English Ways--and Byways. I

AUGUST, 1920

I

SUNDAY AT BARCHESTER

JOHN has not written lately, because the car has been running well! He says you care only for ‘Thrillers,’ and 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-offact, 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, sang — his text: ‘Blessed among women shall Jael the wife of Heber the Kennite 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 Kennite, 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 was faint, quickly followed.

When he 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 draughty 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, yet fewer people than could be found in a Mission chapel—the extravagance, 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, lawabiding Englishman, who would be horrified if he read of such a thing 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, —

‘ O Mary, go and call the cattle home, And call the cattle home,

And call the cattle home,

Across the sands o’ Dee.’

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 did n’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 do it as well as you.’

John laughed, and then said, ‘I am 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 boys’ soprano followed, rising still higher, till in one final ‘Love Divine’ the great arches of the roof reëchoed with the melody. I confess that I wept; and John said softly, ‘How perfect it all was! I understand now why the townspeople come to such a service.’

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

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 turned to John and said, ‘ I saw you in the Cathedral this morning; 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 she 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; 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.’

‘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 had, 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’d 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 Nonconformists 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. 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.’

‘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 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 did n’t like this overmuch, 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 to 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 wall 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 ” expresses a great truth, and that was what your muddle-headed friend tried 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!

II

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’ 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 right on the street; and instead of a blooming garden, a few sickly shrubs, blackened, like everything, by the smoke from the mills.

But within all was sweetness and light. The house was overflowing with delightful children, and everyone seemed to be at work. Or, perhaps I should say, everyone 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 anyone 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 one. Then we had dinner, all the family taking part in the talk, 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.’

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 SundaySchool 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 that I 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.

‘Aye,’ said he, ‘that is what the masters tell us, but we do not heed them. We know 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 workingmen would talk freely only with their mates. But I got a new light, 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?’

‘Aye,’ 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 workingmen 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 know now, from John Bright. So the men held out. But it was hard.’

Is n’t that fine? And does n’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 slang 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 further 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 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; 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 would n’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 does n’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 did not know when to stop, 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 drôle.'

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 should n’t think it necessary to repeat everything we have been talking about, at home.’

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

‘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!’

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 we see 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 is what 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, objected to Christian or 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 one.

‘Oh,no,’ he said, ‘I should say an a verage day. I often go to the Town Hall after evening service, and speak to the men who do not care to come to church. “Securalist,” 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 went 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!’

III

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 weekend. 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 I 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 to 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 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 everyone 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 walled in 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 someone in the government, and never moves without a dispatch-box, supposed to contain international secrets, upon which the peace of the world depends. I do not think I ever met anyone 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 anyone 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?’ Howcurious 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 àla Gibson, and blue eyes, and his name is Guy. Does n’t this tell you all you need to know? The Admiral is supposed to favor the young man with the dispatch-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 ware trying a judge for taking a bribe, and I was told it was quite common.'

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

‘Yes,’ she replied, ‘that was the name of the Governor’ (sic).

I said that I thought, things had improved since then, and that, after all, that, 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 traveled 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 “land”? 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 sleepingcars, I never told even my husband. It was n’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 everyone 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, — the 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!

Leighton Parks.

(To be continued)