ENGLISH WAYS AND BY-WAYS (continued 2)

"Why then have a sermon at all?"

"Well, it's the custom, and I believe in keeping up the old customs. And, besides, the parson ought to have something to do. Of course in a large town where there are working people, with a lot of drunkenness and fighting and that sort of thing, the parsons are pretty busy. As I said to my son-in-law a fortnight ago, when he was saying the Established Church ought to go, the money ought to be taken for other purposes, and all that sort of thing which the radicals are always saying, well, I said to him, 'You don't look deep enough. Think what the church saves the country every year in police alone! The Established Church is the bulwark of society,' I said, 'and if you break that down, what will take its place? The people who need it least will build churches for themselves, and those who need it most will have none. And, let me tell you, when that day comes, you will soon learn whether you are paying less or more to maintain order. And that is not all,' I said, for by this time I was pretty hot, 'the Established Church keeps alive the spirit of the empire. But in your chapels your ministers talk as if there were other countries as good as England. They are a lot of radicals and have no respect for land, yet it is on the land England depends, and the church knows that and never offends the landlord.' He didn't like this over-much, and I doubt if I go there soon again. No, I am all for the church; what I say is: 'As it was in the beginning, is now and ever shall be, world without end, Amen!'"

And with that confession of faith he knocked the ashes out of his pipe and stumped off to bed.

How will it all end? Will the church set its face against the rising tide of democracy and make Canute its patron saint? I don't dare ask John. I wish you were here that we might talk things over! You would be so sympathetic, for you love England dearly, which I fear John does not, and therefore, I feel, cannot understand her. Well, I comfort myself by thinking what I believe you would say: "England has the 'root of the matter' in her, and if a great crisis were to arise, Englishmen will show that they are to-day what they have always been, and the church will follow the higher call. England will never do penance and sit in a sheet, in the face of the nations confessing the 'sins and offenses of her youth,' but she will set her house in order and meet the new age with courage and faith and hope, as she has ever done, and the 'glory of the latter house will be greater than that of the former'! 'As it was in the beginning, is now and ever shall be,' embodies a great truth which your muddle-headed friend was trying to express. He thought, and alas! he is not alone in so thinking, that the form makes the stability, whereas it is the eternal stability of the English character in which he believes, and so do I."

So with these comforting thoughts I am going to bed. My Tory friend was right in one respect—it has not been a restful day!

XIV RURAL ENGLAND

On leaving "Barchester" we took the road to Gloucester. I think it safe to say that it is the finest road for motoring in England, which is equivalent to saying in the world. The French roads, I am told, are in some ways superior, but so straight and hard and white that travelling on them soon becomes monotonous. Then they are so artificial, running like the road the Tsar is said to have laid out with a ruler, between Petersburg and Moscow! But the English roads run naturally, with many a turn from town to town, just as man first found it easy to walk. Of course we now have roads at home equal to any—for the first year or two—but think how many generations have used these roads, and always, I imagine, kept them in repair. The difference is like that between a granite bridge and one of our new concrete ones. At first there seems nothing to choose between them; but when the rain and frost of a few seasons have done their work, the one has begun to look dingy and shabby, while the other has gained in dignity.

Of course it is not only the surface of the road which makes motoring on it so delightful; it is the continuous succession of lovely rural scenes. For example, we had not gone many miles when we met a horseman—an ancient groom we supposed—riding along the grass by the roadside and followed by a pack of hounds, which he was "walking." Ruth jumped from the car and begged to be allowed to take a kodak of them. He smilingly called them together, the older ones looking up into his face and the pups still nosing about the grass. The light was good and the promise of a satisfactory picture excellent.

The "groom" asked if he might have a picture when the film had been developed, which Ruth said she would be delighted to send if he would give her his address.

"Just address it, ma'am, to 'James the Huntsman, The Kennels, Blankshire.'"

"But your last name?" she asked.

"That is my name, ma'am, James the Huntsman."

So we learned that not only was he not a groom but that we were not in the twentieth century but still in feudal England, where a man's occupation was his designation—the individual not having yet emerged! That his status should be fixed for life was evidently as satisfactory to "James the Huntsman" as, it is to be presumed, was his master's, whether knight or baronet, to him.

"It is like a scene from 'Ivanhoe,'" said Ruth, when we were again under way. "If we were a little farther to the east, in Northamptonshire, where Sherwood Forest lies, I have no doubt we should meet Gurth the serf, or Robin Hood!"

"No," said I, "the serfs are working in factories, and Robin Hood is in the 'city.'"

"You talk like William Jennings Bryan," mocked Ruth.

A few miles farther on we came to another England. Again we met a horseman. I said this time a "groom," but Ruth said she was sure he would call himself "chevalier."

Whoever he was he looked noble enough to be a duke. He was riding a seal-brown horse whose coat shone like a chestnut in the sunlight. I noticed that the horse was restive, and so shut off the engine till he should pass. The rider thanked me, touching his cap—so I suppose he could not have been a duke—and remarked that the horse was "full of beans."

I said it was a superb animal, and the groom, leaning forward to pat his neck, for the horse was still nervous, replied: "He ought to be, sir, for he's own brother to"—I am sorry to say I have forgotten the name—"winner of the Derby." So we had met the aristocracy, after all!

Not long after this we met a flock of sheep. Again we stopped. But we got no thanks from the surly shepherd—Ruth said because he was so tired—but the panting dog, who ran from side to side on the road, gave us a grateful glance, as much as to say: "I am glad you did that, for had you kept on, these fools would have been all over the road, and I should have been beaten."

But it was not only the passengers on the "king's highway" who kept us entertained—not to say entranced—but houses and gardens on either side made it hard to keep the tenth commandment!

When I said this to Ruth, she replied that it could hardly be my neighbor's wife whom I coveted, which was true, if cattish, for the ones we saw were more worthy than alluring! The ox and the ass were not in evidence, but I suspect Ruth coveted the man servant, and specially the maid servant, of whom we caught glimpses from time to time, flitting across the well-trimmed lawns or standing at the servants' entrance, gossiping with the butcher or the baker or the candlestick-maker—what difference can it make to a young woman who is forbidden to have "followers"?

It was the houses which tempted me. There was an infinite variety to choose from—Elizabethan, Tudor, Jacobean (I am not sure I am always right about the period)—but I recognized the real Queen Anne. Here was a "gentleman's residence" and there a tiny cottage covered with climbing roses. I noted scores of Elizabethan houses with chimneys as graceful as the smoke which curled from them. Why cannot a modern architect design a chimney which will draw the eye as well as the smoke? And the gardens! Those of the poor as well as of the rich were a riot of color. There were dogs and ponies and "governess-carts," and all the things we are familiar with in the illustrated papers. As I looked at all these delectable things, it seemed to me that England was an earthly paradise; as old Gaunt says, "A second Eden." I grew melancholy as I remembered the "L" and the crowded subway, and the noise and the dirt of our chief city, the struggle for existence and the prevailing discontent—every man striving to surpass his neighbor—no one content with that station in life to which "it had pleased God to call him." How many Americans, I said to myself, believe God has called them to anything? Here, I continued, is peace and contentment. Would God that I were there!

Now Ruth has an uncanny way of knowing of what one is thinking, so I was not startled when she broke into my revery by saying:

"Yes, it is all beautiful, but how long could you stand it? I do not mean what you now see, but what you do not see! How many people have taken off their caps to us this morning simply because they believe us to belong to the 'gentry'? In that last village through which we passed, did the children 'bob' to us because they recognized our superiority in character or education? You would not have been the vicar of that lovely Norman church we passed five miles back one month before there would have been trouble! The 'servility' of the 'lower classes' would so have gotten on your nerves that you would have insulted some laborer for the satisfaction of having him answer you like a man! You would find another thing, which is that 'kowtowing' is not confined to one class. If the laborer 'kowtows' to the vicar, the vicar must 'kowtow' to the lord of the manor."

"Why, Ruth," I cried, "where is Bryan now? You talk like the ladies on the soap-boxes in Union Square!"

"You forget," she said, "that I am not talking about myself. I should adore to have the school children 'bob' to me, and would be quite willing in turn to 'bob' to the Lady Emeline or to the Dowager Countess. But you! Really, John, I sometimes think you know yourself less than any one I ever met!"

"It's lucky I have you to show me what I am like," I growled.

"Indeed it is," she cheerfully replied. "I'll tell you whom you are like: you are exactly like Crugan!"

