ENGLISH WAYS AND BY-WAYS

BEING THE LETTERS OF JOHN AND RUTH DOBSON WRITTEN FROM ENGLAND TO THEIR FRIEND, LEIGHTON PARKS

"For me, an aim I never fash— I rhyme for fun." —BURNS.

NEW YORK CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 1920

COPYRIGHT, 1920, BY CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS ———— Published October, 1920 ———— Copyright, 1920, BY THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY CO.

TO E. S. P. WHO KNOWS JOHN AND RUTH DOBSON AS WELL AS I DO AND CAN BEAR WITNESS TO THE TRUTH OF THIS NARRATIVE "ENGLISH WAYS AND BY-WAYS" IS AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED

PREFACE

What this little book contains the reader must discover for himself. I shall not save him trouble by telling in the Preface anything about it. Nor shall I tell more than the letters themselves show as to the identity of John and Ruth.

It is a book with a Purpose. The purpose being to give the reader the same pleasure that I had in compiling it when debarred for a time from more serious work.

I am, however, not without hope that this humorous record of the impressions of two young and unconventional Americans of the England before the dreadful war may do a little to lessen the tension which the nervous strain of the last few years has unhappily produced, and so help to that mutual understanding and sympathy upon which the welfare of the world depends. The test of friendship is sympathetic banter, and is, moreover, a firmer cement than solemn speech.

My thanks are due to the Atlantic Monthly for permitting the use in book form of some passages in this chronicle which appeared as articles in that magazine.

L. P.

Point-au-Pic, Quebec, August, 1920.

CONTENTS

I. The Legacy II. The School of Instruction III. "Fool Proof" IV. "Der Kaiser Wilhelm der Zweite" V. The Car Arrives VI. The Great North Road VII. The England of Fielding VIII. The End of the North Road IX. An English Interior X. Husband and Wife XI. The Fourth Speed XII. "Jael the Wife of Heber the Kenite" XIII. "As It Was in the Beginning" XIV. Rural England XV. Education XVI. A By-Election XVII. Sheep-Dogs XVIII. Brigands and Bootblacks XIX. The Piston-Rod XX. Falstaff XXI. The Black Country XXII. An "Average" Sunday XXIII. Dowager And Cowboy XXIV. "By Pureness, by Kindness, by Love Unfeigned" XXV. The County Families XXVI. The Boat-Race XXVII. The Custom-House XXVIII. The "Rob" Room XXIX. Vested Interests XXX. "The Auld Un'" XXXI. Church and State XXXII. The Chaplain to the Queen XXXIII. The Retired Colonel XXXIV. A Problem in Casuistry XXXV. A Day of Trouble and Distress XXXVI. "One Every Minute" XXXVII. Anglia or Frontenac?

ENGLISH WAYS AND BY-WAYS

I THE LEGACY

I was so sorry not to find you at the Rectory when I called this afternoon. And, what is worse, I fear we may not see you for a long time, if, as your housekeeper says, you are to be in California for a month. For before you return we shall be gone! "Gone?" you will ask. "Where?" Well, I do not quite know. The fact is I am in such a whirl that I hardly know what I am writing! Perhaps it would be better if I began at the beginning.

You know how overworked John has been for some time. He has not been sleeping well, and at times has been—well, almost cross!—which means he is tired out. The culmination came on Good Friday. I left church before the conclusion of the three-hour service that I might reach home in time to have a cup of tea ready for him when he returned. You remember what a hot day it was. Well, I was standing by the open window in the study waiting to see him come round the corner, and Rex—the beautiful Irish setter which Mr. Dennis gave John—was with me. When John appeared he waved his hand to me and called out "Hello, Rex!" and the poor dog, no doubt thinking he had called him to come, sprang from the window and fell the two flights, striking his head on the steps, and was instantly killed. I rushed down-stairs and found John looking as if he were about to faint. We carried the body into the laundry, and John, gazing upon it, groaned: "I wish it were I." You may imagine how frightened I was, but fortunately I had self-control enough to keep silence and led him away and induced him to drink a cup of strong tea. Then I brought out his pipe, and, though he murmured, "I have given it up for Lent," I said firmly, "You have not given it up for to-day." When he was resting I ran round the corner and asked Mr. Hathaway, the carpenter, to make a box for poor Rex, which he said he would do at once, for every one on the block loved him. Then I telephoned to Mabel Wheelock and asked her if she would be willing to have the dear creature buried on her place at Pelham. She was as sympathetic as if we had lost a member of the family—as indeed we have. But how to get the body there I did not know! I called up the hotel garage and learned that it would cost seven dollars to hire a taxi. It seemed more than we could pay, but I decided we must risk it. How I wished I had not bought that new hat for Easter!

When all was ready I called John and we started for Pelham, where we left the body of a creature of whom it could be said more truly than of many humans, that "he was faithful unto death." When we reached home I induced John to go to bed, and was soon thankful to find that he had fallen asleep.

The next morning I went to the store where I had bought the hat and asked the woman to take it back. She was none too well pleased. But, as she had known me forever, she insisted upon knowing the reason, and when I told her the kind-hearted creature said: "Why, you poor thing, you keep that hat, and I'll take the price of the taxi off the bill. It will be good business, anyhow, for when that hat is seen on you there will be a run on them." You may think less of me, but I was so glad to keep it!

Then I went to see Dr. Webster. He listened to my story and then said: "Your husband is as sound as a dollar. I went all over him when he had that touch of bronchitis in January. But he has exhausted his nervous energy and must have a rest." "But," I said, "we cannot afford to go away." He answered gruffly: "You can't afford to keep on."

We got through Easter somehow, and John did his part better than I supposed would be possible. But when one of those "gushy" females, who are found in every church, said to me: "How wonderful Mr. Dobson was to-day! I don't see how he does it! However, it cannot be a strain on him because he speaks so easily. If he had to prepare his sermons I don't suppose he could do it, with all the parish work he has to do!" That woman is called by some people "The salt of the earth." She may be, but it is salt in lumps, and I don't like it that way!

John slept the clock round on Easter night and it was nearly noon when he came down for a cup of coffee. There were not many letters, fortunately, but I had noticed one with the name of a well-known firm of lawyers on the envelope, and rather wondered what they could have to say.

When John had read it he exclaimed: "Well, I'll be jiggered!"

"What is it?" I asked.

"Why, Aunt Susan is dead."

"Is that the aunt who lived in California?"

"Yes, she went out there nearly twenty years ago, and I do not suppose I have thought of her twice since."

"Well, what has happened?"

"Why, she has left me some money."

"Oh, John!" I cried, thinking of what Dr. Webster had said. "It can't be true."

"I guess it is," he replied. "Weeks & Burke are pretty responsible people, and they write: 'By the will of the late Miss Susan B. Melchor,' etc."

I know this sounds like the "long arm of coincidence," at which you mock, and you will say that such things do not happen outside of romances. Well, wait a moment and you will see that this is connected with a romance and a rather pathetic one too. When I asked John about his aunt Susan, he could not tell me much. He said there was a tradition among his sisters—but he had nothing else to go upon—that when his father became engaged to his mother poor Aunt Susan was greatly shocked, for she had gotten it into her head that he had been attracted by her. For a long time there had been little intercourse between the sisters, but after the death of his father Aunt Susan had paid a visit to his mother, and taken a fancy to the little boy, who was supposed to resemble his father. She had only money enough to enable her to live in genteel poverty until she went to California, and there met a man whom she had known when she was a girl, and, following his advice, had invested her little all in a land speculation which, for a wonder, turned out well and brought her a modest fortune, which she now, or at least a part of it, bequeathed to the son of the man to whom she had given her heart in her girlhood. Certainly if the "long arm of coincidence" is ever to be stretched out, this is a time when it might be expected to show its power!

When we learned the amount of the legacy it was evident that we should not be able to live on the income of it, though it would be a great help in supplementing a modest salary. But when I told John that I thought we should now be justified in taking a month off at Lakewood or somewhere like that, he vulgarly replied: "Lakewood be blowed! We are going to Europe to see some of the things we have dreamed about."

"But that means we shall have to break into the capital."

"Well," said he, "so long as we do not break into another's man's capital, I do not see how the law can interfere!"

I was so glad to feel his buoyant spirits again that I had not the heart to make further objections. But I did add, as a final caution, that we must not forget that we ought to lay up for a rainy day. But he scorned this and said: "That is the way money poisons us. We hoard because we are afraid. At any rate it is far better for us at this time, instead of laying up for a rainy day, to lay down for a sunny day!"

