from Waterloo station, and in Hampshire, on the border line of Dorset. The climate is wonderfully dry, and milder than that of London, but not warm. Indeed, there is little difference between the climates of Geneva and Bournemouth, except that, of course, there is more snow in Geneva, and the air is less relaxing. One can easily understand how consumptives may derive benefit from it (lately many have hurried off to Berlin to place themselves in Dr. Koch's clinic), but to healthy people it is debilitating, even more so than the climate of Nice and San Remo.

The scenery around is lovely. Great hollows (locally called chines) extend to the sea between the cliffs, and a drive along the coast reminds one forcibly of the drive along the Corniche road between Monte Carlo and Mentone. Indeed, this part of the Hampshire coast is beginning to be called the British Riviera, and it deserves the name, although the sea is less blue and the sky has a duller tinge than those of the Mediterranean coast can show. The neighbouring drives are full of interest. The ruins of Corfe Castle will repay a visit, and Canford Manor, Lord Wimborne's place, is well worth seeing. There are drives to Poole, a sea-port near, and to Christchurch, with which Bournemouth is incorporated for the purpose of Parliamentary representation. Boscombe Chine and Branksome Chine are lovely spots, a little way out of Bournemouth.

Bournemouth is rich in churches. St. Peter's is a noble bit of architecture, and Holy Trinity is a remarkable building, whose steeple is a tower distinct from the main building. Its rector, Canon Eliot, has recently been appointed Dean of Windsor and Domestic Chaplain to the Queen; and people are lamenting his departure, for he has been here twenty years and during that time has gained for his church, by his own efforts, the sum of £40,000.

The inhabitants of Bournemouth have been anxious for some time to have the place granted a charter of incorporation, so that they might rejoice in a _bona fide_ Mayor of their own instead of having to put up with a simple Chairman of Commissioners. A member of Her Majesty's Privy Council came down to inspect the town and advised the Queen to grant the charter, which she did last month. Lately political feeling has been running high over the election of the Mayor, and there have been several Richmonds in the field, one of whom put forward the fact that he had been for seven years caterer to H. R. H. the Prince of Wales and to the Guards' Club in London as a claim to the office. He came within a few votes of election, but was beaten by the leading stationer of the town.

Now to celebrate this important epoch in the history of Bournemouth, Lord and Lady Portarlington, who live very near, decided to give a _conversazione_ in the Winter Garden of the Hotel Mont Doré. Of course, the Mayor and Aldermen appeared; and now the current of feeling in Bournemouth is at fever heat, for "the right worshipful, the Mayor," to give him his proper title, appeared in robes and chains of office--_hinc illæ lachrymæ_. England is divided equally on this subject; about half the Mayors of provincial towns wearing robes and badges, with cocked hats and the other half confining themselves to a simple chain of office. The Bournemouth papers are fighting the matter tooth and nail, and one worthy Alderman (an Irish-American green-grocer) has resigned office rather than submit to wear "these relics of mediævalism." It will be news to most of us that cocked hats were _en evidence_ in the middle ages.

But Bournemouth is really a charming place and well worth a visit.

A DAY AT WINDSOR.

WINDSOR, BERKS.--"Personally conducted" parties have done Windsor to death; and the place has been described so often and so poorly that it needs a bold pen to make another attempt. My day at Windsor was passed during the cold month of January; when the Royal Borough was hung with crape, when the flags were at half mast and when everything was redolent of gloom and sadness.

I saw the highest in the land weeping, and Royalty when overcome with grief; for the Heir Presumptive to the English Throne had been cut off and the nation was in mourning. The clearest memory that remains with me after the splendid ceremonial in St. George's Chapel, is the recollection of the bowed figure and grief-worn face of the Prince of Wales as he stood at the foot of his older son's coffin, between his only remaining son, Prince George, and his son-in-law, the Duke of Fife. He raised his head as Sir Albert Woods, Garter King of Arms, proclaimed the "style and title of His late Royal Highness"; and his terrible loss was evident to the most unobservant there. But the funeral has been everywhere fully described, and it would be useless to repeat a catalogue of its many and varied incidents.

After it was over, I walked through the grassy stretches of Windsor Great Park with an old Oxford friend, who had known "Prince Eddie" well, both on the _Bacchante_ and afterward at York. He told me much that was new of him and several stories of his wonderful tact in social matters, by means of which he had averted serious scandal from a family well known to readers of Burke and Debrett. I parted from him that evening with a better appreciation of the dead Prince and his character than I had ever had before.

His death has been a terrible blow to all the Royal Family, but in the midst of their terrible grief the Prince and Princess of Wales cannot but feel consoled by the overwhelming sympathy that has been poured out upon them not only by English hearts; but from Ireland, Scotland and Wales, and from the greater England beyond the sea.