To show you how absurd the comparison is, I must tell you something about Tom Crugan. He lived in our ward before he made his fortune, and was a good fellow—is still, so far as I know! More than once he had helped me when some poor wretch had got into trouble and needed a little "influence." When he got the contract for a section of the subway, he made a lot of money—I hope honestly! Then he made a lucky investment in real estate, which, curiously enough, the city found it must have—at an advance in price—and then Tom and his family made the grand tour. Mrs. Crugan kept herself in the background, but the girls, who were real Irish beauties, had a succès fou. One of them married an Italian prince, and the other a German count. Well, Tom stayed abroad about two years and then suddenly returned. He came down to our part of the town soon after, to look after some property he held there, and I saw him.

"Hello, Crugan," I said. "I am glad to see you back. Did you like Europe?"

"I did for a while," he replied, "but the best day of the trip was when I set foot in Hoboken. The carriage was there to meet us, and when I had put my wife in, she says to me: 'Ain't you comin' too, Tom?'

"'Not in a carriage, I ain't,' says I. 'And what is more, if that coachman touches his hat to me again, I'm liable to do him an injury! You go on up, mother, and I'll be there most as soon as you, anyway.'

"So I got onto a Christopher Street ferry, and caught a crosstown and swung onto a Fourth Avenue and went out onto the front platform to smoke a cigar and watch the driver handle his team. Pretty soon a mail-wagon got across the tracks, and he had to pull up pretty sharp, and the handle of his brake caught me in the stomach. Did he throw a fit because he had hit a man who was smoking a twenty-five-cent cigar? He did not. He turns to me and says: 'Why the hell can't you keep your belly out of my brake?' Say, I could have kissed that man!"

XV EDUCATION

One day at Gloucester and one at Wells enabled us to get only hasty impressions of each. The west front of the latter was not so impressive as the pictures of it had led me to expect. Indeed, it looks like a sort of afterthought, and might as well have been put a hundred feet farther away for all the connection it has with the cathedral. However, when I am made an English bishop, it is Wells I shall choose for the bishop's garden!

But Gloucester, like Rome, would require a lifetime to exhaust. The whole history of western ecclesiastical architecture is built into its walls. Like the English constitution, it is neither an evolution nor a revolution. It is a series of new things put onto the old. Perhaps for that reason it is so impressive. It is not logical, but it works! The rough Saxon stonework was not torn down when the more stately Norman was added but left standing to bear witness to the past. And so the various styles of Gothic, from the early pointed to the highly decorative, have in turn been added, and the result is a structure in some ways the most impressive in England and perfectly representative of the English people. I thought of "The Chambered Nautilus":

From Wells we returned to Bath, crossing the Mendips, or are they the Cotswolds? On the steep ascent we passed two bicyclists, a parson and a very pretty girl, evidently his daughter. I wished we had two vacant seats to offer them, for it is a stiff climb. We did offer the one we had to the pretty girl, but though she looked tired, she was a good sport, and declined to leave her father to toil up the hill alone. I hope he was grateful, but Englishmen have a way of accepting sacrifices from their womenfolk which we do not understand. At any rate, it was pleasant to see the companionship between the two.

We spent the night at Bath in a pretentious and uncomfortable hotel, and moralized on Beau Brummel and his preposterous patron. I can never forgive Sir Walter Scott for his laudation of the Prince Regent, but, on the other hand, Thackeray's picture is as relentless as a portrait by Sargent.

From Bath we passed over to Winchester, taking in a corner of the New Forest en route.

After we had seen the great cathedral and college at Winchester, we walked to St. Gross, which is a home for old men. I have forgotten how old it is, but the custom of receiving pilgrims remains unchanged through all the many years. Each "pilgrim" is given a piece of bread and a mug of ale at the porter's lodge. We pilgrims were not hungry enough to enjoy either.

I had a letter to the head master, who, unfortunately, was away, but one of the house masters received us kindly and showed us about.

Of course the talk turned on education and the relative merits of English and American schools. Our guide had never been in America, but if you think that prevented him from having definite views on American methods of education, you do not know the English! He was inclined to admit that what he called our "board schools" were, perhaps, in some respects better than the English, but when it came to the question of "public" schools—such as the Phillips Academies at Exeter and Andover, or St. Paul's or Groton, he found it difficult to speak what he believed to be the truth and at the same time be polite. So he contented himself with saying that the English standard is much higher; which, I fear, cannot be denied. I asked him what boys of fifteen were reading in Latin, and when he replied, "Cæsar and the first books of Virgil," I said it would be the same with us. But when he explained that by "reading" he did not mean merely translation into English, but also retranslation into Latin in the style of the author, and added that boys must be able to write good Latin prose of their own composition, I gave up!

I asked him how he accounted for the fact that the standard was higher with them than with us. He said because English boys studied harder and longer hours than our boys do. He thought the three months' holiday fatal to continuous progress. "Then," he added, "your boys go to school too late. English boys are sent to a preparatory school at nine—often at eight—years of age, so they acouire habits of study before yours begin."

Much of this is no doubt true, but there are some things he does not know and which, mirabile dictu, I did not tell him! Do you ask "why"? Well, to tell you the truth, I did begin, but soon found he was one of those Englishmen who, having made up his mind, does not care to listen to new evidence. Moreover, the schoolmaster the world over is in the habit of teaching and does not care to be taught—certainly not by one not of the guild. No doubt you will say to yourself that this is not a peculiarity of the schoolmaster but is true of the clergy as well. However, in this case there were some things not taken into account. For instance, the holidays may be too long, but in our climate the boy who was kept at work till the 1st of August would not learn much more than he does now. Moreover, I question if the American boy, with his nervous temperament, is capable of the long hours of application which the more stolid English lad bears with ease. Whether it is an advantage, from the standpoint of scholarship, for a boy who has just emerged from infancy to be sent from home, I do not know. But the reason it can be done in England and could not be done in America—except in the case of those poor little unfortunates whose mothers and fathers have been divorced—is that in England the decision lies with the father, whereas with us it is the mother who has the final word. That it is desirable to send a child from home before there has been time to instil lasting principles, I fancy few American mothers would admit. Will English mothers when they have gained the independence of their transatlantic sisters continue the custom? Who can say?

I admit that all this sounds like what the lawyers call "confession and avoidance," but I believe there is a reason for the higher standard in England which perhaps our guide did not know, or was too polite to mention, but which, were it recognized, would lift our standard without resorting to the remedies he suggested. I suspect the real difficulty is that we have no such large body of well-trained university men to draw upon for teachers as England has. We find it difficult with so many attractive and lucrative careers open to young men to find many who are willing to make teaching a life-work, and therefore must do the best we can with the material we have. In other words, before we change our system would it not be well for us to make the profession of teaching as attractive with us as it is in England? What college president with us has such a position of influence, such a house and salary, as has the head master of Winchester, Eton, or Harrow?

You will be inclined to say as Prof. Corson did when I asked him, when I was a freshman, what subject he would suggest for a "composition." "Any except 'Education'!"

XVI A BY-ELECTION

From Winchester we motored to Salisbury. The spire of the cathedral is perhaps the most beautiful in the world, but the cathedral as a whole did not impress me as much as I had expected. Perhaps I was still under the influence of Gloucester, or more likely of the regal shrine at Winchester. At any rate, when I learned that it had been built by one man, I lost interest. I am too familiar with that sort of work! The charm of most of the English cathedrals is due to the fact that of most of them it is true that

Salisbury did not grow; it was built! It has an air of artificiality about it that not even the beautiful spire, which is a later addition, can atone for.

It is fair to say that Ruth did not agree with me. To her it seemed one of the most beautiful of all we had seen. Indeed, she said the reason I did not appreciate it was because I was influenced by "Martin Chuzzlewit"! That was because I had asked her from which angle she supposed Mr. Pecksniff had first drawn it. At any rate, we had to agree to differ.

As we got into the car at the gate of the close a gentleman who had been looking it over asked whither we were bound. When I told him across the Plain, he strongly advised me to avoid the highway, which, he said, was quite uninteresting, and to take a road which, by many a turning, would show the Plain as the highway could not do. I do not know that man's name, and I do not wish to meet him again! He probably is one of those men who take pleasure in walking—a form of exercise which I detest! He certainly has never driven a car. Had he done so he would know that there is nothing so distressing to a motorist as a "picturesque" road! We descended into little gullies and mounted little hillocks till my back was nearly broken with changing gears, and the car looked as if I had bought it second-hand and used it hard!