So that is what we are going to do.

II THE SCHOOL OF INSTRUCTION

You have heard from Ruth of all the wonderful things that have happened to us, and that we are going abroad. But you have not heard that we are planning a motor trip. If you say that you are surprised, knowing that I have no motor, I can only reply, "Not more so than I." I had supposed Ruth would be content to go to Europe as most of our friends have gone. But no; she said a motor trip would be far more interesting. I was rather surprised for another reason: Ruth is so careful of the household expenses that when I suggested that motoring was a rather expensive amusement, she said it depended entirely upon how it was done! We could buy a cheap car and dispense with the services of a chauffeur. In that way it would prove less expensive than travelling by train. "Think," said she, "what we should save on baggage! and besides, instead of stopping at expensive hotels in the large towns, we can put up at any little inn. Moreover, we can take a lunch-basket and stop by the way at any place that takes our fancy and eat our lunch."

I had memories of hearing something of the same sort the first time I went abroad—on a cattle steamer. I was told by a fellow traveller that one could make a walking trip on the Continent for five francs a day! However, when I thought of Ruth's uncomplaining economies these many years, I said it was a fine idea. I did, however, point out that I knew rather less about a motor than I do about a camel, but that objection also was quickly disposed of. "Did not James Hawkins drive his car? And had I not said, when he preached for us last Lent that he had the brain of a flea? If he could learn to drive a car could not the man, who, the bishop said, etc.?"

Well, the result was I entered the School of Instruction conducted by "Professor" Patrick Quinn. I wish now I had gone to the Y.M.C.A., for the instruction would, no doubt, have been as good, and the atmosphere more refined! Last winter I heard a paper read at a clerical meeting by an optimist on "The Decline of Profanity." The writer could never have been in a garage! However, "Prof" Quinn knew his business, and cursed a little of his knowledge into me. There were times when we were both discouraged, as on the day when he pathetically told me that I should learn quicker if I wasn't so "damn awkward." But in spite of this drawback the time at last came when my "Boss" announced that on the following day he would take me out on the road. So the next day the "Professor" drove to Jerome Avenue, and then turned the car over to me.

Do you know how many posts there are on that trolley line? You do not! No one does who has not driven a car in and out among them. Probably you suppose them to be stationary. That is what I thought. But they move like Birnam wood!

Well, when my nerves were all on edge with trying to dodge the posts, I was ordered to pass a car just ahead of me. This I did triumphantly, and cut in ahead. Unfortunately, at that moment its speed must suddenly have increased, for the rear hub of our car nicked a piece out of the front tire of the other car. What the driver of that car said I decline to repeat. It is not well you should know such things! But I am now sure that the clerical essayist already alluded to knows more about Pelagianism than he does of the vernacular of New York. I confess I had a momentary unholy hope that my "Boss" would answer him in a way it would be sinful for me to imitate, but instead he asked me if I had a "pull" with the police. When I replied I had not he sarcastically remarked that he supposed I must have, seeing how hard I was trying to "get run in."

A few minutes later he directed me to run up to the Concourse. You may remember there is a sharp rise from Jerome Avenue, so thinking he wished to find out if I remembered his lecture "On the Art of Driving," in which he had emphasized the importance of "giving her gas" at the foot of a hill, and then "watch her pick up," I gave her gas and watched her pick up. Indeed the speed soon became alarming. At the top of the hill there is a sharp turn into the Concourse leading onto a bridge which spans the road on which a trolley line passes beneath. Onto this bridge, then, we whirled, the hub of the off rear wheel striking the corner of the buttress of the bridge and slewing us half-way round, so that the car was now headed toward the frail railing which marks rather than guards the roadway. I was still "giving her gas"—not knowing longer what I was doing—and have no doubt but that in another second we should have plunged below, had not the man wrenched the wheel from my hands and straightened the car out.

I was fully prepared for profanity but not for the wailing prayer which issued from his frightened lips. I call it a prayer, for such it was in form, though the bitterness of his tone made it more dreadful than any oath. This is what he said: "O my G—d, if ever I live to get home, I'll never do anything riskier than drivin' in a Vanderbilt Cup race." After this we changed places by mutual consent.

It is surprising what a difference the road-bed makes in the running of a car! At least I suppose it was due to that, for on Jerome Avenue the car had run now fast now slow, while here it glided along the road as smoothly as a shell goes through the water when driven by the steady sweep of the oars. Can the driver have anything to do with it? I did not dare to ask the "Boss," for it was evident that he was "mad at me." Another thing surprised me. Again and again he refused perfectly good chances to cut in ahead of another car, instead of which he would drop back and wait until there was plenty of room, and then run alongside of his rival until he could easily take the lead. I found, however, that this timid policy, as I was inclined to call it, was really Fabian, for we passed each car in turn. Moreover, he did not seem to regard the drivers of other cars as his natural enemies, as seemed to me inevitable, but, on the contrary, spoke pleasantly to several and called not a few "brother." But when I asked him if all the family was in the business, he gruffly requested me "not to kid him." Indeed, it was evident that he had ceased swearing at me because he regarded me as hopeless. I therefore decided not to return to the school, even though I failed to receive the diploma which, he had assured me at my entrance, would insure me a first-class job.

III "FOOL PROOF"

It will be remembered that it had been our intention to buy a cheap car. However, we did not, because Ruth decided that this would not be so economical as we had supposed! First, we looked at the smallest and cheapest car on the market. It was a two-cylinder, not much larger than a perambulator, and as noisy as a donkey-engine. The salesman said that for himself he did not care for one of those perfectly silent cars: "There is too much danger of accidents. You come upon people suddenly, before they have time to jump, and the first thing you know you have a ten-thousand-dollar suit on your hands. But with this car there is no such danger, for people have time to get out of the way before they are hurt." I must say this impressed me, but Ruth, who knows nothing of the dangers of driving, remarked that she did not think people would be much hurt if that car did hit them. "Besides," she added, "no conversation would be possible in such a car."

The man replied that there was not much chance in a car where you were blowing the Klaxon all the time. "And, now," he said, "let me give you a demonstration." To this we agreed, but as there was room for but one besides the driver, he suggested that I should try it first. So I chugged round the block while the demonstrator explained how many miles "she" would do on a gallon, and how little oil it took to lubricate "her." But when it came Ruth's turn, the engine stalled, and no power would move it. So we did not buy that one.

Well, we looked at many cars of many makes, but the cheap ones were uncomfortable, and the comfortable ones were too dear, and I was almost in despair, for the time was passing and I felt that I must have a little time to practise driving before starting on such a journey as we had planned. But a chance word decided me. We were looking at a "Frontenac." It was a most attractive-looking "runabout," and Ruth said it "fitted her back" better than any we had seen, and so, though the price was more than we had intended to pay, I saw she had set her heart upon it, and was asking myself if I could not economize somewhere else and let her have what she wanted, when the salesman, who of course was a mind-reader, remarked: "This is a new model. We built it because there was no car on the market built for a 'gentleman's' use. You see, no one with this car would need a chauffeur, though, as you may have noticed, there is a seat which folds up, so that if one wished to pick up a friend, or take a chauffeur for a special occasion, it could be done." Then he added, as if speaking to himself, while he laid his hand caressingly on the mud-guard: "What I like about this car is that she is practically 'FOOL PROOF.'" He had spoken the inevitable word. That was the kind of car I had been looking for! Then followed an explanation of the "self-starter"—"something found on no other car." I hesitated no longer. I paid the deposit and he said the car was mine. It was not cheap, but, as the testimonials say, "If I could not buy its mate I would not sell it for twice the amount I paid!"

One does not receive a car the day one pays for it. There are still many things to buy in the way of accessories, and as a result the car was not in my hands until the day before I was required to turn it over to the shipper. I therefore had time only to drive around the park three times before I was required to deliver the car at the dock.

I was glad to find that I did better alone than when profanity was being barked into my ear at every turn!

Of course I stalled several times through failure to "give her gas," but the self-starter had taken the sting out of that, and I drove back to the garage feeling that I was now prepared to risk the two most precious lives in the world with a fair margin of safety!

