"This dear, dear land,Dear for her reputation through the world,Is nowleas'dout."
"This dear, dear land,
Dear for her reputation through the world,
Is nowleas'dout."
There you have it—this England is leased out. The soil is not worked by its owners, and never, till England changes its practice and can boast a peasant proprietaryworking its own acres in small farms, untrammelled by vicious laws, will she know what miracles can be wrought by those who call each little spot their own—their home. Englishmen are slow to change, but the day is not far distant when ownership of land will depend upon residence on it and its proper cultivation. Denmark's example will be followed. Cumulative taxes will be levied upon each number of acres beyond a minimum number, and large proprietors taxed out of existence as they have been in Denmark, to the country's good and nobody's injury. We tax a man who keeps racing-horses or who sports armorial bearings. It is the same principle: we can tax a man who keeps a larger amount of land than he can work to the State's advantage. The rights of property are all very well in their place, but the rights of man and the good of the commonwealth are far beyond them. I wish England would just let me arrange that little land matter for her. It would save her a generation of agitation.
Lancaster was an ancient Roman station, as is shown by its name—Lune or Lone Castrum, the castle or camp on the Lune or Lone, the little river which washes its plain. For what saith Spencer in the Faery Queen:
"——After came the strong shallow LoneThat to old Lancaster its name doth lend."
"——After came the strong shallow Lone
That to old Lancaster its name doth lend."
The memory of man goeth not back to the timewhen the first castle was built. Indeed it is of little consequence now, for it was almost entirely razed by the Scots in the fourteenth century.
Lancaster Castle.
The present noble structure, or rather the older part of it, is the work of John O'Gaunt, that son of a king who was almost a king himself, and who became the father of kings. To him is due the magnificent Gateway Tower, flanked by two octagonal turrets sixty-six feet high, surrounded by watch-towers. Around the towers and across the curtain, perforated by the gate, which connects them, are overhanging battlements with vertical openings for pouring down molten metal or hot water on the heads of assailants. In a niche in front is a full-length statue of John O'Gaunt in the costume of his day, placed there in 1822. The sole remaining turret of the Lungess Tower, eighty-eight feet high, is called John O'Gaunt's Chair. It commands a view of great extent, comprising the hills of Cumberland and Westmoreland and nearly the whole extent of the valley of the Lune, with the Irish Sea in the distance.
Some moralists, who believe that men and times are degenerate, may lament that this grand old castle—the ancient residence of nobles—should now be the abode of criminals; but, while equally desirous that its architectural wonders may be preserved, I am not inclined to admit that the thieves and cutthroats who now have their homes within its walls through the puissance of the law are any worse morally than were many of thenoble barons who robbed and ravished in the good old times when the question of might versus right was always settled in favor of the plaintiff. Some of them indeed more richly merited a halter than the comfortable seclusion from the outer world accorded to their modern representatives. Even good old John O'Gaunt himself was not so virtuous that he could shy moral stones at his neighbors.
Bicycles.
Sunday was spent in Lancaster, and much enjoyed. The service in church was fine and the afternoon's excursion to the country delightful. Here Miss A. B. and Mr. D. left us after receiving the blessing of the party. Miss G. and Miss D., who were to join us here, failed us, but we fortunately found them waiting at Kendall. We started for that town, twenty-two miles distant, on Monday morning. It is the entrance to the celebrated Lake District. Messrs. T. and M., whom we had met at Anderton Hall, passed us on Saturday, before we reached Lancaster, on bicycles. They were out for a run of a hundred and five miles that day, to visit friends beyond that city. We meet such travellers often. Their club now numbers seven thousand members. For an annual payment of half a crown (62 cents), a member has lists of routes and hotels sent him for any desired district, with the advantage of reduced charges. It is nothing to do a hundred miles per day; many have ridden from London to Bath, two hundred miles, within the twenty-four hours.
The country swarms with these fellows. I saw fifteen hundred in Bushy Park one day at a meet. I think seventy-five clubs were there, each in a different uniform. Bicycles are also growing in use for practical purposes, and many post-routes in the country are served by men who use these machines. But it takes roads like the English, and a level country, to do much with them.
Our evening was spent in visiting the ruined castle and admiring a pretty Japanese kind of garden, so much in so little space, which attracted our attention as we passed. The owner, Mr. T., a solicitor, kindly invited us in, and afterward showed us his house. We are always receiving kindnesses from all sorts and conditions of men.