We stopped long enough at Stonehenge to get an impression of its dreariness, and then pushed on to a village on the north side of the Plain. We reached there late for lunch, and learned that the name of the place was Divises, and that a by-election for member of parliament was in progress.

The inn was crowded to suffocation, and some of the loungers had had as much to drink as was good for them, and some a little more. I was in no amiable frame of mind, as you may imagine. No one would pay any attention to us—they were too busy serving drink.

I learned that the question at issue was what we call the "saloon." A Labor member was standing on a platform which called for the regulation of the public house, while the Conservative candidate was for "free rum." One would have thought that here was an issue which would divide the sheep from the goats. But there were other questions involved—land, for instance, and the Established Church.

Alas! I soon found that the shepherd had taken the side of the goats! While I waited in vain for something to eat I heard a great shout, and going to the door saw the parson, driven by his little girl—her fair hair blowing in the wind—the pony decked out with blue ribbons and the whip, carried at a knowing angle, adorned with a bow of the same color. I am glad to say the child was left outside, but the burly parson, looking more like a farmer than Herbert's "Priest of the Temple"—as probably he was—elbowed his way through the crowd and called for a drink; then, amid the shout of the half-drunken crowd, gave "The King and the Church."

Ruth, who had been pale enough before, now flushed so red that I was afraid she would "start something," and nudged her to keep quiet. Then I thought she was going to burst into tears. At that moment a charming young fellow came into the room and said to her: "I beg your pardon, but this is no place for you. My mother has a sitting-room, and I am sure would be glad if you would join her."

She hesitated a moment, but I said: "I am deeply obliged to you, and if you could get my wife out of this I should be very grateful."

So she followed him, and when later I joined them I found that the lady of the private room had given her a cup of tea and made her as comfortable as was possible in such a place.

When she learned we were Americans she said she was mortified that we should have seen such a sight—she too had seen, from her window, the parson's entrance. "I suppose, however," she continued, "such things are seen in every country at election time."

I said we had "toughs" who made trouble, but that any minister who behaved as the vicar or rector of this parish had done would be "ridden on a rail." I don't think she "got" that. I added that I thought that our laws which forbid the sale of liquor while the polls are open acted as a preventive of trouble.

"Ah," she said, "that is what Mr. Bowles"—the Labor member—"is trying to have enacted. But, you see, the vested interests are strong, and then he is so radical!"

You may be sure we did not tarry long in that place, but took our way back to Bath, where we had planned to spend another night.

Whether the sheep or the goats won the election I am unable to tell you. I am rather inclined to think it was the goats. The church and the public house make a strong alliance!

XVII SHEEP-DOGS

Every one told us that we made a mistake in beginning our trip through the valley of the Wye at Ross. I think they were right. It is like doing the Hudson from Albany to New York, instead of taking the Palisades first, then West Point, and the Catskills last. However, it was more convenient to work north than to go up to Hereford, then down the valley, and again come back to our starting-place. At any rate, we did begin at Ross!

Of course our first excursion was to Tintern Abbey. What a gem it must have been in its glory! And I am thankful there has been no attempt to restore it. At the same time I think it a pity that the grounds should be so neglected. It is like neglecting the grave of one we love. So it was with a sad heart that we turned away and drove to a spot, "a few miles above Tintern Abbey," where more than a hundred years ago the immortal poem was written. I read it aloud, and we tried to breathe the atmosphere and feel "Beside these steep and lofty cliffs" what Wordsworth felt as he "heard these waters, rolling from their mountain springs with a sweet inland murmur." It is indeed a "wild and secluded scene impressing thoughts of more deep seclusion."

But these poetic thoughts were not destined to last long, for, Ruth remarking that it was getting damp, we started up the engine and drove along the road on the edge of the cliff, looking for a place for tea.

This we soon found, but as there was no garage, I drew up on the grass opposite the inn, where I thought the car would be out of the way and quite safe. A farmer, coming from the opposite direction, had evidently had a like thought, and had left his cart on the same side of the road. The horse had been taken out and the shafts tilted up at an angle which brought the ends of them directly opposite the radiator of the car. I put on the brake and out we got. I was surprised to see the motor move forward a few inches. The long grass had deceived me, for the ground, instead of being level, as I had supposed, sloped gently, and the brake had not been pulled back far enough to hold it in place. Those few inches did the business. The sharp, iron-shod end of one of the shafts pricked the radiator as neatly as a lancet opens an abscess, and the water gushed out!

This was indeed an accident. We were miles from a garage and I had not the least idea what to do. An old farmer, standing by, summed up the situation in a word when, turning to Ruth, he said: "It's like 'avin' your horse took with the gripes!" Fortunately, at that moment a kindly disposed cyclist came along, and with, I suppose, the same complacent satisfaction that the owner of a Ford car has in dragging a Pierce Arrow out of a ditch, unpacked his repair kit and plugged the radiator with some preparation for mending tires.

We were duly grateful, for it enabled us to go on our way, though we leaked like a watering-cart, and I should not like to say how many times the radiator was filled!

At last we came to a garage where I thought we should find relief. I do not remember what kind of a radiator ours is, but you may be sure the proprietor pointed out that it was the wrong kind, being almost impossible to mend, whereas if we had the kind which he had in stock it would have been a simple matter! I suppose every trade has certain stock phrases, such as the doctor's "Had I been called earlier." However, there was nothing to be done but to leave the car with the man who said he would do what he could.

We returned to the hotel on foot and not at all in a Wordsworthian frame of mind. The worst of it was that I had no one to blame but myself! I got what comfort I could out of the reflection that the insurance company would have to pay. But, as the Irishman said, the worst of that is "you've got to lose to gain!"

The next day while we were waiting for the report from the garage the porter took pity on us and suggested that we might like to see a trial of sheep-dogs, which was to take place at a farm near by. It did not sound exciting, but faute de mieux we decided to go.

Why does not some one revise the bromidic formula, and instead of saying "How small the world is!" say "How small we are!" For indeed our lives are very restricted. How little we know of the interests of others! The trial of the sheep-dogs brought this home to me.

Gentlemen and farmers had driven in from miles around to see this match, which, I was told, is an annual event. I am not sure I can describe the scene, but I will try.

There was a pasture of about twenty acres in extent, in which a flock of sheep were feeding. At a given signal a young man—evidently a farmer—stepped forth with his dog, to which he spoke almost in a whisper. In a twinkling the beautiful and intelligent creature leaped forth, like an arrow from a bow, and began to gather the sheep into a compact mass. This he did without alarming them, so that they moved slowly together, while still cropping the grass. At the far end of the field there was a fold, toward which they slowly but surely moved. No sooner, however, did they discover what was before them than they began to scatter, like young children summoned to bed before the accustomed hour! It was then the dog showed his training. His master blew on a whistle and he scampered to the right, another whistle and he flashed to the left. Now the sheep were again moving toward the fold, but they had begun to run and were bleating piteously. Evidently this was not good "form," for there was a sharp whistle and the dog dropped to the ground, lay motionless for a moment, and then crept slowly forward when the panic had subsided. Now came the critical moment. The fold was built with an opening to the south, but when that should have been passed there was another opening to the left which led into an enclosure large enough to hold the flock. I should have been satisfied when the dog had succeeded in getting the sheep into that, but not so the judges. Both dog and sheep were given a moment's rest and then a new signal was given, as much as to say: "Now, mind your eye!" At the far end of the enclosure was a narrow opening through which the sheep must pass in Indian file. Into the pen then the dog leaped and nosed the bell-wether toward the narrow passage. When that had been done, the others followed meekly and found themselves in another enclosure, out of which they were, in due time, led through the same gateway by which they had first entered, and found themselves once more in the pasture from which they had been gathered. Then the dog came bounding back to his master, and crouching at his feet looked up into his face, as much as to say: "Was it well done?" There was a loud burst of applause, and the farmer stooped down and stroked the dog's head as if he were saying, "Well done, good and faithful servant," and the expression in the creature's eyes showed that he had entered into the "joy of his lord."

I did not care to see more, but it might have seemed discourteous to withdraw before the match was ended, though later I wished I had.

XVIII BRIGANDS AND BOOTBLACKS

The car was not ready for us the next day. Indeed, I found that the garage was not able to do anything with it, and so telegraphed to London to have a new radiator sent down C.O.D. It was then I was thankful that I had an American, i.e., a standardized car!