There is something infinitely pathetic about the death of their eldest son, just a week after his twenty-eighth birthday and the month before his wedding. All England has wept with the Royal Family, and foreigners realize as never before the depth and strength of English loyalty. The crowds that lined the streets in front of Marlborough House when Prince Eddie lay ill, contained many work-people and clerks; and the grief and respect shown by the lower classes everywhere has been a wonder to all, and a complete refutation of Andrew Carnegie's windy diatribes as to the progress of democracy in England. There is no jarring note in the sympathy of grief, for no word has been said against the dead Prince--nothing but praise and a hearty recognition of his modesty and hard work. We shall see, when we review the history of his engagement, something of his strength of character.

Prince Albert Victor Christian Edward was born at Frogmore, Windsor, on January 8, 1864, and his names were carefully chosen, representing two grandfathers (the Prince Consort, and the King of Denmark); one grandmother (the Queen); and a great-grandfather (the Duke of Kent, Queen Victoria's father). The Queen preferred the two first names, and so, until he was created Duke of Clarence in 1890, his official designation was Prince Albert Victor of Wales. But to the great mass of the English people he was always Prince Edward, or Prince Eddie as he was affectionately called, for Edward was a name that held glorious associations for them and they looked forward to having another "Long-shanks" on the throne.

The history of his life has been repeated so often that it is only necessary to recall a few incidents: his two years as naval cadet in the training ship _Britannia_ at Dartmouth with his brother; his three years' cruise around the world in the _Bacchante_; his studies at Cambridge and Heidelberg; and his tour in India. He and his brother, Prince George, had always been together until their choice of professions separated them. Prince Eddie went with all his soul into army work and Prince George chose the navy. The grief of the British army at Prince Eddie's death shows what Tommy Atkins thought of him.

During the last six years in England every one has been wondering why Prince Eddie did not marry and settle the succession; and, finally, the truth leaked out last year, although long before that his attentions to his pretty cousin, Princess May of Teck, had attracted attention. Ever since they had played together as children he had been devoted to her, and his father and mother heartily approved his choice. The Queen, his royal grandmother, resolutely opposed all thoughts of this match and brought pressure to bear to get Prince Eddie to marry his cousin, Princess Margaret of Prussia, a daughter of the Empress Frederick and sister of the present Kaiser. But Prince Eddie was firm and declared if he could not marry Princess May he would not marry any one. And so matters stood for several years. But when Princess Louise of Wales (who is next in succession after Prince George) married the Duke of Fife, the necessity for the marriage of Prince Eddie grew greater, as there was a shrewd suspicion that the great English nobles would hardly care to have the children of the Duke of Fife rule over them if the other branches failed. But even yet Prince Eddie stood firm and would not yield, although at last even the Prince of Wales urged compliance with the Queen's wishes. And finally Prince Eddie's reward came. When Prince George was so ill with typhoid, popular sentiment urged Prince Eddie's marriage and then the Queen gave in and made the two young people happy.

The public announcement of the engagement was received with universal joy, for Princess May was thoroughly English, and both the _fiancées_ leaped at once into great popularity. They went down to Windsor together to salute the Queen, and everything seemed to give universal satisfaction. Even Her Majesty relaxed when she saw how joyfully her subjects received the news of the royal betrothal, and the Prince of Wales declared at a public dinner his delight that his son was to marry a Princess who was English by birth, education and preference. The ground of the Queen's objection to the marriage was simple, and she was soon convinced that the English nation attached no importance to it. On her mother's side, Princess May is descended from King George III. and stands in nearly the same relationship to that monarch as her late betrothed, for the Duchess of Teck is the daughter of King George's son, the Duke of Cambridge; and Queen Victoria's father the Duke of Kent, was another son; so the Queen and the Duchess of Teck are first cousins; Princess May and the Prince of Wales second cousins; and Princess May and Prince Eddie second cousins once removed. But the Duke of Teck's pedigree was the trouble, for he is the descendant of a morganatic marriage, and but for that would now be heir to the throne of Wurtemburg. The English people found no fault with Princess May's descent, and, indeed, a sweeter, more gracious, more charming Princess it would be hard to find. The marriage was fixed for February, and soon wedding gifts began to pour in. Committees were formed all over the British Empire for the purpose of subscribing to a national gift. In Ireland it had been decided to present the royal bride and bridegroom with a castle, and Scotland and Wales were planning the same gifts. Bridesmaids were chosen and everything seemed to smile upon the national rejoicing. When Princess May went with her father and mother to pay a visit to the Prince and Princess of Wales at Sandringham early in January, huge shooting parties were organized in which Prince Eddie joined, and every morning the ladies of the Royal Family drove out to join the sportsmen at luncheon. On one of these occasions, on a rainy, misty day, Prince Eddie complained of feeling very cold, and instead of waiting to drive back with the others, walked briskly home to Sandringham with Princess May. The next day he was better and insisted upon going out with the other sportsmen. Again he was compelled to leave them, and again he walked back with Princess May. How she must value the remembrance of those two walks now! This was on the Friday. On Sunday he was ill, on Tuesday alarming bulletins were issued, and on Thursday he was dead. Oh, the pity of it! On the threshold of his career, on the eve of his marriage he was taken. One is tempted to ask _Cui bono?_