Next day, July 12th, our objective point was Grassmere, eighteen miles away. Such a lovely morning! but, indeed, we are favored beyond measure with superb weather all the time. This stage in our progress introduced us to the scenery of the lakes, and we all felt that it deserved its Wordsworth; but were we ever to let loose and enter the descriptive, where would it lead? This is the rock upon which many a fair venture in story-telling has suffered shipwreck. Great mountains always carry one upward, but those of the Lake District are not great, nor is there anything great in the region. All is very sweet and pleasing and has its own peculiar charm, like the school of Lake Poets.
At Bowness, about midway of the lake, we left the coach for the first time for any other kind of conveyance. After enjoying a rare treat in a sail up and down the lake in the pretty steamer, we rejoined the coach at Ambleside, where we had ordered it to await us.
Passing Storr's Hall, the mind wandered back to the meeting there of Wordsworth, Southey, Coleridge, Christopher North, and greater than all, our own Walter Scott; and surely not in all the earth could a fitter spot than this have been found for their gathering. How much the world of to-day owes to the few names who spent days together here! Not often can you say of one little house, "Here had we our country's honor roofed" to so great an extent as it would be quite allowable to say in this instance. But behold the vanity of human aspirations! If there was one wish dearer than another to the greatest of these men, it was that Abbotsford should remain from generation to generation the home of his race. This very hour, while sailing on the lake, a newspaper was handed to me, and my eye caught the advertisement, "Abbotsford to let," followed by the stereotyped description, so many reception-rooms, nursery, outbuildings, and offices, suitable for a gentleman's establishment. Shade of the mighty Wizard of the North, has it come to this! Oh, the pity of it! the pity of it! Well for your fame that you built for mankind other than this stately home of your pride. It will crumble and pass utterly away long beforethe humble cot of Jeannie Deans shall fade from the memory of man. The time will come when the largest son of time, who wandering sang to a listening world, shall be as much forgot
"As the canoe that crossed a lonely lakeA thousand years ago."
"As the canoe that crossed a lonely lake
A thousand years ago."
Abbotsford to Let!
But even the New Zealander who stands on the ruins of London Bridge will know something of Walter Scott if he knows much worth knowing. "Abbotsford to let!" This to come to us just as we were passing one of the haunts of Scott, than whom no greater Scot ever lived save one. Fortunately no such blow is possible for the memory of Burns.
"After life's fitful fever, he sleeps well;Treason has done his worst: nor steel, nor poison,Malice domestic, ... nothing,Can touch him further!"
"After life's fitful fever, he sleeps well;
Treason has done his worst: nor steel, nor poison,
Malice domestic, ... nothing,
Can touch him further!"
For this let us be thankful. We visited Wordsworth's grave reverently in the twilight. Fresh, very fresh flowers lay upon it. God bless the hand that strewed them there this day! I think the following the one very great thing he gave the world; it contains "the golden guess which ever is the morning star to the full round of truth." The thought of the age—whether right or wrong we need not discuss—is hitherward:
"For I have learnedTo look on Nature, not as in the hourOf thoughtless youth; but hearing oftentimesThe still, sad music of humanity,Not harsh nor grating, though of ample powerTo chasten and subdue. And I have feltA presence that disturbs me with the joyOf elevated thoughts: a sense sublimeOf something far more deeply interfused,Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns,And the round ocean, and the living air,And the blue sky, and in the mind of manA motion and a spirit that impelsAll thinking things, all objects of all thought,And rolls through all things."
"For I have learned
To look on Nature, not as in the hour
Of thoughtless youth; but hearing oftentimes
The still, sad music of humanity,
Not harsh nor grating, though of ample power
To chasten and subdue. And I have felt
A presence that disturbs me with the joy
Of elevated thoughts: a sense sublime
Of something far more deeply interfused,
Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns,
And the round ocean, and the living air,
And the blue sky, and in the mind of man
A motion and a spirit that impels
All thinking things, all objects of all thought,
And rolls through all things."
There's a platform upon which this sceptical age may eventually stand. It is not materialistic and it is not dogmatic; perhaps it is the golden mean between extremes. I commend its teachings to both sides of all the cock-sure disputants, one of whom knows it is just so, and the other as presumptuously knows there is nothing to know. Let them shake hands and await patiently the coming of clearer light, and get together in solid work here. Surely there is enough to keep them busy. We still "see through a glass darkly."