IV "DER KAISER WILHELM DER ZWEITE"

You have crossed the North Atlantic too often to be bothered with an account of our trip. We ate too much—indeed, I am told the temptation to do so is greater on these boats than on any except those of the French Line—and also we took too little exercise. And yet we seem none the worse for it! Possibly that was due, in my case, to the fact that I slept a great deal, and that when I was not sleeping or eating I lay in my deck-chair and wondered how any one could ever worry! Is it not surprising how the petty worries of life drop overboard at Sandy Hook? This cannot be true, I suppose, of the foolish men who keep in touch with the office by wireless, but it was true of us. Yet one day I was startled by hearing my name called by a page, who ran along the deck with a slip of paper in his hand. Fortunately, it was only a word of greeting from the Stoddards, who were returning on the France, and sent us a message of good-will.

I did, however, have certain experiences which were unusual. The first night out I was sitting in the drafty and fearfully decorated smoking-room when a man approached me and asked if I would take a hand at poker. I declined politely but he insisted, urging that it was "only a friendly game, twenty-five cents a point." I again declined, saying I did not play. He returned to his friend and remarked in a loud tone: "De trouble mit men who hafe lifed all der lives in a village is dat ven dey meet a stranger, dey tink he must be a con man."

On Sunday morning we were wakened by the band, which played, beautifully, "Ein Feste Burg." I supposed that would be the only Sunday observance, and was not a little surprised to receive a message from the captain, asking me to hold service in the Lounge. This I did, the full band assisting. There were a number of Americans aboard, and most of them attended. But what surprised me greatly was to notice a number of Jews, several of whom later spoke to me and expressed their satisfaction. They said that they did not know that we used the Old Testament in our service! I asked one of them, a cultivated man, if he attended the synagogue. He shook his head sadly and said, not since he was a boy, unless it were to go to a funeral, and added that this was true of thousands of cultivated Jews. I said it seemed to me a dreadful thing that the race which had given the greatest spiritual gifts to mankind should be losing interest in the highest ideals of life, and asked if it were not possible for them to find in some form of Christianity, which, after all, was an evolution of Judaism, the satisfaction their souls must crave. He looked at me for a moment, and then said bitterly: "If Christians began by treating us as if we were human, perhaps we might be willing to listen to their gospel of brotherhood." I wonder if, instead of a Society for the Conversion of the Jews, we do not need a Society for the Conversion of Christians!

This service was memorable for another reason. For the first time in my life I prayed for the Kaiser. Indeed, it was the first time I had ever heard him prayed for! This gave great satisfaction to the German-Americans, who, while they are glad to enjoy the liberty of the Republic, their hearts, without doubt, certainly many of them, are with the Fatherland. They may, some day, become a menace to us should we ever have trouble with Germany. But that is not likely in spite of our experience in Manila Bay! But, indeed, I do not see why we should complain of them when we think of the attitude of the English who make their homes with us. How many Englishmen of the better class do you know who have been naturalized? Not a score, I venture to say. They write letters to the English papers, and sometimes to our own, complaining of the iniquities of Tammany Hall, but do not lift the burden with one of their little fingers.

However, you will have had enough of this! How inevitably we parsons take to preaching when we are not fooling!

We reached Plymouth on a lovely evening and glided into the harbor as quietly as you bring your knockabout to its mooring. I was much impressed by the discipline of the crew. There was neither shouting nor confusion, and the great ship dropped anchor as quietly as a ferry-boat comes into its slip. One thing, however, surprised me. As soon as we entered the harbor a sound of firing was heard, and little water-spouts shot up all over the surface of the water. They were evidently harmless mines being exploded from the batteries on shore. Still I wondered they did not cease while the captain was engaged in such a delicate operation, and it did not seem in keeping with the English sporting spirit. I spoke to one of the officers about it, and he replied, with much dignity: "The English do this each time we enter one of their harbors. It does no harm, and is only a childish way of showing their hatred of our merchant marine, which is their only serious rival. But it is a mistake, as they will some day learn."

Of course there may be no truth in this, and the explosions at that particular time may have been only a coincidence, but it is sad that such bad feeling should exist between these two great nations as to make it possible for such things to be believed. The Germans are talking most foolishly about "Der Tag," but English plays and novels, and even such a paper as the Spectator, are helping to sow the seeds of suspicion. That in this day England and Germany will go to war is, I believe, thought possible only by the "retired admirals." But the mere suspicion leads to fear, and that, in turn, might lead to war.

Well, here I am talking politics, which is more tiresome than preaching!

V THE CAR ARRIVES

On reaching London we found that the freight steamer on which the car had been shipped had not yet arrived. As Ruth was most anxious to see her sister, who lives in Yorkshire, she was persuaded to proceed by train and leave me to bring on the car alone. This was, indeed, a happy solution of a problem which had caused me some anxiety. I was quite ready to risk one valuable life, but did not care to risk two!

The next day I received word that the Georgic had arrived at the Tilbury docks, and that the car was being held "at the risk of the owner." I had been advised to take a chauffeur with me and not to attempt to drive the car into London myself, which advice I followed.

When we arrived at Tilbury, which is about twenty-five miles from London, we found the car, still in its crate, standing on the docks. There were few formalities to be complied with, and a carpenter was soon at work opening the case.

While waiting I fell into conversation with the third officer, who had charge of the unloading of the vessel, and expressed my admiration of the docks, and said I wished we had some equal to them in New York. He admitted they were a fine bit of work, but said that the possibilities of our port were the greatest in the world. "I have often wished," he added, "that I might see that port fifty years hence. You see, it is the only great city in the world that is directly on the sea, and therefore has much the same advantage now that Venice had of old. The East River, being as it were a canal, connecting New York Bay with Long Island Sound, and the Hudson being an estuary of the sea, the largest ships can dock almost in the heart of the city, discharge cargo, then load again and pass out at any tide. Nowhere else is such a thing possible."

I said I was thinking rather of the cleanliness and "smartness" of the docks than of their convenience.

"I grant you," he said, "that we beat you there. But already you are replacing your old wooden docks with concrete, which will last as long as stone. The reason your docks are not so clean as ours is because of the high price of unskilled labor with you. If we had to pay twelve shillings a day to the man who sweeps and tidies up, we should have to have the work done twice a week as you do."

"Well," said I, "that means that we shall never be able to have docks and streets as clean as yours."

"If it did," he replied, "there are better things than neatness. Neatness may imply poverty on the part of labor, and poverty leads to drink and so to the breeding of more poverty."

"Still," I urged, "though neatness may imply poverty, slovenliness shows a lack of self-respect. A city that cannot keep its front door-step clean is a bad neighbor."

He laughed at this homely illustration but said the solution of the problem must be found in another way. "It is all very well to talk of the 'dignity' of labor, but where is the dignity in sweeping up dung?—perhaps taking up the last of it in one's hands. No man does it willingly, he is driven to it by necessity."

I quoted:

"You may be surprised to learn that a sailor knows his Shakespeare, but I read a play every voyage, and so I recognize that great speech of the king. But the question is are these things necessities? I say no. Machinery must be, and I believe will be, invented to do the work which no self-respecting man ought to be asked to do habitually. Some day we shall have great vacuum cleaners to do such work, and then you will have your docks and streets as clean as ours, and at half the price."

I should like to have had more talk with this intelligent young officer, but the car was now ready, so the chauffeur and I took our places on the front seat.

At that moment a wretched specimen of the casual laborer appeared, and, touching his greasy cap, inquired: "Shall I wind her up, Guv'ner?" I nodded and he stooped down to find the handle. Then he looked up with a grin, remarking: "You 'ave fergot the 'andle, sir!" Meanwhile I had touched the self-starter; the little electric engine had begun to hum, there was a click and the car glided away. I tossed the poor wretch a shilling, but he was too astonished to say "Thank you." He simply exclaimed, in a dazed way, "Well, I'm damned!" There was a cheer from the bystanders, and we slipped through the gate and turned toward London.

The chauffeur took the wheel, and of course the talk turned upon cars. He admitted that the American cars were "smart" and wonderfully cheap, but declared that they could not compare with English cars in durability. "They tell me that at the end of a year you American gentlemen turn in your cars, at a great loss, and get a new one in exchange. But an English car will be as good after five years as this will be at the end of one. So, I do not see there is much saved."

I said we found it cheaper to scrap an old machine than to run up a bill for repairs.

He replied: "That may be, because wages are so high, but in the long run the American car is the more expensive."

"But you must remember," I replied, "that every year there are improvements."

But he shrewdly remarked: "There are changes; I do not know that they are always improvements."

It was fascinating to watch this skilful driver thread his way through the traffic; so well did he manage that in a much shorter time than I had supposed would be possible, we reached the garage, in a street not far from Leicester Square.