He will have his place in English History; and the memory of my day at Windsor will always linger; for I have seen what is of more interest than the Castle, with all its wealth of art--the loyalty of a people to their Royal House in its time of trial.

SCARBOROUGH.

SCARBOROUGH.--The seaside resorts of England are numberless, and yet there is a curious lack of similarity in their surroundings, their atmosphere and in their class of visitors. Scarborough is to the north of England what Bournemouth is to the south. It is select and exclusive, but the ultra smart London set is not found in its purlieus. It is a great place of resort for the old Yorkshire families--families who can trace their descent back to Norman William and behind him to the Saxon Thanes and Earls; and who look with ill-concealed disgust upon the _nouveaux riches_ who are so painfully to the fore just now in Belgravian drawing rooms and at crushes in Mayfair. Scarborough is not wildly gay; its visitors take their pleasures sedately, and the voice of the imitation nigger-minstrel is unheard in the land. One needs to be in rude health to enjoy Scarborough, for the sea breezes come rushing in from the lap of the Atlantic to mingle with the keen air of the downs; and if one's lungs are sound it is a delight to live. Hotel prices are fearfully and wonderfully conceived in Scarborough, but the landlords say people eat so much on account of the splendid air that they must charge high prices in self-defence.

The amusements and distractions of Scarborough? If one hunts or shoots there is plenty of sport. Several packs of hounds meet on the downs near by, and although the country is a bit stiff, the going is fairly decent. It may perhaps be considered a drawback that hounds occasionally disappear over the cliffs in the ardour of the chase, and that a too-eager hunter might easily do the same--with his rider on his back; but most men who hunt here say that they enjoy the spice of danger.

Scarborough has two features distinctively its own: its "Spa" and its cabs. Just why the long promenade where the band plays should be called the "Spa" no one knows, but the fact remains, and every Sunday all the world and his wife walk there for "Church Parade." The Scarborough cab is really a small Victoria, drawn by one horse, ridden by a correctly-got-up tiger, who lends a picturesque air to the trap. They go well, these small horses, and gallop up and down the long hills on which Scarborough is built, with greatest ease. The "day tripper," with his 'Arriet, is unknown here, for the simple reason that there would be nothing for him to do.

There are no stands in the streets to display "s'rimps," "whilks" and other questionable marine delicacies, put up in brown paper bags at "tuppence the quart"; no merry-go-rounds; no cheap photographic studios; or one-horse circuses where the manager is clown, acrobat and owner in one, to tempt the taste and gratify the curiosity of the lower classes. And there are no Americans in Scarborough. It is too far from Paris, and too quiet for the extraordinary specimens of nasal tendencies, who make an annual descent upon the Continent and swarm from Dan to Beersheba. One never meets them at home, these painfully rich and newly varnished Yankees who travel through Great Britain in great state and pomp, and whose breeding is shamed by that of the scullery maid in the cosy little inns they so disdain. It is really trying to see the impression most Englishmen have of Americans--impressions gathered simply from these inflictions who, knowing no one but the green-grocer on their corner at home, come abroad to astonish the natives; and who succeed in doing nothing but in making the appellation of American to stink in the nostrils of the foreigner.

Of course there are ruins near Scarborough, and again of course the favourite drive is to these ruins. Another excursion is to a hill overlooking the town, where tradition says that unsavoury individual yclept Oliver Cromwell, once stood, or sat or performed some other operation equally important.

Politically, as becomes its staid and exclusive _clientèle_, Scarborough is Conservative; and has no sympathy with an old man's visionary plans to break up a great Empire. Irish agitators appear occasionally but not often, and they rarely carry away a full purse from the collections they invariably take up.