I thought it would be well to take advantage of the delay to make a little journey by rail to a town near by—that is, near as the crow flies—to pay a visit to the parents of a lad in the parish at home. I thought they might like to hear news of him, and I knew it would give him pleasure to learn that I had seen his people, of whom he had often spoken.

The trains, however, do not follow the track of the crow, and I found that what looked like a short journey necessitated two changes and rather long waits at each junction. I was reminded of a bright saying of Mrs. Freeman Allen. When her husband was the rector of the parish at Amherst some one asked her how long she had been there. She answered: "Seven years." But her husband said: "No, dear, you are mistaken, only five years." To which she replied: "You forget, dear, the time spent at Palmer!"

I reached my destination at about noon. Captain Burchell, the father of my young friend, is a retired naval officer, and proved to be one of the most silent men I had ever met. After he had examined my credentials he called his wife, and, having invited me to stay to lunch, evidently felt he had done his duty—and what more does England expect from any sailor! Nevertheless, no one could look at that strong face without seeing that he was one of that fine body of men who have kept alive the spirit of the English navy during the long years of "inglorious" peace, so that if war ever does come, it will be ready.

The wife made up for the taciturnity of the husband—perhaps was the cause of it! She was keenly interested in hearing about her boy, as, no doubt, the father was too, only she said so, and he did not! It was years since they had seen him, and probably had given up hope of ever seeing him again, and were reconciled.

I suggested that as it was now an easy thing to make the journey, she might be induced to go out to him. But at this she cried out. How strange it is that the English, who are the masters of the sea, have such a dread of it! Perhaps it is because they have lost so many at sea, but whatever may be the reason, it is a fact that the average Englishwoman—and the same is almost as true of men—seems to think that a trip to New York is as dreadful as the voyage of Columbus.

But I soon found that there were other reasons besides the "perils of the great deep" that alarmed the gentle lady.

"I should be afraid of brigands," she said.

I laughed and said I did not think there was much danger from them.

"But, indeed, there must be. I frequently see in the Times accounts of armed men entering into the railway carriages and robbing the passengers."

I had to admit such things did occur, but as they happen in the Far West, and her boy now lives in New Rochelle, the danger did not seem imminent. But as the good lady did not seem to know whether New Rochelle is a suburb of New York or of Omaha, I gave it up.

Indeed, I soon learned that there were spiritual enemies to be feared more dreadful than those of flesh and blood.

She suddenly said: "You have a great many dissenters in the 'States,' have you not?"

"Oh, no," I said. "We have none."

"You surprise me. Roy [her son] has written me that there seem to be more of them than of church people, and that their chapels are often more beautiful than the churches. I was also sorry to hear that he had gone with a young lady to one of their places of worship, 'The Fifteenth Avenue Church,' I think he called it."

"Oh," I said, "I see, you mean non-Episcopalians. Yes, there are millions of those. But, as we have no established church, of course there can be no dissenters."

I confess I thought this rather neat. But she solemnly answered:

"They are dissenters from the church of Christ!"

Fortunately, at that moment the daughter came in from tennis, and I hoped that by giving a more worldly turn to the conversation I might fare better, so said:

"I have been trying to induce your mother to pay your brother a visit, but she does not seem to like the idea. Perhaps you might enjoy it more."

"Indeed I should not," she cried. "I hear the hotels are dreadful."

I thought of London! but meekly replied that I did not think she would find them unbearable.

"I am sure I should. A friend of mine—Bessie Salter, you know, Mumsie—went over to the 'States' a year ago, and told me, when she returned, that if one wished to have one's boots blacked, one must go down into the cellar and cock one's feet up on two iron pegs, and have them brushed by a grinning 'nigger.'"

I now gave up "for keeps," and wondered why I had come! However, I consoled myself with the thought that it was part of one's education. I felt that I had got to the heart of the great middle class of England. It is religious, kindly, and self-satisfied to a degree unequalled in the world.

I was rather depressed that evening as I gave an account of my day to Ruth. But she laughed till the tears came.

"If only I had been there to see your face! Why, it is perfect. If one read it in a book one would think the writer was trying to parody Dickens on America. Honestly, did it really happen, or have you embroidered it?"

"I give you my word, it is the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth!"

"Well, I hope it will be blest to you! A hundred years and more of independence, and the dear old things think of us as an unworthy 'colony,' with dissenters and brigands and boot-blacks! My dear, I hope I may never hear you brag of that unhappy country again! And now come down and get some dinner. They are going to have cherry tart and custard—for a change!"

XIX THE PISTON-ROD

To-day we have enjoyed one of the most beautiful rides in the world. I do not mean grand, like the Corniche, but lovely, because man has beautified what the hand of God had made. The valley of the Wye would have been charming had man never cultivated it, but now it blossoms like the rose. We were tempted to turn off from the main road that we might get a better view of the lovely gardens and charming houses all along the way. I believe it is disputed whether Kent or Shropshire is the more beautiful county; but I cast my vote for Shropshire. I reckon Ruth picked out a score of houses in which she said, had she them, life would be full of joy.

"Do you wonder," she said, "that Englishmen in exile—in India, China, Canada, South Africa, and even America—turn back with longing to such homes as these? Surely nothing like it is to be found on earth! But it makes me sad to think how many of these happy girls playing in these gardens must go out to the colonies, and how many of those dear little boys may be killed in some obscure and unnecessary war! Our people have been pilgrims from the beginning, but what New Englander going to the West, or what Virginian crossing the Alleghanies, or farmers trekking from Iowa to Northwest Canada have left anything like this? No wonder 'Home-week' is enough for us! But the English carry with them the smell of the newly turned earth to the desolate, sun-baked plains of India, and the scent of the roses to the snows of Hudson's Bay. And yet, with all their deep sentiment for home, they do not die of nostalgia as do the French when they are taken away from the asphalt and the theatre! What a people they are!"

After this rhapsody there was silence for a little space, and then Ruth came back to earth with the remark: "How fortunate it is that we have never had trouble with our tires! I feared we might be changing them all the time."

I sapiently remarked: "Well, you see we have not gone far enough yet. These tires are guaranteed for five thousand miles."

She pondered this for a moment, and then said: "I don't see how they can be guaranteed, with all this broken glass lying about the road. Think how the drunken carters throw out the empty beer-bottles!"

I don't know why it is, but at times Ruth irritates me! It is so hard to explain to a woman anything that involves a mathematical problem. I made no reply, but the remark troubled me. I could not frame an explanation which satisfied me or in a way I felt she would understand! I tried on the law of average, like the insurance actuaries, but, as I say, I could not get it to suit me. It was something like my early attempts to explain to a Bible class why Jacob, rather than Esau, should have inherited the blessing!

However, my mind was soon diverted by the charming scenery and the unfamiliar sights on every side. But about an hour later an unfamiliar sound called me from the beauties of England to the motor which I was driving.

Ruth said: "What can that be?"

I confessed I did not know. It came at regular intervals. When the car ran fast it was quick, when I slowed down it lessened in frequency but not in volume. I stopped and looked under the hood, but could find nothing amiss. So we continued on our way. It seemed to grow worse, and soon the whole car was shaken by the jar. Then I remembered I had never tested the valves to see if they leaked, so I again lifted the hood and dropped a few drops of oil on each of the valves in turn and started the engine up. Yes, that was the trouble, Nos. 2 and 4 were not quite tight. I was much pleased with myself, and when I had tightened them took my place at the wheel, congratulating myself on being such a good mechanic. Indeed, I did not think Ruth overstated the case when she said: "I think you are wonderful." But, alas! the noise and the jar continued, and I began to fear that some serious injury had been sustained.

When I opened the hood once more I showed Ruth how to start the engine so that I could test the engine better than when it was at rest. I put my head down so near the cylinder that I nearly burned my ear, and found that there was no noise at all! I then told her to let in the clutch and let the car run on the road slowly. "I said 'slowly'!" I cried, as the motor nearly ran over me. So Ruth tried again. I hopped along by the side of the car as best I could, hearing the distressing noise more plainly than ever, coming, I was now convinced, from the interior of the cylinder.

"We have broken a piston-rod," I said in a calm but desperate tone, "and the car will have to be laid up for an indefinite time to replace it."

"But how could we break a piston-rod when we have met with no accident that could break anything?" exclaimed Ruth.

Like a doctor who has diagnosed a case to his own satisfaction, I could afford to be patient with a layman, so I replied: "Well, you see there is sometimes a flaw in the metal, and the mere expansion and contraction by heat and cold may cause the metal to break without any concussion at all."