There were things enough still to do to occupy the rest of the day—the grease, with which the brass work had been smeared to protect it en route, removed, the car cleaned and polished, and the batteries filled with distilled water, which could be obtained only from a "chemist," and all valves and bolts tested. Then there were last purchases to be made, to insure comfort in a climate in which, even in summer, the American shivers like a Mexican hairless dog! So it was not till the next afternoon that, the chauffeur still driving, we started on our great adventure.

VI THE GREAT NORTH ROAD

I had supposed we should go north at once, instead of which the driver headed west through Regent Park, thus avoiding the narrow and crowded thoroughfares of East London, which stretch far to the north. Then, by by-ways which a stranger could never have found, we came to Hatfield, where I had planned to spend the night, and there the chauffeur left me. I confess that when I parted with him I felt as I have heard the sick say they felt when the nurse departed—both weak and lonely!

The inn at Hatfield is called the "Purple Cow," or by the name of some other zoological curiosity, but was comfortable enough except that its proximity to the tracks of the Great Northern Railway makes it as conducive to sleep as a room on the "L" at home!

There is no garage connected with the inn of uncertain name, but there are vast stables, now, alas, well-nigh empty. The ancient ostler looks with no kindly eye on motors, but he was, I think, more favorably disposed toward me when I showed an interest in his tales of former days, when, so he said, as many as a hundred horses had found bed and fodder at one time under his care. This, of course, was in the good old coaching days, which he could remember as a boy, before railroads had changed the face of England. Indeed this continued, he said, for a long time after that, while gentlemen still travelled in their carriages. But the motor-car had given the coup de grace, and in his mind's eye the old man could now see "Ichabod" inscribed across the long, low front of the building which had once echoed to the songs of postboys and the neighing of many steeds. So, when he declined to wash the car, saying he "knew nothing of such things," I could not find it in my heart either to protest or to lessen his tip when I departed. Rather I felt the same sort of sympathy with him which I, a stanch Protestant, felt when I saw in France or Italy, old monks wandering through the aisles of some deserted abbey. From both the glory had departed, and utility can never have the charm of beauty.

I was the only guest at the inn, and instead of ordering a chop, as any one but an American would have done, I foolishly said I should like "dinner." Therefore I was served with soup—enough for a bath—a large fish, and a roast chicken, followed by a huge tart! When I saw the bill I remembered Ruth's prophecy that we should save money by stopping at small inns! There was enough left to feed the inn-keeper's family for a week. Perhaps it did!

After dinner I strolled to the gates of "Hatfield House" and looked up the long avenue, but catching only a glimpse of the hall. There came to my mind certain articles by Godkin, in the Nation, in which he had spoken with biting sarcasm of Lord Salisbury, and then I recalled what A.V.G. Allen used to say, that "Salisbury was the typical Englishman." You know what a radical Allen was in theology; yet he was a Tory in English politics. From Salisbury the mind naturally rebounded to Gladstone, the political Liberal but the ecclesiastical reactionary. Such musings led me to ask myself if nature did not arrange our temperaments as a clock-maker does the pendulum of a grandfather clock, of metals with different expansive qualities, lest a man be radical or conservative à outrance? Turning such thoughts over in my mind in that dreamy fashion which is so delightful because it calls for no action, I turned back to the inn, "and so to bed."

Next morning the weather was apparently "set fair," and I drove out of the stable-yard in good spirits. Mile after mile I drove sedately on, gaining confidence with each hour. When I had inquired of the dreary ostler what road to take to Yorkshire, he had replied, in surprise, "The north road. There ben't no other, so you can't miss it." Little he knew what I am capable of!

The roads are all so good that it is not as easy as one would suppose to keep to the great highway. There are no "mud roads" branching from the pike, as in Pennsylvania, where the difference is evident at a glance. So, when I had overcome the first nervousness and begun to take notice of the country, glancing first to the right to watch the cattle feeding in the deep meadow, and then to the left where the wheat was almost ready for the harvest, and speculating on the yield as compared with the new land at home, it is not strange that I should have diverged from the right way. Indeed it was not alone "the things which are seen" which caused me to err, there was also the "unseen" which filled the mind's eye. For this was not the first time by any means that I had travelled the Great North Road! I had trod it on foot with dear Jeanie Deans, thankful for an occasional "cast in a cart," and by coach with Mr. Squeers, and in the pleasant company of Mr. Pickwick also, if I am not mistaken. Well, the result of all this contemplation of things, "visible and invisible," was that when I finally inquired the way, I found I was more than twenty miles too far to the eastward—not far, indeed, from Cambridge. I found, moreover, that human nature is the same on the country roads of England as at home! For the laborer to whom I spoke showed the same superiority that one notices in those foolish people who get up early in the morning as they greet the late riser! He told me I must retrace my road for some miles to get again on the North road. But as this is a thing I detest, I insisted that by keeping on I should ultimately regain the road I had lost. He reluctantly admitted this might be done, if I kept on as far as Royston. As all places were now the same to me, this is what I decided to do, much to his disappointment I am sure, for he would have liked to see me pay the penalty of my folly.

As you have no doubt mentioned in more than one of your sermons, "Disappointments are often blessings in disguise." This proved to be one of them, for it led me back into an England older than that of Scott or Dickens—even to the England of Fielding!

VII THE ENGLAND OF FIELDING

Again I was the only guest at the inn which was called, perhaps, "The Dappled Hart," but there was an excellent dinner waiting for any who might stop. There was lamb as tender as one could wish, and peas which had not been withered by transportation, and a cherry tart, over which custard had been poured, which, I fear, came out of a bottle such as the advertisements on the boardings illustrate with a picture of a greedy little girl waiting impatiently to be helped! When I praised the freshness of the peas the young woman, who served me none too graciously, I know not why, unless because I had no chauffeur, said they had been picked in the garden that same morning. This menu, I may say, seldom changed, though sometimes the lamb had grown to mutton, or even changed to some other animal; but, whatever the meat was called, it was invariably excellent, and far better cooked than one would find in a place of the same size at home.

When I had dined, or, as there was no soup, I suppose I should say lunched, I asked if I might smoke. But the uncompromising young woman said "Certainly not," and pointed the way to the bar. This was reached by crossing the paved way which led from the side street to the stables, passing under an archway. The bar proved to be a low, damp room, in which, I think, if one sat long alcohol would become a necessity. There were several small tables arranged for those who wished to be semiprivate, but I noticed that the few customers preferred to lean against the bar and talk to the landlord, much as in the saloons at home. After a casual glance they paid no attention to me, and I sipped my coffee and smoked my pipe in silence.

Then a man entered who seemed to be a stranger, but who evidently knew the Masonic sign, for he soon fell into conversation with them. He was evidently what we call a "drummer," but had none of the jollying manner of the guild as we know it, for there were long pauses in the conversation. Then entered a man who was evidently quite at home, and felt himself to be of some importance. He immediately began to lay down the law on every subject mentioned, to which the others submitted meekly. But not the drummer! He too had his opinions, and was willing to have them known, and, encouraged by the landlord, plucked up spirit and began to give as well as take. I now anticipated some interesting talk, and was not disappointed. The dominating man had ordered whiskey and soda, or rather it had been prepared by the landlord as if he were familiar with his customer's taste. As he slowly sipped it he looked at me, as much as to say: "My friend, I shall make short work of you when I am ready." But I was saved by the drummer. He began by explaining some of the inconveniences to which a stranger, such as he, is subjected in a strange town, and rashly suggested that provincial England would be improved by the establishment of places of "Convenience," such as every traveller on the Continent is familiar with.

This is what the village doctor—for such I now learned he was—was waiting for. He took high moral ground and proved to his own satisfaction—and I think carried the house with him—that this would be the beginning of the end of English morality. "Did the gentleman mean to suggest that England should become as France?"

The gentleman "meant to suggest nothing of the sort," and rather cleverly shifted the ground from the moral to the physical. But here, of course the doctor was too much for him, remarking with a complacent smile: "I think I may be allowed to speak with a little authority on that aspect of the question, being a medical man myself."

I do not know how great his authority may have been, but I can answer for his dogmatism! How often the two are confused!

If you were not temporarily blind and so dependent upon Miss Fuller to read your letters, I would repeat the conversation which followed in full. Not that there was anything improper in it. The disputants were as solemn as if they were discussing religion, only they "called a spade a spade." But we have grown so squeamish, or so unmoral, that we hide "Tom Jones" under the sofa-cushion and place "The Visits of Elizabeth" on the parlor table. But rural England, I learned that day, while it has changed superficially, is still the England of Fielding. Squire Westons can still be found in certain counties—indeed Dogberry is not unknown in remote villages.