We spent our night at Grassmere, and had a fine row upon the lake; and can anything be finer than music upon the waters, the dip of the oar, the cadence of the song which seems to float upon the glassy lake? It cameto us again lulling us to sleep—the sweetest lullaby, sure precursor of happy dreams.
Grassmere, July 13.
Carnegie Weather.
"Right, Perry!" Off for Keswick, only twelve miles distant; but who wants to hurry away from scenes like these? It rained heavily through the night, but this morning is grand for us. The mist was on the mountains though, and the clouds passed slowly over them, wrapping the tops in their mantle. The numerous rills dashing down the bare mountains were the themes of much praise. They reminded me of two fine verses from the "Light of Asia" upon "Being's ceaseless tide,"
"Which, ever-changing, runs, linked like a riverBy ripples following ripples, fast or slow—The same, yet not the same—from far-off fountainsTo where its waters flowInto the seas. These steaming to the sun,Give the lost wavelets back in cloudy fleeceTo trickle down the hills, and glide again;Knowing no pause or peace."
"Which, ever-changing, runs, linked like a river
By ripples following ripples, fast or slow—
The same, yet not the same—from far-off fountains
To where its waters flow
Into the seas. These steaming to the sun,
Give the lost wavelets back in cloudy fleece
To trickle down the hills, and glide again;
Knowing no pause or peace."
We seem to be miraculously protected from rain. Many times it has poured during the night, and yet the days have been perfect. "Carnegie weather" begins to be talked about, and we are all disposed to accept the inference that the fair goddess Fortune has fallen deep in love with us, since Prosperity seems to be our page during this journey.
The influence of America and of American ideas upon England is seen in various ways. We meet frequently one who has visited the Republic, whose advanced ideas, in consequence of the knowledge derived from actual contact with American affairs, are very decidedly proclaimed.
While on the train to-day we met a rattler of this kind, who gave many instances of the non-receptivity of his countrymen. I remember one of his complaints was in regard to a pea-sheller which he had seen at work in one of our monster hotels. He was so pleased that he bought one and took it in triumph to his innkeeper at home: "Blessed if the servants would work it, sir; no, sir, wouldn't shell a pea with it, sir. Look where we are in the race of new inventions, sir.We're not in it.Lord bless you, sir,England isn't in it."
This man, like converts in general to new ideas, went much too far. Any one who thinks that England is not in the race, and pretty well placed too, has not looked very deep. We did what we could to give him a juster conception of his country's position than he apparently entertained. "What on earth," I said to him, "has a small English hotel to do with a pea-sheller? I have never heard of this Yankee notion, but I doubt not that one pea-sheller would shell all the peas required by all the guests of all the hotels in town, if they fed the inmates on nothing but pea soup!" But he would not be convinced. It was just the same with any otherimprovement, he said, and he got out at a station, muttering as he went: "No, sir, she isn't in it, I tell you; sheisn't in it." All right, you constitutional grumbler, have it your own way. If this man were upon our side, he would not live twenty-four hours without finding fault with something. He is one of those who carry their pea-sheller with them, or find it at every turn. He belongs to the class of grumblers—those who cannot enjoy the bright genial rays of the sun for thinking of the spots upon it—just such another as he who found that even in Paradise "the halo did not fit his head exactly."
American Presidents and Royalty.
The coaches in the Lake District have now the English and the American flags upon their sides, and we often see the Stars and Stripes displayed at hotels. Our present hostelry has a flaming advertisement ending with: "Patrons—Royalty and American Presidents." There must be slender grounds for both claims, I fancy General Grant, however, may have been there. As the elected of the largest division of the English-speaking race, he no doubt outranked all other patrons, and the proper way to put it would be "American Presidents and Royalty."
At luncheon to-day it was found that our drinkables had better be cooled in the brook—an unusual performance this for England; but how vividly this little incident brings to mind the happy scene—the row of bottles (contents mostly harmless) in the stream, sticking up their tiny heads as if resentful at the extraordinarybath! Do not imagine that our party were worse to water than to corn; sixteen hungry people need a good many bottles of various kinds, for we had many tastes to gratify. We were all temperance people, however; a few of us even total abstinence, who required special attention, for their milk and lemonade were often more difficult to procure than all the other fluids. The guest who gives least trouble in England, in the drinkable department, is he who takes beer.