It was a tiny village in which we had stopped, but all the inhabitants had assembled, and it was surprising to see how many of them there were!

"What's the trouble?" said one.

"A broken piston-rod," I replied tersely. Indeed, annoying as it was, I felt a certain pride in the gravity of the situation! I was like a man seized with a sudden pain in the night, whose trouble the doctor declares to be "appendicitis"; he is alarmed, but still has the satisfaction of feeling that the family will now know that he did not call them from their beds for a vulgar stomach-ache!

I was about to inquire if there was any one in the village who had a horse which could tow us to the nearest garage, when Ruth remarked: "There is one funny thing about it——"

This did irritate me, and I sarcastically remarked: "I am glad your sense of humor is so keen. I suppose I am dull, but a broken piston-rod does not strike me as 'humorous."

Her eyes filled with tears, as they always do when my ill temper takes the form of sarcasm, and I felt like the brute I am. So I hurriedly added: "It's all right, honey, what were you going to say?"

"I was only going to say," said she, with a gulp, and tactfully changing the form of her remark, "that it seems strange that we should hear no sound when we are standing still and the engine running if the trouble is a piston-rod."

I pondered this for a moment and then said: "Well, let's see if that is so." I started the engine and it ran as sweetly as one could wish, but as soon as the car began to move—bump, bump, bump was heard louder than ever.

At that moment an urchin, who had been doing some investigating on his own hook, called out: "Your tire's flat!"

The announcement was as reassuring and as humiliating as to have the doctor say, when you were convinced you had appendicitis, "What the deuce have you been eating?" This tiny layman had diagnosed correctly a case which the learned of the faculty had failed to understand! He promptly received his fee and scampered off with his companions to spend it before Ruth and I had reached the back of the car and were gazing at a long nail protruding from the tire of one of the rear wheels.

I had never changed a rim before, but I remembered the agent had told me that it took three minutes. It did—and twenty-seven more—but what was that compared with a week's waiting to have a broken piston-rod replaced?

When we were again under way, I said: "We were talking this morning about the guarantee on tires, and I ought to have explained that the guarantee, of course, refers only to the bursting of a tire and not to an accident like this." Why is it we men cannot make up our minds to tell the truth to the wives of our bosoms? I have not in mind now our wickedness but our folly. Ruth knew as well as I did that this great truth had not dawned on my clouded brain until the rusty nail had punctured the tire and my ignorance at the same time! Of course she expressed her gratification at this bit of valuable information. What would women do with their spare time if they did not have to waste so much of it in "saving the faces" of their lords!

XX FALSTAFF

We were destined to have another experience with the car that day before we reached our destination. As we drew near Shrewsbury there was a sharp shower, which, though it did not last many minutes, was enough to make the roads rather greasy. As we had, however, such a short distance to go, it did not seem worth while to put on the chains. As we drove along the main street I was very careful, fearing we might skid. There is a tramway running through the street, which did not make things easier, for the rails were wet and shining in the rain. The street is lined with trees, and on one side is a high brick wall. My subconscious mind was noting all these things and perhaps allowing me to drive a little faster than I had intended, when suddenly the car, as if it were possessed of a devil, shot from the track to the sidewalk, passing between two trees, grazing the wall, and was back again on the rails before one could say "Jack Robinson," or even the English equivalent, "Knife"! It was not the rear wheels which had slipped but the front ones! No one had ever told me that could happen, nor should I have known how to guard against it if they had. Was it not fortunate that it was the tea hour that the car chose for this little side-trip? All the tradespeople were in the back rooms behind their shops, and the street was almost deserted. I trembled to think what might have happened had children been on their way to or from school, or feeble folk had failed to jump like grasshoppers! I never was more thankful than when I turned the motor into the garage of the "Raven."

Our first business in Shrewsbury was, of course, to visit the battle-field. I reminded Ruth as we drove out of the town the following morning of a saying of yours: that the best investment any nation or town could make was to breed a genius! "Sir Walter Scott," you said, "had brought more money to Scotland than all the ship-building on the Clyde, and that the money spent each year in Marseilles, by men and women who came from all over the world to look at the Château d'If, and speculate as to which side of it a man, who had never lived, had escaped could not be counted for multitude!" It is the same here. What a triumph of the imagination it is that after four hundred years pilgrims should still be wending their way to the field of Shrewsbury, as many were doing that morning! Not because it was historical—as the French say—"they mock themselves well of that." It is Shakespeare who is the Pied Piper that led us all to the spot where Harry Monmouth and Hotspur fought indeed, but where Falstaff bore off the honors of the day!

What a futile fight it was! Would not England have been better off if Percy had won? Did not the triumph of Henry IV sow the dragon's teeth that were harvested in the Wars of the Roses? Did it not lead to the desolation of France and the crime of Jeanne d'Arc's death? It is the genius of Shakespeare alone which lends glamour to this stupidity. Look at the heroes! Has any figure in history, except the miserable Stuarts, called forth such sympathy as the reckless Hotspur? How much Percy resembles our national hero! It is the feminine in us that admires Henry V—the reformed rake! It would seem as if the prudent, calculating world reacts in shame from Henry IV, as if it saw in him a picture of itself, and admires the reckless Percy just because it dare not follow him! Falstaff is the real hero. The fool at the feast of folly! Gross and witty, brave enough but cynical—what genius to draw respectable people to such companionship and compel them to enjoy it though they are ashamed to be seen with him! I suppose the real explanation of this moral paradox is that human nature esteems a sinner more than it does a hypocrite. The Lord Chancellor was a more respectable man than Falstaff, but he was a humbug, and we are glad the fat knight flouted him.

While I was thus moralizing and, no doubt, boring Ruth, we had reached the battle-field, and she exclaimed: "Why, there is Mr. Rhodes!" the historian, whom she had known in Boston—and ran to meet him.

"Oh, Mr. Rhodes," she cried, "I am sure you have made some new historical discovery!"

"I have, indeed," he gravely replied, but with a twinkle in his eye.

"Tell me at once what it is," she asked eagerly.

"I have discovered a new lie of Falstaff's—he 'fought a long hour by Shrewsbury clock,' and the clock is not visible from the battle-field!"

Shrewsbury was one of the ancient and is still one of the modern gates into Wales, and had we been tied to a route we should have entered the kingdom of Glendower from there, but we received two letters which changed our plans, and led us to leave the motor, and depart in different directions by train. Of which you will hear in due time.

XXI THE BLACK COUNTRY

My letter was from Archdeacon Williams. I had never met him but had read his books and been much influenced by them, as I know you have been. To tell the truth, I hesitated about accepting his invitation to spend the "week-end," for I feared I might be disappointed! Authors are like miners: they put the precious metal into their books, but when one gets to the mine there is apt to be a lot of "slag" lying about! But it was not so in this case. The books are the man—he lives as he talks.

England is the land of contrasts. Shropshire seems to belong to another planet, when one gets into the dark and chilly atmosphere of the black country. It was most depressing. Instead of the charming vicarage I had pictured, I found a plain brick house on the street of the town, and instead of a blooming garden, a few sickly shrubs, blackened, like everything else, by the smoke from the mills.

But within all was sweetness and light. The house was overflowing with delightful children, and every one seemed to be at work. Or, perhaps I should say, every one seemed to have a purpose, for as I arrived at tea-time, work had been suspended.

There was but one drawback: the archdeacon does not smoke, and does not seem to have heard that any one else does! I thought that three days would be more than I could bear. But, indeed, mind and body were kept so busy that I hardly missed my pipe at all! Can I say more?

The archdeacon and I sat up until all hours of the night, talking of the things which are most worth while.

He is an extraordinary man—not only a good classical scholar but also a notable mathematician. He is quite at home in all the scientific theories which are the vogue to-day, and insisted that theology can have no interest for the modern mind until theologians abandon the mediæval, a priori method for the inductive, and use words as the symbols of truths which can be verified. Then it will be found that the "faith" for which the saints contended was the reality without which man cannot live. He said many things of which I will tell you when we meet; but one I send you now, for you might have said it yourself! "Men are forever talking about 'faith' as if the important thing were the quantity of it, whereas the thing that matters is its quality. The faith which overcame the world is not the mass of opinion which has accumulated through the ages, but the deep conviction that God is Spirit, and that the character of that Spirit has been revealed in the person of Jesus."