When I had listened to as much as I dared without bursting with laughter, which came when the landlord stoutly declared that his "midden" was not public property, I escaped to the stable-yard and, as I drove by the bar-window, heard the exasperating voice of the doctor proclaiming, "Indeed, I could tell you of a case, not five miles from here, to which, if I had not been called immediately," etc.

VIII THE END OF THE NORTH ROAD

I suppose my mind was full of Fielding and the essential immobility of the English character, which illustrates so well Goethe's saying, "Men change but Man remains the same," when I was jerked as it were out of the eighteenth century into the twentieth by the violent blowing of a motor-horn. Looking up I saw a large touring-car, driven at great speed and heading straight for me. I blew my horn in reply, and expected to see the approaching car swerve to the other side of the road. But, instead, it came rushing on, and a head-on collision seemed inevitable. It was now too late to escape by turning out, and so, not knowing what to do, I did what proved to be the best thing possible, I brought my car to a sudden stop and waited for the impact! I supposed the driver of the other car was drunk. But evidently he was not so drunk as to plunge into another car, for, with a frightful grinding of brakes he checked his car, the headlights of the two almost touching.

I was too confused to say anything, and so we sat for a moment gazing at one another. He spoke first, and you may imagine my surprise when he said, in a tolerant tone: "Drunk?" To have my suspicion of him so quickly thrown back upon me so paralyzed me that I was speechless, and simply continued to stare.

"I say," finally remarked my opponent, "are you going to turn out, or are you looking for trouble?"

There was a lady, or perhaps it would be more accurate to say a female, sitting in the tonneau, and she suddenly called out: "Henry, it is an American, and he is on the wrong side of the road!"

It was true! In spite of warnings and good intentions, I had left the car in charge of what De Maistre calls one's bête, but what we think it more elegant to call the "subconscious," while my "self" had slipped back into the past to hold converse with the mighty.

It was a foolish-looking "bête" which smiled at the lady. But there was no answering smile. Indeed, she was quite enraged, and while her husband—I hope it was her husband—backed his car and crossed to the other side of the road, much as one would go round a sweep rather than touch him, she stood up in the car and, in a tone worthy of Mrs. Raddles, told me what she thought of me and of my unhappy country. It was not "hands," it was "claws," across the sea!

Well, I learned a good deal that day: first, that in England the right side of the road is the wrong side, and, second, that while a "soft answer may turn away wrath," there is nothing that so exasperates an angry woman as to sit silent and smile like an imbecile!

I had intended to pass the night at Grantham, but finding it would make too long a day at the rate at which I was travelling, I turned aside to Peterborough.

My education in motoring progressed by learning something about the rate of travelling. I had been told that twenty miles an hour was a safe and comfortable speed, and consequently seldom allowed the speedometer to rise above that figure. But when I found how often I had to slow down in passing through a village, and to stop altogether in towns on account of traffic, I found that one must keep pretty steadily at "thirty" to average twenty miles an hour.

To this rule ought to be added the remark that the driver who has an instinct for getting off the road loses more time in a day than is expected!

The entrance to the stable-yard at the inn in Peterborough, as is frequently the case in old inns, leads under a narrow archway. These were built when the farmer's two-wheeled gigs were the vogue and were no inconvenience to the driver. But it requires skilful management to turn a motor into one without touching the brickwork on either side. If the hub of a gig collided with the masonry, it was the brickwork which gave way. But the mud-guard of a motor is about as pliable as metal can well be. If an archway could speak it would doubtless have many a joyful thing to say about these new-fangled machines! How proudly they roll up the High Street! How timidly they turn the corner into the narrow way! How fearfully they crawl toward the opening in the yard! The reckless gigs took the turning with a careless swing and, not infrequently, nipped the buttress, as the deep groove in the brickwork shows. Alas! I had not yet learned caution, and a crumpled mud-guard was the penalty. The grinning ostler did what he could to bend it into shape, but never again would it have the smart appearance it once had, and every chauffeur would look with scorn on the foolish man who had tried to do what the natty gigs had often done and been none the worse for! We are a swifter race than our fathers, but a motor will no more stand what the old carts did than a chauffeur can drink as did those old Jehus, without paying a heavy penalty.

There was still time to see the cathedral before the doors would be closed for the night, and thither I took my way. You know the great church too well for me to dwell upon it. It is not one of the greatest of the English cathedrals; it lacks the majesty of the great fortress at Durham; it has not the intricate—I had almost said self-conscious—beauty of Lincoln; it is not so vast as Ely, which, as I once heard you say, "rises out of the Fens as if typifying the conquest of heathendom by the Cross"; nor is it so rich in architectural treasures as Gloucester—but how impressive is its simple dignity! Here, I think, one feels less than in the others that it was intended for another service—that is for the worship of another God! Here is enshrined the block-like solidity of the English character. When, next morning, I listened to the familiar words, "Our fathers have told us what thou hast done, in their time of old," I felt that the setting was perfect for that liturgy which has been the most successful in building a bridge by which the souls of men might pass from a Ptolemaic to a Darwinian universe.

The car "pulled" well, and there were no exciting incidents to report for the next two days. The road runs through Grantham and then through Newark, where the beautiful spire of the parish church rises from the market-place. Here, too, a fine bridge crosses the Trent. But I looked in vain for the "monstrous cantle" which Hotspur complained the river "cranking in" had cut out! Perhaps it was not here but at some other part of the river, or perhaps it was not true at all, and Hotspur was only trying to get a "rise" out of Glendower! It is no matter. It only came to my mind as I saw the Trent for the first time.

Donchester comes next, but as I did not pass by the race-course, I can give you no tips!

After this the road enters the rolling Yorkshire hills, where, if the surface were not so good, changes of gear would be frequent, so sharp are the rises of the short hills.

In the early afternoon the towers of Fountain's Abbey rose above the tree-tops, but I did not stop, for I was more than ready for tea, and, moreover, I hasted to reach the "Beeches," where I knew a cordial English welcome, mixed with a dash of American "gush," awaited me.

IX AN ENGLISH INTERIOR

John said this morning that he was so busy I must write. He added that as all his letters had been "outsides," mine must be an "inside"!

If you ask what keeps him busy, the answer is the car. He and the chauffeur of the house are, I think, breaking the motor to pieces. Not that there was anything the matter with it so far as I could see, but John said it was "not pulling just right," which, I believe, is like the small boy's excuse for taking a watch to pieces. He wants to see the "wheels go round"! At any rate, the stable-yard is a sight! And so is John! The chauffeur has been dragged away from the fascinating game, but a boy of about fourteen is acting as "plumber assistant." I stepped out for a moment and heard John say, "Here, William, hand me that spanner," and William reply: "Spanner, sir, yes, sir, spanner." John caught my eye and grinned, and at the same instant I caught William winking at "cook," for which, I venture the guess, he will be disciplined, for familiarity does not have much chance to breed contempt in the servants' hall! However, I remembered that if this is to be an "inside" letter, I must go inside to write it.

We have now been here a little more than a week, and I am filled with admiration, not, I fear, unmixed with envy, at the way this great house seems to run itself. Of course, being a woman, my first interest was in the "servant problem," which, so far as I can see, does not exist. Sir Thomas is not rich as we count riches, but there are servants enough, I should think, to run a hotel! And such servants! Trim, neat, perfectly trained, and always respectful. Of course, in England serving is a profession—once a servant always a servant—which must have what you would call a psychological effect. Then servants and masters are of the same race and have the same religion. Surely there must be a spiritual bond between people who begin the day's work with prayer.

I talked this over with Maud. She began to say, "In forming one's opinion on facts with which one is not familiar," but I stopped her, saying: "That won't do. You are talking just like Thomas." She blushed a little at this, but answered defiantly: "Well, he is a good person to talk like."

"No," I answered, "no one is good to talk like."

She laughed at this queer sentence and then, with a true Yankee drawl, imitating old Captain Hyde, of Silver Harbor, said: "Well, by Godfrey, I ain't never seen a pancake so thin it didn't have a minder side!"

"Well," said I, "what is the under side to this pancake?"

"It is this: while it is true we pay about half as much for servants here as we do at home, on the other hand, we must have twice the number. Everything is so specialized that if one were to ask the parlor-maid to do a piece of work which properly belongs to the housemaid, it would be like asking Dr. Shattuck to pull a tooth!"

"Do you mean that in case of sickness one of them would not lend a hand with another's work?"