At Keswick we wandered round the principal square and laughed at the curious names of the inns there. In this region inns abound. Almost every house in that square offered entertainment for man and beast. Here is a true copy of names of inns noted in a few squares in the village: "Fighting Cocks," "Packhorse," "Red Lion," "Dog and Duck," "Black Lion," "Deerhound," "White Hart," "Green Lion," "Pig and Whistle," "White Lion," "Black Bull," "Elephant and Castle," "Lamb and Lark," "The Fish." If the whole village were scanned there would be beasts enough commemorated in its inns to make a respectable menagerie. Indeed, for that one "Green Lion" Barnum might safely pay more than for Jumbo.
Freedom and Equality.
The names of English inns we have seen elsewhere are equally odd; let me note a few: "Hen and Chickens," "Dog and Doublet," "King and Crown," "Hole in the Wall," "Struggling Man," "Jonah and the Ark," "Angel and Woolsack," "Adam and Eve," "Rose andCrown," "Crown and Cushion." We laughed at one with an old-fashioned swinging sign, upon which a groom was scrubbing away at a naked black man (you could almost hear his pruss, pruss, pruss). The name of the house was "Labor in Vain Inn"—a perfect illustration, no doubt, in one sense; in the higher sense, not so. Under the purifying influences of equality, found only in republican institutions, America has taught the world she can soon make white men out of black. Her effort to change the slave into a freeman has been anything but labor in vain; what is under the skin can be made white enough always, if we go at it with the right brush. None genuine unless stamped with the well-known brand "Republic." "All men are born free andequal" is warranted to cure the most desperate cases when all other panaceas fail, from a mild monarchy up to a German despotism; and is especially adapted for Irishmen. To be well shaken, however, before taken, and applied internally, externally, and eternally, like Colonel Sellers' eye-wash.
Harry and I were absent part of this day, having run down to Workington to see our friend Mr. G., at the Steel Rail Mills. Pardon us!—this was our only taste of business during the trip; never had the affairs of this world been so completely banished from our thoughts. To get back to blast-furnaces and rolling mills was distressing; but we could not well pass our friend's door, so to speak. We have nothing to say about manufacturing,for it is just with that as with their political institutions: England keeps about a generation behind, and yet deludes herself with the idea that she is the leader among nations. The truth is, she is often not even a good follower where others lead, but exceptions must be noted here: a few of her ablest men are not behind America in manufacturing, for there are one or perhaps two establishments in England which lead America. A great race is the British when they do go to work and get rid of their antiquated prejudices. Visitors to America like Messrs. Howard, Lothian Bell, Windsor Richards, Martin, and others, have no prejudices which stick. But let Uncle Sam look out. If he thinks John Bull will remain behind in the industrial or the political race either, I do not; and I believe when he sets to work in earnest he cannot be beaten. The Republic of England, when it comes, will excel all other republics as much as the English monarchy has excelled all other monarchies, or as much as Windsor Richards' steel practice and plant excel any we can boast of here at present. It is our turn now to take a step forward, unless we are content to be beaten. This is all right. Long may the two branches of the family stimulate each other to further triumphs, the elder encouraging us to hold fast that which is good, the younger pointing the way upward and onward—a race in which neither can lose, but in which both must win! Clear the course! Fair play and victory to both!
Democracy in England.
The report of the annual public debate of University College, London, attracted our notice to-day before leaving Kendal. The subject debated was: "That the advance of Democracy in England will tend to strengthen the Foundations of Society."
Lord Rosebery presided, and it is his speech at the close which possesses political significance as coming from one who wears his rank
"For the sake of liberal usesAnd of great things to be done,"
"For the sake of liberal uses
And of great things to be done,"
and of whom almost any destiny may be predicted if he hold the true course. He said:
"As regards government, there seemed to be great advantage in democracy. With an oligarchy the responsibility was too great and the penalty for failure too high. He did not share the asperity manifested by one of the speakers against American institutions, and, having visited the country on several occasions, he felt the greatest warmth for America and the American people. Persons who elected by free choice a moderate intellect to represent them were better off than those who had a leviathan intellect placed over them against their will, and this free choice the people of the United States possessed. It had been said by the opponents of democracy that the best men in America devoted themselves to money-getting; but this was a strong argument in its favor, as showing that democracy was notcorrectly represented as a kind of grabbing at the property of others."