The way the man works would, I think, astonish you. This is what we did on Saturday: breakfast at 8, then prayers in the parish church at 9. He agrees with Bishop Creighton that it is better to have many of the parish come together for prayers each day than to have family prayers, with which, I am sure, you will no more agree than I do! At 9.30 he shut himself in his study and did not appear again until 1 o'clock. Then we had dinner, all the family taking part in the talk, which was good, and I listened. The last you will not believe, but it is true!

Mrs. Williams is as remarkable in her way as he, and is a real intellectual companion. When I spoke to him of her, he said: "Think of the men who are asphyxiated by dull wives!" I did!

The children adore their father, though Rose—a girl of about twelve—told me they could have a pony if their father did not give so much to the poor. When I suggested that this was a good way to use money, she agreed, but added: "It seems a pity there is not enough for both." In which opinion, no doubt, many will agree.

At 2.30 a large van drove up to the door, and into it we all piled, except the very little ones, to go to the Sunday-school treat. We stopped at many a corner to pick up the teachers—all of whom were workers in the mills—and drove to a grove some miles away, where the feast was spread.

I sat next a man of about fifty years of age, who, when he learned that I was an American, "let himself go." He had friends who had migrated to the "States," and admitted that the wages were much larger than in England, but added that, as the expense of living was so much greater, there was not much in it. I did not remind him that the greater expense meant also better living conditions, for I wanted to hear him talk. He complained that our people worked longer hours than they did, and were so tired at the end of the day that they could not enjoy the rest when it came. He wanted to know if the tariff helped our trade. I laughed and told him there was great difference of opinion on that subject, and that I did not pretend to be an authority, but was inclined to think that the willingness of the workers to use new machinery had more to do with our prosperity than anything the government did.

"Ay," said he, "that is what the masters tell us, but we do not heed them. We know that this new machinery can be speeded up till a man's heart is broke."

It was not the man's opinion that interested me so much as his willingness to talk; for I had heard frequent complaints that the working men would talk freely only with their mates. But I got a new light on that, for, when we had risen and sung "God Save the King," my neighbor turned to me and said: "You will excuse me if I have talked too free, but this is the first time in my life that I ever talked with a gentleman."

I could have wept. "But," I said, "you must often have talked to the vicar?"

"Ay," he replied, "but he is a man." And with this cryptic saying I had to be content!

One other thing he told me that I am sure will interest you. He said that in the dark days of the cotton famine, during our Civil War, he could remember as a little boy seeing his father go, with many others, to receive the food distributed to the poor. "That was the only time any of my name received anything from the rates, and it was bitter hard for father. There were men who came up from Liverpool and told us that if the working men of Lancashire would send a deputation to Parliament, the war would be stopped, and we could get cotton to open the mills. But my father was one of those who said that it was the cause of free labor you were fighting for, and that if the men would hold on a bit, God would come to our help. He learned that, I now know, from John Bright. And so the men held out. But it was hard." Isn't that fine? And doesn't it make Lord John Russell and Gladstone look cheap?

By some ill chance Rose and I got separated from the rest of the party, and the van drove off without us. When Rose learned this, she thought it a huge joke, and said we should have to walk. I said: "Not on your life!" This familiar saying filled her with delight, and she cried: "Oh, I say, that is a jolly saying; I must tell that to Dick, and he can take it back to school!"

"That is all very well," said I, "but what is going to take us back to home?"

She suggested a "fly." I solemnly remarked that I did not believe there was a fly big enough to carry us both.

She looked at me for a moment in astonishment and then cried: "Why, I believe you are thinking of an insect!"

I asked what else one could think of. She pondered this a moment and then said she believed I was making game of her. Nothing, I assured her, was farther from my thoughts.

"Well," she said, "if you are sure you don't know, I will tell you; a fly is something that a horse pulls."

I asked if it was a cart. But apparently she had given me up as hopeless, and taking me by the hand, led me to a livery-stable, where the proprietor produced a fly and announced that the price would be ten shillings, and asked if he should "put it down" to the vicar. Rose looked much alarmed at this, and was proportionately relieved when I paid the amount.

There was silence for a little space after we started, and then Rose said, as if to herself: "Daddy would have walked."

"Yes," I replied, "but you must remember he is over six feet tall, and his stride is about three-foot-three, whereas I step only about two-foot-six; so you can calculate how much longer it would take me to walk seven miles than it would him."

"Don't you hate arithmetic?" she exclaimed.

I admitted that I was not fond of it.

"I simply loathe it," she declared. "Such a silly thing, I call it! Why should one spend hours in trying to find out how many yards of carpet it takes to cover the schoolroom floor, when all one has to do is to run through Tod Lane and ask Mr. Small, who keeps the shop, and he can tell in a moment, without even looking at a book."

"But suppose Mr. Small thought it to his advantage to sell you more carpet than you needed?"

"Why, he wouldn't do such a thing," she indignantly replied; "he is a churchwarden."

There was another short silence and then she began again: "Ten shillings is a lot of money."

I agreed.

"However," she continued, "I suppose it doesn't signify. Americans are very rich, are they not?"

I said some were.

"But you must be to hand out ten shillings just like that."

"Oh, I don't know. My share is only five shillings. You will pay half, will you not?"

"Not living!" she hastily exclaimed. "There, I have that wrong. Please say it again." When I had repeated the familiar slang, she echoed it. Evidently it gave her great satisfaction, for I heard her muttering it to herself over and over again. Finally she said: "That is a jolly saying." Then, with apparent irrelevance—but that no doubt was due to my slowness in following her mental processes—"I am glad you came."

I laughed and said I was glad too.

"Not," continued this artless young person, "that we were glad when we first heard you were coming—I mean except daddy. Mother said: 'Dear me! I fear he will expect a bathroom to himself!' And Dick said: 'Is he as dirty as all that?' Even daddy laughed at that. And Dick was so much pleased with himself that he got a bit above himself, and went on to say that all Americans were 'bounders.' So daddy stopped his 'sweet,' and he did look silly! But it seems to me you are just like other people, only rather 'droll.'"

As we drew near the house she evidently began to think that, after all, Dick might be an authority on "bounders," for she remarked, with studied carelessness: "I shouldn't think it necessary to repeat at home everything we have been talking about."

I gravely assured her that I made it a rule never to repeat the conversation I had had with the young lady I took buggy-riding.

"Buggy-riding?" she cried; "what is that?"

"Why, what you call a fly, we call a buggy."

Her reaction was rather deliberate, but finally she exclaimed: "Oh, I see. 'Bug' and 'fly.' That's awfully good. I must tell Dick that!"

XXII AN "AVERAGE" SUNDAY

Sunday was "some" day! Early service at 8 o'clock, a hurried breakfast at 8.45, and then we started for the mission chapel, where the archdeacon was to preach. I was curious to see how this scholar would adapt himself to the sort of congregation I knew he would meet there. Nothing could have been better. He did not "condescend to men of low estate," but gave them as thoughtful a message as he would have delivered at the university, yet clothed in such simple language as the most unlearned could understand.

"Truly," I said to myself, "here is a scribe who bringeth out of his treasure things new as well as old."

The archdeacon has, of course, besides his duty as vicar, many calls for work outside the parish. I was told that this day he was to preach at a church some twelve miles distant, and, therefore, there would be no time for dinner! However, Mrs. Williams made us a package of sandwiches, which we munched as we drove to the church where he was to preach the annual sermon on education.

The church was a barn of a place, and the atmosphere decidedly "evangelical." There were the old square pews which one sees in pictures of the eighteenth century; and when we knelt down my legs were covered by the voluminous folds of a bright-blue silk dress, worn by a farmer's wife, so that I was not quite sure of my identity, till a pair of stout white stockings, encasing most solid ankles, showed me that my own legs had not yet emerged!

The sermon was a plea for parochial schools, which would have left me cold had it not been for the interpretation of the Parable of the Sower, from which the text was taken. "The soil," said the preacher, "is human nature. At the first glance it might seem as if man was no more responsible for his character than is a field for the different conditions of its soil. But there would have been no 'gospel,' that is, 'good news,' in that. No, what it means, every farmer will understand. There is no soil that is hopeless, and none that does not need to be cultivated. Our schools are to make poor soil good, and good soil better." And so on.