Descriptions of places are invariably tiresome. One place is usually like another, and the best way to know a town or city is to go there; but anyone who can picture a town built up on the cliffs and down in the hollows between, with stretches of sandy beach in front, will have a fair idea of the Bournemouth of the north. The country round about Scarborough is attractive. Quaint villages quite out of the world like Symsbury, are met with at every turn; small market towns, like Yarm, where the old custom of engaging servants by the "hold fast" in the market-place on the yearly appointed day still obtains; and small seaside resorts, like Redcar and Coatbridge; with Whitby famous for its jet; all these are worth a visit. Yorkshire men are canny, and good at a bargain and no better judges of horseflesh are found anywhere. The only drawback connected with Scarborough is its distance from London, but that is really only a drawback to Londoners. The Scarborough man is rather proud of the fact. He looks with pity upon the benighted south of England man, and has no words to express his contempt for the finnicky foreigner, who comes to Scarborough and drinks sour red wine, instead of quaffing huge draughts of the glorious old Yorkshire ale.

CLIMBING IN LAKELAND.

ROSTHWAITE, NEAR KESWICK.--A couple of days since I started off with a barrister friend to do a days' climb in the Lake country. He promised me a good view from the top of Scafell Pike, but a rough time in getting there; and took an almost pathetic interest in my boots and "shorts," hinting darkly that certain mysterious "screes," over which the path lay, would test their strength and durability to the utmost. We travelled third class, of course, for my friend would have thought me insane to propose anything else; and, really, we were very comfortable, as all the seats were cushioned. He wore the regulation British walking costume: stout, heavy, hob-nail boots, thick woolen stockings, and loose and impossibly wide knickerbockers; while a blue serge jacket and a peaked cloth cap clothed his upper man. Of course, his short briar-wood pipe was to the fore, and on the whole, he looked comfortable. My own get-up was more ordinary, as I had started at half an hour's notice.

We rushed into Darlington station before long--an immense glass-covered structure, with platforms half a mile long--and there changed for Penrith and Keswick. We began to ascend soon after leaving Darlington, passing by Barnard Castle, the "beauty spot of Yorkshire"--the tracks lying over breezy moorlands. We changed at Penrith, a dreary junction, and reached Keswick about seven o'clock in a mist of half-twilight that was very kind to the distant mountains, making them appear much bigger and grander than they were ever meant to be. Fortunately, we found the Borrowdale coach still running, and as it would take us within two miles of our destination, we were well pleased. Before it started we had time to attend a very lively meeting of the Salvation Army in the Keswick market-place, where the tall, thin man who dealt out freely sundry dismal prophecies, betrayed painful need of a bronchial trochee.

The drive on the box seat of the four-in-hand was glorious. The moon came out as we reached the edge of Derwentwater and threw her soft light full on the lonely lake; and, what was of more importance, on the broad road ahead of us. The horses were fresh and the road inclining to a descent, so we rolled gaily on past the Lodore Hotel, hard-by the famous falls, until, too soon, we stopped before the Borrowdale Inn. Then, with a cheery good-night from the coachman, we started to walk the remaining two miles, our appetites forcibly reminding us that we had eaten nothing since early morning; and with a cheery feeling of expectancy for the comforts of the inn presided over by the famous Mrs. Rigg. The lights of the little hamlet of Rosthwaite soon appeared and we halted at a long, low, straggling house, buried in vines. A tall, stout lady stood in the doorway and proved herself to be _the_ Mrs. Rigg by the way in which she bustled about in all directions, calling several buxom country lasses to her aid. She sent two of them to prepare our much-wanted supper, while she herself piloted us to our quaint, low-ceilinged bed-rooms, where every bed had curtains. Now, Mrs. Rigg is a widow, and has been ever since the memory of man, and concerning the original Mr. Rigg nothing is known; but, whoever he was, people take more interest in the fact that his wife knows how to keep a good homely inn, called by Mrs. Rigg herself the "Royal Oak," but known to all the neighbourhood as "Mrs. Rigg's." Mrs. R. herself is a tall, stout old lady with a false front and an imposing cap, and when she sits in the little bar parlour behind the steaming tea kettle, reading the _Family Herald_, she presents a picture of comfort not easily surpassed. Mrs. Rigg is suspected of a leaning toward the village painter, to the regret of all concerned, and dismal are the forebodings of the aforesaid country lassies should she yield herself (and her inn) to his fascinations. We enjoyed our supper--huge chops served with mealy potatoes and foaming tankards of "bitter"--and then in the cozy smoke room (why never smoking room in England?), we proceeded to lay out the route for the next day. Our intention in coming to Rosthwaite had been to climb Scafell Pike and, possibly Glaramara; so we confidently looked forward to a fine day. But, oh, the despair when we woke up next morning, for the rain was coming down in a steady drizzle and the mist was floating gently over and about all the mountain tops within view. We met with rueful faces in the coffee room, for now Scafell was quite out of the question as well as Glaramara; for, of course, no view could be had on such a day, and the idea of wandering along the edge of precipices in the mist was hardly tempting.