Never were truer words spoken than these, my lord. What a pity you were not allowed the privilege of starting "at scratch" in life's race, like Gladstone or Disraeli! From any success achieved there must be made the just deduction for so many yards allowedLordRosebery. Receive the sincere condolences of him who welcomed you to honorary membership of the Burns Club of New York, not because of these unfortunate, unfair disadvantages, for he would not have welcomed a prince for his rank, but for your merits as a man.
Penrith, July 14.
We reached Penrith, July 14th, after a delightful day's drive. Never were the Gay Charioteers happier, for the hilly ground gave us many opportunities for grand walks. When these come it is a red-letter day. The pleasure of walking should rank as one of the seven distinct pleasures of existence, and yet I have some friends who know nothing of it; they are not coaching through England, however.
I have omitted to chronicle the change that came over the Queen Dowager shortly after we started from Wolverhampton; till then she had kept the seat of honor next to Perry, inviting one after another as a special honor to sit in front with her. She soon discovered that a good deal of the fun going on was missed;besides, she had not all of us under her eye. Her seat was exchanged for the middle of the back form, where she was supported by one on each side, while four others had their faces turned to hers, giving an audience of no less than six for her stories and old ballads. Her tongue went from morning till night, if I do say it, and her end of the coach was always in for its share of any frolic stirring. She was "in a gale" all day to-day, and kept us all roaring.
On the Borders.
Our next stage would take us to Carlisle, the border-town behind which lay the sacred soil, "Scotia dear." Mr. B. and his son joined us here and went on with us the last day upon English soil, waving adieu, as it were, as we plunged into Scotland. Mr. and Mrs. K. left us for Paisley to see the children, and what a loss I here record no one but the members can possibly understand. Aaleck and Aggie gone! If anything could long dampen the joyous spirits of the party, this separation surely would have done it; but we were to meet again in Edinburgh, where the reconstruction of the Charioteers was to take place. At Carlisle, too, the Parisians were to be welcomed back again—plenty to look forward to, you see. We started for Carlisle July 15th, the day superb as usual.
We had left the Lake District, with its hills and flowing streams, to pass through a tamer land; but our luncheon to-day, in a field near "Hesketh in the Forest," was not unromantic. The members fromAnderton Hall caught the fever, as was usual with neophytes, and regretted that their return was imperatively required. One day gave them a taste of the true gypsy life. Hesketh was "in the Forest," no doubt, but this was many long years ago. To-day there is nothing to justify its name. Smiling green fields, roads as perfect as they can be made, pretty houses, trim hedge-rows and gardens, and all so intensely civilized as to bring vividly before you the never ceasing change which the surface of the earth undergoes to fit it for the sustenance of dense masses of men.
Carlisle, July 15.
Here is reconstruction for you with a vengeance! First, let us mourn the unhappy departures: Mr. and Mrs. K. went yesterday and Miss R., Miss G., the Misses B., Miss D. and Mr. B. and son go to-day. Cousin Maggie, who had become absorbed in this kind of life, so dazed with happiness, her turn has come too, even she must go; Andrew M., with his fine Scotch aroma and his songs, must report to his superior officer at the encampment, for is he not a gallant volunteer and an officer under Her Majesty, "sworn never to desert his home except in case of invasion!" Well, we cannot help these miserable changes in this world, nor the "sawt, sawt tears" of the young ladies as they kiss each other, swearing eternal friendship, and sob good-byes.
But if farewell ever sighs, welcome comes in smiling.Look! Cousin E. in my arms and a warm kiss of welcome! That is the very best of consolation. Clever, artistic Miss R., too, from Edinburgh; and then are we not to have our four originals back again, after two long weeks' absence! It was fortunate that our sad farewells were so promptly followed by smiling welcomes.
Do any people love their country as passionately as the Scotch? I mean the earth of it, the very atoms of which its hills and glens are composed. I doubt it. Now here is Maggie, a douse, quiet, sensible girl. I tried to say something cheery to her to-day as we were approaching Carlisle, where we were to part, reminding her jokingly that she had received five weeks' coaching while her poor sister Eliza would have only two. "Ah! but she has Scotland, Naig!" "Do you really mean to tell me that you would rather have two weeks in your own country than five weeks seeing a new land, and that land England, with London and Brighton, and the lakes and all?" I just wish you could have seen and heard how the "Of course" came in reply. The Scotch always have Scotland first in their hearts, and some of them, I really believe, will get into trouble criticising Paradise if it be found to differ materially from Scotland.