On the way home the subject of education could not be ignored. The archdeacon was none too pleased to learn that I did not think well of parochial schools, and insisted that "godless" schools were worse than none. He would not agree that dogmatic teaching might be dispensed with and yet character be built up. When I pointed out that Jews and Catholics made up a large part of our urban population, and, not unnaturally, the one objected to Christian and the other to Protestant teaching, he could only see how unfortunate it was that we had no Established Church! Once more I was impressed by the fact that no man is liberal all through! Though he had been in the "States," his journey had led him only to the South—and that, too, in the days of Reconstruction. He had never seen New York or Ohio or New England, so that I could not feel that he was to be blamed for thinking poorly of our school system. But he made one remark worth remembering, to see if he is a "seer" as well as a prophet, which latter he assuredly is.

"You are doing the thing on the 'cheap.' You do not pay your teachers enough to make it worth while for men to make teaching a profession, and, as a result, not only the girls but the boys as well are for years under the influence of women. This is bad and cannot fail to affect the national character—as you will find if a great crisis were to come. It may, as I have heard it said, tend to 'refinement' of speech and manners, but the price is too high. It will make them effeminate, that is, sentimental, and sometimes hysterical. It is the manly virtues of endurance and disregard of trifles, which men alone can inculcate, which have made England what she is. Should a great war come—and I fear that cannot be long delayed—you will find your boys cannot bear the strain."

I hope that, as Nehemiah liked to say, "It may be counted to me for righteousness" that I refrained from mentioning 1776, or 1812, or even the Civil War—the "Bloody Angle," and Pickett's charge at Gettysburg—for that might have raised the Alabama!

In the evening I preached in the parish church—"the noblest parish church in England," I was told Ruskin called it. Well, the sermon was not worthy of the church. I don't know what was the matter. You know how such things go! One trouble was that, all the time I was speaking, I wished to say something else! Ruth haunted me! I could hear her whispering: "Better be dull and decent than 'start something'!" So I was dull!

At nine o'clock we sat down to a supper of cold beef and bread and cheese, and mighty good they tasted. Now was not that a day? I asked the archdeacon if it had been an exceptional day. "Oh, no," he said, "I should say an average day. I often go to the town hall after evening service and speak to the men who do not care to come to church. 'Securalists,' they call themselves, and as they are almost sure to heckle one, it is generally interesting, and sometimes exhausting."

There is no doubt that the English clergy work harder than we do—that is, those who pretend to work. While Americans find the climate trying, I am inclined to think one can accomplish more in a climate like this than in ours, which alternately exhilarates and depresses one. But I suspect there is a deeper reason which we do not like to admit, which is that they are better educated than we are! With us there is too much "cramming" for the occasion, whereas they have a treasury from which they can draw as they have need. It is possible also that there is an advantage in an established church which has not been recognized. While the "dumb dogs" take advantage of the "vested interest" to do as little as possible, the best men work in an atmosphere of leisure almost unknown to us. Unconsciously we are influenced by the competition which is the "life of trade." I do not mean that we do this in any unworthy manner, but with the subconscious feeling that we are expected to "make good," and this leads to "pressing," which is as fatal to the best work as it is to the best golf! Men like Williams seem to me to work without haste and without rest.

It was no "Blue Monday" to which I awoke. All was healthy activity, as if Sunday had been indeed a day of rest. The children were shooed into the schoolroom, for though it was the holidays, there were tasks which must be done before the next term. Mrs. Williams had a meeting of women, for some good work, and the archdeacon had gone to his study as soon as breakfast was finished to talk over and arrange with his curates the work of the new week.

So I drove to the station in a "fly," and bought a third-class ticket. But as I was about to take my place, the guard appeared and, touching his cap, asked if I was from the vicarage. When I said, "Yes," he said, "This way, please," and showed me into a first-class carriage, the door of which he promptly locked, when he had again touched his cap and said: "Thank you, sir."

"But," you will say, "this was 'graft'!" How crude you are! Do you not know that "graft" is confined to Tammany Hall? This was proper respect to persons of importance!

"Convey, the wise it call. Steal! foh; a fico for the phrase."

XXIII DOWAGER AND COWBOY

John left me on Friday for Saltbridge, to visit Archdeacon Williams, whom, as you know, he is always quoting. They have never met and I do hope they will not be disappointed in one another, and that John will behave! I feel like a mother whose child has gone to visit strangers. However, I comfort myself with the thought that children often behave better when they are left alone—I suppose because they then have a keener sense of responsibility!

I expect him back this afternoon and am hastening to write you before his return, for I would not have him see this letter for worlds. He would never cease teasing me about my "beloved English."

He had scarcely gone before a telegram came from Gertrude Shelburne, asking me to come to them for the week-end. I was glad to get it, first, because I am devoted to her, and second, because I wanted to see their place, which I had been told was beautiful—I suppose I ought to add that I had already begun to be a trifle triste without John.

On the map it did not look far from Shrewsbury to Deepford, but the porter told me it would save time if I went up to "town" and caught the Brighton express, which would stop at Deepford if I told the guard I was for Admiral Shelburne's. This did not seem probable, but it proved to be true.

I arrived for tea, which was being served on the lawn, quite as in an English novel. I felt somewhat like the poor governess, in such stories, who is destined ultimately to marry the heir of the adjoining estate, but has not yet discovered her fate! For I was feeling a little shy—not because the people were so fine, but because they were so intimate. If one does not know the people talked of in an English household, it looks as if one did not know anybody! However, that did not last long, for Gertrude, who had been motoring with a young man when I arrived, soon appeared and made me feel at home.

If I were a human pig I should arrange to have, each day, an American breakfast, a French dinner, and an English tea! What would I do for luncheon? Do as I did to-day. Go without one in order to enjoy the tea!

Admiral Sir George Shelburne, as I believe he is formally called, is as delightful as ever. He kissed me, not quite with the paternal air which should go with his years, but rather like one who has had a sweetheart in every port! He is under the impression that he rules the house as he once ruled a man-of-war. As a matter of fact, Gertrude manages him and every one else!

After tea the admiral asked me if I would like to see the gardens. As this was the "first time of asking" I was able to say with a clear conscience that I should be delighted. How I wish you might see these gardens! There is a "lady's walk" that you would rejoice to make a water-color of. It is enclosed by brick walls of a deep red, and the borders are a riot of color. Take down your Latin dictionary and read anywhere in it, and you will get a notion of the names the admiral called off to me! Whether they were right or wrong I have no means of knowing, but it sounded very learned. I asked the admiral if his taste had laid out the lady's walk, and he modestly admitted that it had; and the best of it is he believes it. Gertrude is a wonder!

The "guests" were a young man who is secretary to some one in the government, and is never separated from a despatch-box, supposed to contain international secrets upon which the peace of the world depends. I do not think I ever met any one who took himself quite so seriously. He is supposed to be devoted to Gertrude, and is probably as much interested in her as he can be in any one besides himself. So I fear she is, at best, but a bad second! There is, however, trouble brewing for that young man, as I learned as soon as I saw a "photo" (by the way, one never says "photograph" in polite society, but "photo," and "pram," and "bike." It is a liberty the owners take with their language. This sounds like John, the reason being that for the moment I feel like John. But you will be saying: "What about the photograph?") How curious you are! Well, if you must know, it is of a young naval officer the Shelburnes met at "Gib," two years ago. He has a straight nose and a firm chin à la Gibson, and blue eyes, and his name is Guy. Doesn't this tell you all you need to know? The admiral is supposed to favor the young man with the despatch-box—possibly because he knows too much about sweethearts in every port. How do you guess it will end? See what powers of condensation I have! It took Gertrude two hours to tell me what I have written in a few moments!

There are two perfectly uninteresting men besides the one already spoken of, and three nondescript women who devoted themselves to me. Only one of them calls for any attention. This is Lady Agatha Bumstead. She is handsome and really means to be nice, but unfortunately she has been in the "States," and does not want to hear, but only to tell about them.

After dinner, while the men were sitting over their wine, she suddenly said to me: "Have you any honest judges in America now?"

I said I hoped so.

She replied: "I am glad to hear it. When I was in New York, with my dear husband (she is a dowager), I remember they were trying a judge for taking a bribe, and I was told it was quite common."

I said I supposed that was in the time of the Tweed regime.

"Yes," she replied, "that was the name of the governor" (sic).

I said I thought things had improved since then, and that, after all, he was but one of the hundreds of American judges, and that it was hardly fair to condemn the whole bench because of the iniquity of one Tammany judge.

"But," she said, "I thought all the judges in America were appointed by Tammany. I remember my husband said, when he was trying to recover some of the money he had put into that awful Erie, that all the judges were appointed by Tammany."