"Oh, I don't mean that literally, but it would be a favor that could not be counted on, and if it happened often enough to have the look of establishing a precedent—unless you have lived in England you can have no understanding of what a precedent means—she would probably 'give warning,' and if you think it pleasant to live in the house for a month with a young person who has given warning, you are mistaken!"

"Well, why not pay her a month's wages and let her go?"

"You cause me to smile! In the first place, it would be considered extravagant, and, besides, it might do the girl an injustice. It might be thought a reflection on her character. The 'justice' of the English is, in my opinion, carried to an extreme! Nor are these the only reasons. You can't imagine the difficulties of replacing a servant. Endless questions have to be asked, such as whether she is Church of England or 'Chapel,' and much more intimate questions that you would think—and so do I—are none of one's business. It is not as it was in Boston, where if Mary Maloney said 'I think I'll be leaving you,' all you had to do would be to step around into Charles Street and tell your troubles to Mrs. McCarthy, and, behold! she would have 'A noice girrl, not long over, not knowin' all the ways, maybe, but willin' to learn, and comin' of decent people.' It is true she wouldn't know a pan from a skillet, but she would do what she was told, and soon have an interest in the family and be loyal to them.

"She would not join in family prayers, and indeed at first would run out into the pantry when papa said grace, but in case of sickness she would take part of her afternoon 'off' to go to church to pray for the baby, or maybe burn a candle to the saint who specialized in your trouble! They are not neat, they are not well trained, they are not bigoted about truth, but they are human!"

"Maud Simpson!" I cried, "how many times have I heard you say: 'If I only had nice English servants I should ask for nothing more in life'? I don't believe you mean it."

"Well, perhaps I don't. The fact is that under-housemaid spoke to me this morning with that correct insolence one cannot take hold of, and I have been feeling all day as if I would rather be 'sassed' by Katie Hogan!"

X HUSBAND AND WIFE

It was not till later in the day that I had an opportunity of continuing my conversation with Maud, and when I did I took it up where we had left it, and said: "Well, at any rate there is no 'under side' to the Miles 'pancake'! Miles, I should explain, is the 'Nanny' or nurse.

"Really," said she, "that is almost literally true. She is wonderful."

"Why is it," I asked, "that we have never been able to get anything like that at home? When I think of the Irish nurses who are kind and faithful, no doubt, but quite untruthful, and speak with an Irish-American accent which is making the English language, as spoken in America, the most unmusical tongue in the world, and then see how these English children are taught, almost from the cradle, to speak clearly, softly, and musically, I am ashamed of the way in which we have wasted our heritage. Why is it we cannot find women like our trained nurses who would undertake the task of training the children to speak the language of Shakespeare, of which we hear so much and speak so little? Why is it not as interesting to teach good manners to the leaders of our future society as to keep their pampered little bodies healthy? Why are the girls who are starving on the pay of a school-teacher unwilling to undertake the fundamental education of the favored classes, not as menials, but as honored and respected friends, treated exactly as our trained nurses are? Why is it?"

"For mercy's sake stop," cried Maud. "You make my head swim with your 'whys'! If I try to answer any of your questions you will say I am talking like Thomas."

"Never mind whom you talk like, if only you answer them," I replied.

"Well, I don't believe any one can answer them all, but one difficulty in the importation of the 'Nanny' is that you do not understand the secret spring of English life, i.e., of people of a certain position. Of course a nursery like this cannot be found in a house of people of small means. The head nurse is waited on by the second nurse, and is obeyed by the other servants. She does not take her meals in the servants' hall, but is served in the nursery. She holds the position of an N.C.O. in the army. The whole American household would have to be changed to make way for the English nurse."

"Very likely," I said, "but why should that not be done? Look how the rich at home ape the English with their silly footmen and insolent butlers! Surely they could find a place for such a nurse as Miles, who would teach their children to be interested in simple things and to use their voices so that speaking would be like singing. Why, I know English children of nine years of age who have a vocabulary which a sophomore with us might envy! Only yesterday when I stopped Edward when he was on his way to work in his garden, he said: 'Excuse me, Aunt Ruth, but my business is rather urgent!' 'Urgent!' Could President Eliot have said better? And yet he is far from being a prig. Indeed, to speak frankly, he is a limb! I tell you what the American home would have to do first: it would have to dispense with the services of the trained nurse! I wouldn't admit it to an Englishwoman, but the trained nurse is an American institution because so many women 'enjoy ill health.' Think how many houses there are where, if the mother needs a holiday, say for a week or so, the trained nurse is installed, and the temperature of a healthy child is taken three times a day! Think of the 'homes' where the trained nurse is kept by the year! Is it any wonder Christian Science makes headway? It is the inevitable reaction from all this fussing about disease. I hope the day will come when it will be an 'unseemly' thing to speak of sickness. We spread contagion with our tongues!"

"Whose talking like some one now?" said Maud. "You sound like John." Then, when she had finished laughing at her own wit, she continued: "After all, you are talking about a very limited class, what papa used to call 'fluff.'"

"That may be; still there are many people who could well afford to pay an English nurse what they are paying a trained nurse and save money by so doing."

"Yes, but it is more than a question of money—indeed, money has nothing to do with it. The truth is the 'Nanny' is the last blooming of the feudal system. These women have the hearts of the old retainers. They identify themselves with the families they serve, and are as proud of the children as if they were their own. Can you imagine Miles taking a place with the Rosenthals? No, she is a part of this family, and the children no more think of parting with her than with me. As long as she lives she will be a part of their lives. The mails from all over the world bring letters to the 'Nannies' from men whose names the whole world knows. So, while you might import Miles, you could not graft her into a social democracy! A certain noble lord was once accused of being a 'snob.' He laughingly replied: 'You should see my Nanny!'

"Then there is another difficulty—such people as Alice Burns and Elsie Graham, who do not see their children once a week, who meet the doctor, for whom the trained nurse sent, as they leave the house to go to dinner or to the opera, and ask him if 'it' is contagious, but are afraid to go and see for themselves, might be willing to have such an one as Miles, if it became the fashion, but the typical American mother would not allow another woman to have such authority over her children as the English nurse has. It is she who decides whether the children shall be dosed, whether they should be punished, and whether their conduct has been such as to justify their appearance at lunch, or, if so, whether they deserve 'sweets'! Can you imagine Mrs. Sherburne allowing that—or Mr. Sherburne, either?"

I had to admit that I should not like that side of it.

"Then," said Maud, "you had better give up all thoughts of Miles!"

"But how do English mothers like it?"

"They accept it as part of the universe, like vegetable marrow and cold rooms! But there is something more that I do not suppose you can understand. Englishwomen do not crave the society of their children as American women do, because they have the companionship of their husbands to a degree unknown at home."

"You must be crazy! There is more true companionship between husbands and wives in America than anywhere else in the world."

"Don't get excited," said Maud. "It is not the Fourth of July! I was not speaking of quality but of quantity. The management of the household is not left to women, as it is at home. The husband and wife consult about a thousand things that American husbands know nothing about. If the husband is in politics, as Thomas is, the wife visits the constituency and makes speeches as well as the man. At any dinner you will notice that the women talk politics as intelligently as the men do. Such intellectual companionship would be impossible if the woman were tied down to the nursery. How many really intelligent men does one meet at a dinner-party in Boston or New York? They will not accept such invitations, because the women are not their intellectual companions. They are beautifully gowned and lovely to look at, but they expect to be admired every minute! Then take the institution of 'the week-end.' If people are not stopping here, Thomas and I are off to some other house. I have a quiet mind because Miles is here. No, a 'Nanny' is as necessary in an English house as is an N.C.O. in the army, for the rules of the house are equally strict."

Some of those rules strike us as queer. For instance, even when only the family is present, dinner is a formal affair. Instead of gathering in the hall as before lunch, we assemble in the drawing-room, and when the hour strikes, the butler appears and announces: "Dinner is served, Sir Thomas!" I confess when I first heard that, my eyebrows went up a trifle. Maud saw it and laughed. "Yes," she said, "I felt that way at first, and told Thomas that if the butler thought he could ignore me, he was mistaken!"

"I think, my dear, what you said was that 'he had another guess coming,'" said Thomas, with a smile.

"I 'guess' I did," laughed Maud. "At any rate, now that I understand the reason, I submit, I hope, gracefully."

"You could not do anything otherwise," he replied.

"Well," I exclaimed, "when the billing and cooing are over, I too should like to know the reason."

"Every country has its customs," said Sir Thomas, I thought a bit stolidly. "America has hers and England hers. The difference is that the English can give a reason for theirs, whereas I doubt if Americans always can."