Farewell to England.
To-morrow we are to enter that land of lands. Fair England, farewell! How graciously kind has been the reception accorded by you to the wanderers! How beautiful you are! how tenderly dear you have become to all of us! Not one of us but can close hiseyes and revel in such quiet beauty as never before was his.
"Not a grand nature . . .On English groundYou understand the letter . . . ere the fallHow Adam lived in a garden. All the fieldsAre tied up fast with hedges, nosegay like;The hills are crumpled plains—the plains pastures,And if you seek for any wildernessYou find at best a park. A natureTamed and grown domestic . . .A sweet familiar nature, stealing inAs a dog might, or child, to touch your hand,Or pluck your gown, and humbly mind you soOf presence and affection."
"Not a grand nature . . .
On English ground
You understand the letter . . . ere the fall
How Adam lived in a garden. All the fields
Are tied up fast with hedges, nosegay like;
The hills are crumpled plains—the plains pastures,
And if you seek for any wilderness
You find at best a park. A nature
Tamed and grown domestic . . .
A sweet familiar nature, stealing in
As a dog might, or child, to touch your hand,
Or pluck your gown, and humbly mind you so
Of presence and affection."
"There is no farewell to scenes like thine." From the depths of every heart in our company comes the trembling "God bless you, England!"
"Away, ye gay landscapes, ye gardens of roses!In you let the minions of luxury rove;Restore me the rocks where the snowflake reposes,Though still they are sacred to freedom and love:Yet, Caledonia, beloved are thy mountains,Round their white summits though elements war;Though cataracts foam 'stead of smooth flowing fountains,I sigh for the valley of dark Loch na Garr."
"Away, ye gay landscapes, ye gardens of roses!
In you let the minions of luxury rove;
Restore me the rocks where the snowflake reposes,
Though still they are sacred to freedom and love:
Yet, Caledonia, beloved are thy mountains,
Round their white summits though elements war;
Though cataracts foam 'stead of smooth flowing fountains,
I sigh for the valley of dark Loch na Garr."
It was on Saturday, July 16th, that we went over the border. The bridge across the boundary line was soon reached. When midway over a halt was called, and vent given to our enthusiasm. With three cheers for the land of the heather, shouts of "Scotland forever," and the waving of hats and handkerchiefs, we dashed across the border. O Scotland, my own, my native land, your exiled son returns with love for you as ardent as ever warmed the heart of man for his country. It's a God's mercy I was born a Scotchman, for I do not see how I could ever have been contented to be anything else. The little plucky dour deevil, set in her own ways and getting them too, level-headed and shrewd, with an eye to the main chance always and yet so lovingly weak, so fond, so led away by song or story,so easily touched to fine issues, so leal, so true! And you suit me, Scotia, and proud am I that I am your son.
We stopped at Gretna Green, of course, and walked to the site of the famous blacksmith-shop where so many romantic pairs have been duly joined in the holy bonds of wedlock. A wee laddie acted as guide, and from him we had our first real broad Scotch. His dialect was perfect. He brought "wee Davie" to mind at once. I offered him a shilling if he could "screed me aff effectual calling." He knew his catechism, but he could not understand it. Never mind that, Davie, that is another matter. Older heads than yours have bothered over that doctrine and never got to the bottom of it. Besides there will be a "revised edition" of that before you are a man. Just you let it alone; it is the understanding of that and some other dogmas of poor ignorant man's invention that thin the churches of men who think and "make of sweet religion a rhapsody of words." "But do you ken Burns?" "Aye," said Davie, "I ken 'A man's a man for a' that,' and 'Auld Lang Syne.'" "Good for you, Davie, there's another shilling. Good-bye! But I say, Davie, if you can't possibly remember all three of these pieces, don't let it be 'A man's a man for a' that' that you forget, for Scotchmen will need to remember that one of these days when we begin to set things to rights in earnest and demand the same privileges for prince, peer, andpeasant. Don't let it be 'Auld Lang Syne,' either, for there is more of 'Peace and Good-will upon Earth,' the essence of true religion, in that grand song than in your effectual calling, Davie, my wee mannie. At least there is one who thinks so." Davie got my address, and said may be he would come to America when he grew to be a man. I promised to give him a chance if he had not forgotten Burns, which is all we can do in the Republic, where merit is the only road to success. We may make a Republican out of him yet, and have him return to his fellows to preach the equality of man, the sermon Scotland needs.