Hoping to get a more favorable view of America if I moved out of New York, I asked if she had travelled much in the "States."

"Far more than I wished," she dryly remarked.

I expressed my sympathy.

"You see," she continued, "it is hard for people of refinement to put up with the lack of manners in America. Of course, you will not misunderstand me, my dear; I do not mean people like yourself; indeed, as I was saying to Sir George at dinner, I should hardly know you were an American. I had in mind the lower classes."

I feebly remarked that I thought they meant to be "kind."

"Kind, my dear," she exclaimed in a shocked tone. "What business have they to be 'kind'? It is for us to be kind, for them to be respectful. I cannot say I met any such. I had an experience once which left an indelible impression on my mind. You," she continued, turning to one of the other women, who were drinking in this unprejudiced view of our country, "can have no conception of what that country really is. While we were in New York, trying to save something out of the wreck of the Erie, my husband met a man from the West who told him that there was a fortune to be made in silver-mines, and he started with him to look into it. I may say here that he lost every penny he put into this venture. The mines were 'pickled'—no, I think the word they used was 'salted.'

"However, that does not signify now—what I was going to tell you was, that he was detained longer than he had expected, and wrote me to join him in a place called Cheyenne. So I started; but what I endured in those sleeping-cars I never told even my husband. It wasn't proper! The passengers were of the most ordinary type, mostly bagmen, I should say. And the women! Vulgar and overdressed. I must say, however, I was rather pleased with the black man who waited on the passengers. He was rather grotesque, but was the only one I saw who seemed to have at all the bearing of a servant, and even he had a habit of smiling when spoken to which looked like impudence, till one learned that the poor creature had never been properly trained. Well, at length we reached Cheyenne. I had been told that it was the capital of the State, or whatever the district was called, and you may imagine my disgust when I found that it was a mere jumble of miserable wooden houses.

"My husband was not there to meet me—he had gone into the mountains to inspect a mine, and there had been a 'wash-out' or a 'hot-box.' I am sure I do not know the difference; I only know it was either the one or the other which continually caused delays. So there I was, with no one to meet me, and it was night. I looked round for a porter, and of course there was none. I saw a rough-looking man leaning against the station-house, and said to him: 'My man, carry my portmanteau to the hotel, please.'"

The pause which followed was so long that I thought the story ended, or that the narrator had fallen asleep. But I was mistaken—her emotion choked her. Finally one of the others said:

"And what happened then?"

In a sepulchral tone she answered: "He spat! Then, without a word, he picked up the bag and led the way to the hotel. I handed him a shilling, and instead of touching his cap—by the way, it was not a cap at all, but a hat with a huge brim—which, if you please, he took off with a flourish and, declining the tip, remarked: 'Always a pleasure to help a lady!' I thought I should have died of shame at his insolence!"

I nearly choked, but fortunately did not, for every one else was shocked. After a painful silence Lady Agatha continued: "I must say some people have a peculiar sense of humor. I told this shocking story to Charlie Beresford, and he laughed till the tears ran down his face, and asked me to let him put it into a book he is writing on America. But I would not consent. It might give offense—Americans are very sensitive—and I think it most important that nothing should be done to cause ill-feeling between the two countries, for, as Sir George was saying at dinner, one cannot tell how soon we may need one another's help."

Here Gertrude, who had been walking on the terrace with the complacent secretary, came in and took me to her room to talk about the blue-eyed Guy.

Now you see why I do not want John to see this letter. He thinks he has a strong sense of humor, but it is ten to one he would no more understand the dowager than she understood the gentleman in the sombrero. How I should like to meet Sir Charles Beresford and hear him on dowagers and cowboys!

But, honestly, are not the English the most impossible people! I do not mean ridiculous—no one would accuse them of being that—but funny as the camel is. "There ain't no sich animal." Only there is!

XXIV "BY PURENESS, BY KINDNESS, BY LOVE UNFEIGNED"

Before leaving Shrewsbury I had told Ruth on which train I would leave Saltbridge, and, as I had to change trains at Manchester, she could send a wire to the station there if she had any special orders to give me. The wire was awaiting me, and from it I found that not only had Ruth gone off "on her own" to Deepford, but that she had received an invitation from the Sanfords asking us both to come to them. She said that she was proceeding to London, and that she would go to the Sanfords' by train, and hoped I would meet her there with the car.

So I returned to Shrewsbury, where we had left the car, and the next day drove slowly through Stratford-on-Avon, where I had been before, and so did not stop, waiting till Ruth and I could make the pilgrimage together. I caught a glimpse of the spire of the parish church and could "visualize" the smug bust in the chancel, which an ungrateful town permits to be called Shakespeare!

I stopped the night at Banbury, where there is one of those old coaching inns which affect the imagination like an old print. The following day I went on to Oxford, where I left the car, and ran up to London for some necessary shopping. This, I know, will make you indignant, but I am going to "do" Oxford when Ruth, that lover of "Lost Causes," is with me. Besides, as my next journey is to the northeast, it was better to leave the car at Oxford than to go through London.

When I returned to Oxford I went again on my way and spent the night at Ipswich, in the same inn in which Mr. Pickwick had the compromising adventure with the lady in curl-papers. But there was nothing seen to recall that joyous night. No one I saw looked as if he had ever heard of the most distinguished guest the inn had ever entertained!

The next day I reached the Sanfords' for tea. I understand now why the heroine in an English novel always arrives at tea-time! It is the ideal hour. One does not have to dress for a function and is received into the family at once.

This family consists of but two—the husband and wife—a lovely couple. I do not know which of them we loved best when the visit was over. An ancestor of Mr. Sanford's was one of the non-jurors—and that night I lay in his bed. As a bed it was a good bed, but as a place for sleeping it was naught—as Touchstone would have said. As I lay awake I thought of the noble folly of the non-jurors, and of Macaulay's unsympathetic picture of them, though, curiously enough, the only time he speaks well of a bishop, so far as I remember, is when he praises the "seven bishops." How characteristic this is! They are admirable when they defy the Stuart, but contemptible when they refuse to bow the knee to his Dutch hero! These thoughts led me on to Henry Esmond—that most interesting prig—and so on, hour after hour, the mind wandered through the history of England till I longed for the scenery of the land of Nod!

I would not have you think that my wakefulness was due solely to the imagination awakened by the old non-juror's bed. It was due to a more modern and more material cause, namely the strong Ceylon tea, which was so good that I had taken more than I am accustomed to. What we call "English Breakfast," the English call "China" tea, and, so far as my experience goes, is seldom served. Certainly it could not have been expected in this house, because Mr. Sanford is largely interested in the cultivation of Ceylon tea and, not unnaturally, thinks it superior to China. It is undoubtedly good, but so strong that it is apt to be followed by a sleepless night on the part of the uninitiated.

The next day was Sunday, which began, I need not say, with a bountiful breakfast, at which, of course, we served ourselves, Mr. Sanford walking around the room with a little blue bowl in his hand, eating porridge and talking delightfully. By the way, do you believe the story of the American "Belle Mère," who, arriving at the castle of her noble son-in-law late at night and therefore coming to the dining-room for the first time at breakfast, and, seeing no servants, said to her daughter: "Honey, can't you get no 'help' at all over here?" I do not. Ruth does, and begged me not to tell the story here lest it be thought that the good lady was typical!

I do not think Mrs. Sanford would have believed it. But, if she had, she would have understood, for she has many American friends and a more sympathetic understanding of our problems than any one I have so far met in England. Mr. Sanford was rather inclined to be depressed about England, and deplored the present policy of the Liberal Government—especially in regard to land. Of course I know nothing about the matter, but I could not help thinking I heard a faint echo of the old non-juror's voice. This, however, is sure, he is the quintessence of the feudal system at its best, having its deep sense of responsibility.

We walked to the little church, which is at their gate, and as we drew near and met the people on their way to worship, I was struck by the affection—so much better than perfunctory respect—with which my hosts were greeted both by farmers and tenants alike.

Mr. Sanford showed Ruth and me into the second pew in the transept, while he and his wife occupied the one in front of it, which is the squire's. He read the lessons, and I wished I could read as well! I once heard a distinguished minister at home praised for his reading of the Bible because it "sounded so modern—as if he were reading the morning paper." Well, his reading was not in the least like that! He read with deep reverence, as "The covenant made with our fathers" and now delivered unto us.