I saw he was trying to get a "rise" out of me and so answered: "Such as?"

"Well, for instance, if a man goes to church in America, he takes the aisle seat, and if a lady enters he steps out and allows her to pass, instead of moving up as an Englishman would do. Is there any reason for that?"

"Certainly," I answered. "That is a survival of the custom of the early days when the men went to church carrying their flintlocks, which they might be called upon to use against the Indians at any minute, and could not wait for the women and children to clear the way."

"That strikes me as an interesting explanation of the origin of a custom rather than as a reason for its continuance. Indeed, I would suggest that it is a custom that might be discontinued with advantage, for it seems to have been carried from the church to the trams, and is, I suppose, accountable for the existence of what I have seen in the American papers called 'the end-seat hog.'"

We all laughed at this, but I said it looked to me like a red herring.

But he said: "No, the English custom of having the host rather than the hostess notified of the serving of dinner is not merely a survival from the days when women counted for little, but has a practical value to-day. Inasmuch as the host is expected to 'take in' the lady of leading rank, it is of consequence that he, and not the hostess, who comes last, should be informed when the procession should start."

I must say that seems a reasonable explanation. And when I think of the confusion that is apt to follow at home when we try to be formal—as, for instance, when the host is talking to the prettiest girl in the room up to the last minute, and his wife has to inform him that dinner is ready, because his charmer has been so engrossing that he has not heard the butler, and he hastens to escort the "lady" of a congressman, I am inclined to think we had better follow the English way or else revert to the primitive custom of "choosing partners"!

You will think I have been reading the Countess, or one of the other papers which teach the middle classes to ape the aristocracy, and are probably muttering: "What earthly difference does it make to us what are the customs of a society which is soon to pass away?" But you are wrong. This particular thing is of no value, as you and I both know. The point is, we Americans are continually saying that the English do not understand us. Do we understand them? If we would take the trouble to learn the reason for some of our differences, would it not do more for the peace of the world than all those stupid banquets, with their talk about "our common blood," when every one knows that at least a third of those present have not a drop of English blood in their veins, and some of them, as Roosevelt is reported to have said, "thank God for it"?

John is calling to know if I intend to type all night, and you will long ago have wished that I would stop! Well, you will not be troubled by me soon again, for to-morrow we start on our trip, and John will want to tell you about it himself.

XI THE FOURTH SPEED

This came near being my last letter to you. No, that does not look right! What I mean is the one before this came near being the last. This is what happened: When we were leaving the "Beeches" a few days ago, my brother-in-law, in looking over the car, discovered the "fourth speed." As he had never seen one on an English car, he asked me what value it had. I was not quite clear in my own mind as to its value, and tried to recall what the agent had said about it. Finally I remarked that I had not had occasion to use it as yet, but that it was a good thing to have, because when one was running at forty miles or more, it steadied the car and took the strain off the engine.

"Good Lord," he exclaimed, "you don't mean to say you are going to drive forty miles an hour, do you?"

"No, not at present, but it's a good thing to have if one should want it."

"I should think it a jolly good thing to have if I were tired of life or of my wife!"

This rather nettled me, but I said nothing, chiefly because I did not know what to say! But I thought he was probably right, and that I could get all the speed I could control by running in "high."

It was one of those days, cool, dry, shining, which are as rare in England as they are common at home, say in October. A day on which one feels it is good to be alive. I was glad of this for Ruth's sake, for she was sad at parting with her sister and the children, and I was glad for my own sake, because I like to feel that it is good to be alive! I was also glad for the motor's sake, for it was running "fine"! Perhaps the reason both we and the motor rejoiced was because both human and mechanical engines function best when there is an uninterrupted flow of the electric current upon which both depend for their greatest efficiency. At any rate, the car seemed alive, and "pulled like a good 'un," as Sir Thomas's chauffeur remarked as we drove away.

I know you have driven over the hills of the "West Riding," and therefore remember that it is all "up hill and down dale." But with you the horse slowly mounted the hills and then held back on the descent. But with a motor it is different; the hills must be rushed so that one mounts half-way up the opposing rise before the impetus of the descent is lost. This requires constant shifting of gears which becomes rather tiresome, and after a while one begins to look for a bit of level ground on which the car will run without much attention from the driver, or for a long straight hill, not too steep, down which one can coast.

Such a hill we soon reached. But as we began the descent I saw that it was steeper than I had supposed, and so began the descent slowly. But the car soon gained a greater speed than I wished, so I threw her into second and pressed on the foot-brake. Still she ran too fast, and I saw that this was a steeper hill than I had ever met, and much as I disliked doing so, knowing how ruinous it is to the tires, I put on the emergency brake. But what was my horror to find that we were now shooting down the hill at a speed greater than I had ever felt since the days when I tobogganed! However, there was nothing more to be done, and I could only hope that we should meet nothing in the way. But that hope was short-lived, for at the moment I saw, near the foot of the hill, a picnic party which had backed their pony-cart against the hedge, leaving the pony standing across the road while they leisurely unpacked a lunch-basket and other paraphernalia for a feast. It was true there was room to pass if one drove carefully and slowly, but we were not going slowly! Indeed, one glance at the speedometer brought my heart into my throat! I have read of men who were cool in moments of danger—I must be a hero, for I was cold! I could only hope that Ruth had not seen, or, if she had, had not understood. I blew the klaxon furiously; saw a boy run to the pony's head. I blew again two sharp blasts, and, fortunately, he had sense enough to see he should be struck, and so jumped clear. The pony threw back his head with a snort, and we shot by without an inch to spare between the cart and a solid stone post opposite. Ruth was as white as death but uttered no sound. The silence was broken by the voice of the child who had been so near death. But what he said seemed inadequate. It was: "Oh, I say!" James Freeman Clarke attributed the profanity of the kindly boatmen on the Ohio River to a lack of vocabulary. Perhaps that was the reason the boy did not swear!

Well, the longest lane has a turning and the steepest hill a bottom, so at length the car began to slow down as it struck the opposite rise, and finally came to a full stop.

Then Ruth spoke. But, angel as she is, all she said was: "Don't you think, dear, that was a little fast?"

I said I thought it was, and that I would go slower hereafter!

I could not imagine what had happened. The brakes were new, and while the chauffeur at the "Beeches" had warned me that they were too light, I thought that was because he did not understand the difference there is in weight between an English and an American car. As I say, I could not understand it. The car had behaved as if it were alive—like a high-spirited horse, "full of beans," who had taken the bit into its teeth and bolted.

I descended and took a good look at every part of the machine. I found that the foot-brake was in order, but the emergency brake had not been touched. I have no doubt that such a student of the "subconscious" as yourself has already discovered the answer to the riddle. Yes, you are right! It was Sir Thomas's foolishness in talking about the "fourth speed," as I was leaving, that had lodged in my subconscious mind and led me to pull, not the emergency brake, but the fourth-speed lever!

I asked a laborer, plodding home to his dinner, the name of the little hamlet at the top of the hill. He answered: "Sawley."

"Why, that can hardly be," I replied. "I passed Sawley soon after leaving Ripon."

"Ay," he replied, "there be two of 'em."

"Well, one is enough for me," I answered.

He made no reply; simply stared at me as if he thought I was a fool. I guess he was right!

The motor-car has completed the work begun by the bicycle of breaking down "the middle wall of partition" which divided Englishmen from strangers. The motor is a letter of introduction to every owner. At the inn where we stopped for lunch were a young couple who, like ourselves, were making a trip, and when I asked some question about roads they opened their maps and not only gave us the desired information but also a valuable "tip," from which I learned on authority what otherwise I could have learned only by experience—that is, by loss of time and labor.

My new friend, for such I must call him, was much interested on learning we had come so far, and expressed a wish to see an American car. He was greatly impressed by the "self-starter," but insisted—as did every other Englishman who spoke to me on the subject—that the car was too light to stand up as an English car does. He also said that he had been told that the American brakes were not to be depended upon.

This led to a confession of my folly of the morning. I should have thought twice before telling it to a fellow countryman, for he would have thought it a high joke, and have "rubbed it in." But this serious young man was filled with horror at our narrow escape from death, and was altogether sympathetic. This led him to give me the "tip" of which I have spoken. It was very simple: "In descending a hill," said he, "judge its angle of descent and adjust your gear accordingly, then switch off the current, let in the clutch, and the engine will act as a brake. You will always have the brakes in reserve, but seldom use them. I have been over the highest passes of the Alps, with the exception of the Stelvio, without touching the brake."

"All's well that ends well," but I wish I might have known this simple rule earlier in the day!

XII "JAEL THE WIFE OF HEBER THE KENITE"

John has not written lately because the car has been running well! He says you care only for "thrillers," and that there have been none since he last wrote. "Laus Deo!" add I. So to-day, which is a Sunday, I am writing in his place.

I am sorry to say I am not at all pleased with him! You know how unconventional and outspoken he is; well, I have had to tell him more than once that while his way of talking is well enough at home, where people know and love him, and where, even if they do not know him, they are more or less like him, and so understand that what he says is not to be taken au pied de la lettre, here people are different—their yea is yea, and their nay nay. The English are not only matter of fact, but have an awful reverence for truth, and do not understand what John means when he says that "Lying can be the highest form of truth"! So when a man says a thing they not unnaturally think he means it.

Well, all this introduction leads to the events of the day. This morning we went to the cathedral. I must say it was a shock to find that there were less than a hundred people in the choir—where the service was held. However, all went well enough until the sermon: the preacher announced—no, sung—his text, "Blessed among women shall Jael the wife of Heber the Kenite be. Blessed shall she be among women in the tent," and then proceeded: "We will think of Jael, my dear brethren, not merely as the wife of Heber the Kenite, but rather as a type of the Blessed Virgin." What followed I shall never know, for at this moment John picked up his hat and umbrella and left, and I, fearing he might be faint, quickly followed. When we got outside, I said, "Are you sick, dear?" and he replied: "Not yet, but I should have been had I waited a moment longer."

"Was the air close?" I innocently asked.

"No, it was as damp and drafty as usual, but I could not have stood that creature another minute."

Then followed a diatribe on the Established Church, which I will spare you. Before he had finished, there was not one stone left upon another of the cathedral system! "Such an array of clergy, such a choir, such an organ, such everything to make the service glorious, and yet fewer people than could be found in a mission chapel—the extravagance of it, the futility of it—why, half the people there were American tourists! Why don't they take the money and use it for some good purpose?"

"'This ointment might have been sold for much,'" I quoted.

"No, you don't," he growled. "Was the 'whole house filled with the odor of the ointment'? Is England? Is this town? Was the great cathedral? Was the choir even? There was no odor of ointment. There was nothing but a stench!"

"John!" I protested.

"Well, perhaps that was too strong. But, honestly, was there any feeling of the majesty of God there? I say nothing of his love—any pity for poor struggling souls? 'A type of the Blessed Virgin,' forsooth! If he must talk of Jael, why did he not tell the truth and remind the people that if she were living to-day she would be in jail—no, that is not a pun—waiting for the report of the grand jury? Is it not due to Mary's Son that she can no longer be counted 'blessed'? It is not the blasphemy, it is the unreality of the whole performance which is so dreadful. The preacher no doubt is a decent, law-abiding Englishman, who would be horrified if he read such a story in the Times, but because it is embedded in the Bible he considers it his duty to find a mystic meaning in it. This sort of talk is what leads to moral confusion, and is one of the reasons why the church is losing its hold on thoughtful people. The day was when the 'world' was full of darkness and the church full of light, but now the 'world' has a clearer moral vision than the church—or, at any rate, than that preposterous creature has."

By this time, as you may believe, there was not much of the "joy of the sanctuary" left in me! We walked down to the river, and after a long silence John began to recite:

The tears came to my eyes, and John said, now quietly and reverently: "He was a man"—meaning Kingsley—"and there must be some like him. But, not 'in king's houses'! Why did not the preacher call that Mary a type of the Virgin? Why didn't he recite the 'Sands o' Dee'? Is it not as truly inspired as Judges?"

By this time my ill humor had passed, and I said: "Perhaps because he could not recite it as well as you."

John laughed, and then said, "I'm sorry. Let us try and forget him," meaning, I suppose, the preacher, who probably was at that moment eating his Sunday roast and listening to his wife's praises of the sermon!

In the afternoon I announced that I thought of going to even-song, and to my dismay John said he would go with me! I thought it was running into temptation, and intimated as much, but he said he was going to do penance. Well, it proved to be a lovely penance! The sermon was so beautiful and simple, on the words "I know where thou dwellest." It was about home—where we dwell. "Is it such," said the preacher, "as we should wish Our Lord to visit?" He was an old man, and the sermon was like the talk of a father to his children. It radiated love. Then came the anthem, "Love Divine," and as the voice of the tenor was lifted up the boy's soprano followed, rising still higher, till in one final "Love Divine" the great arches of the roof re-echoed with the melody. I confess that I wept, and John said softly: "How perfect it all was! I understand now why the townspeople—the nave was filled—come to such a service."

So we wended our way back to the hotel, feeling that the day had not been altogether lost.

XIII "AS IT WAS IN THE BEGINNING"

I said that the day was not altogether lost, but, alas! it was not yet over. We were sitting in the garden after the cold supper always served in lieu of dinner on Sunday evenings. John was smoking his pipe and all was peaceful when a man sitting near us suddenly turned to John and said: "I saw you in the cathedral this morning, but as you left hurriedly I feared you might be ill. I hope not."

Why can't John be good all the time? Or, if that is not possible, why can't he tell a lie? Surely the latter would have been better than to blurt out: "No, thank you. I was quite well, but when I found the talk was to be about Jael, I thought it best to take my wife out. I don't think Jael is a proper person to be spoken about in the presence of decent people."

"God bless me!" exclaimed the other, "how extraordinary!"

Fortunately, at that moment the man in charge of the garage appeared with the information that he had succeeded in getting the distilled water needed for the batteries, as the chemist's shop was now open, and John departed with him to see to dropping it in.

There was a long silence, and then the stranger said: "Are you an American?"

When I told him, he said: "Really, I should never have suspected it!"

How thankful I was that the chemist had opened his shop just when he did, for that "compliment"—for such of course it was intended to be—affects John as "sheeny" does an Irishman.

"Of course," continued my neighbor, "I saw at once that your husband was an American. But how does it happen that you speak without an accent?"

I laughed and said: "Probably because I had lived until my marriage in Boston, and am of pure English stock, whereas my husband is of mixed race, possibly having no English blood at all in him."

"Dear me! You don't mean to say Indian or negro, do you?"

Thank goodness that distilled water has to be put in drop by drop, or John would have been in the place he said the wife of Heber should be in! I explained that my husband's ancestors on one side had come from Ulster, and on the other from Wales, so that he did not have quite the same feeling about England that I have, whose people came from Norfolk and Devon.

He remarked it was a pity—I suppose for John, not for me—but I did not inquire. It is, however, a funny thing that while the English speak of curiosity as an American characteristic, they never seem to think there is any reason they should not ask us any questions which come into their heads. John, to whom, I need not say, I am indebted for this observation, says that it is because they look on us as freaks! And that just as children at the circus will pinch the legs of those unfortunate creatures called freaks—a thing they would never dream of doing to "humans"—so the English take liberties with us which they would never take with their own countrymen. But you know how he talks!

My new acquaintance was evidently not yet satisfied, for he continued: "You know that was rather an original remark of your husband's about the sermon this morning."

I replied that he was rather an original person.

"But," he said, "if you once begin that sort of thing, where will it end?"

"What sort of thing?" I asked.

"Why, talking about those people in the Bible as if they were real people living to-day, don't you know."

"Don't you think of them as real?"

"I don't think of them at all."

"But when they are spoken of in a sermon, what do you think?"

"Why, to tell you the truth, I am apt to take a little snooze. I have done my part in the service, made the responses and that sort of thing, you know, and when it comes to the sermon, that's parson's job. He has to do something, and I take it for granted he knows his business and pay no attention to him. But if I once started in to consider whether he was right or wrong, where should I end? I know jolly well that Sunday would be no day of rest! Look at your husband, now—he is all worked up over the sermon this morning, but it did me no harm. To tell you the truth, I don't think I ever met a man before who cared what a parson says. Well, perhaps I don't quite mean that, but what surprised me was that he talked as if he had been listening to a speech by Lloyd George or Asquith, or one of those men, on a subject that really matters."

"But you think the clergy ought to talk on things that really matter?"

"In a way, yes. But not as a regular thing. That is the mistake the Non-conformists make. I have a son-in-law who goes to chapel, and at Sunday dinner the family talk over the sermon as if they had been to a political meeting. I don't call that making Sunday a day of rest. Why should I want to have a parson tell me what to think or what to do? What does he know about the life of men? I expect I know what I ought to do as well as he does."