Lunch at Annan.
We lunched at Annan. It was at first decided that we had better be satisfied with hotel accommodations, as the day though fine was cool, with that little nip in the air which gives it the bracing quality; but after we had entered the hotel the sun burst forth, and the longing for the green fields could not be overcome. We walked through the village across the river, and found a pretty spot in a grove upon high ground commanding extensive views up and down the stream, and there we gave our new members their first luncheon. It would have been a great pity had we missed this picnic, for it was in every respect up to the standard. I laugh as I recall the difficulties encountered in selecting the fine site. The committee had fixed upon a tolerably good location in a field near the river, but this knoll was in sight, and we were tempted to go to it. We had goneso far from the hotel where the coach was, that Perry and Joe had to get a truck to bring the hampers. I remember seeing them pushing it across the bridge and up against the wall over which most of us had clambered. When the Queen Dowager's turn came the wall was found to be rather too much for her, but our managers were versatile. The truck was brought into requisition, and she was safely drawn from its platform over the wall. I stood back and could do nothing for laughter, but the Dowager, who was not to be daunted, went over amid the cheers of the party. It was resolved, however, to be a little more circumspect in future; wall-climbing at seventy-one has its limits.
Here is the bridge built by that worthy man and excellent representative of what is best in Scottish character in lowly life, James Carlyle—an honest brig destined to stand and never shame the builder. I remember how proudly Carlyle speaks of his father's work. No sham about either the man or his work, as little as there was in his more famous son. I wish I could quote something from "Adam Bede" I think it is—where Garth the stone-mason thinks good work in his masonry the best prayer he had to stand upon.
Carlyle and Black.
Many have expressed surprise at "Carlyle's Reminiscences," at the gnarled, twisted oak they show, prejudiced here, ill-tempered there. What did such people expect, I wonder? A poor, reserved, proud Scotch lad, who had to fight his way against the grim devils ofpoverty and neglect, of course he is twisted and "thrawn"; but a grand, tough oak for all that, as sound, stanch timber as ever grew, and Scotch to the core. Did any one take you, Thomas Carlyle, for a fine, symmetrical sycamore, or a graceful clinging vine? I think the "Reminiscences," upon the whole, a valuable contribution to literature. Nor has Carlyle suffered in my estimation from knowing so much of what one might have expected. But will these critics of a grand individuality be kind enough to tell us when we shall look upon his like again, or where another Jenny Carlyle is to come from? She is splendid! The little tot who "bluided a laddie's nose" with her closed fist and conquered "the bubbley jock." This was in her early childhood's days, and look at her woman's work for Carlyle if you want a pattern for wives, my young lady friends, at least as a bachelor pictures wifehood at its best. The story told of Mr. Black's meeting with Carlyle should be true, if it be not. "Oh, Mr. Black," exclaimed Carlyle, "I'm glad to see ye, man. I've read some of yer books; they're vera amusin'; ye ken Scotch scenery well; but when are yer goin' to do somewark, man?" Great work did the old man do in his day, no doubt; but they also work who plant the roses, Thomas, else were we little better than the beasts of the field. Carlyle did not see this. Black is doing his appointed work and doing it well too, and Scotland is proud of her gifted son.
Dumfries, July 16-17.
Dumfries.
We were at Dumfries for Sunday. We had just got housed at the hotel and sat down to dinner when we heard a vehicle stop, and running to the window saw our anxiously expected Parisians at the door. Hurrah! welcome! welcome! Once more united, never to part again till New York be reached! It was a happy meeting, and there was much to tell upon both sides, but the coachers evidently had the better of it. The extreme heat encountered in France had proved very trying. The Prima Donna was tired out. She vividly expressed her feelings thus, when asked how she had enjoyed life since she left the Ark: "Leftthe Ark! I felt as if I had been poked out of it like the dove to find out about the weather, and had found it rough. When I lose sight of the coach again, just let me know it!" We, on our part, were very glad to get our pretty little dove back, and promised that she should never be sent forth from among us again.
One becomes confused at Dumfries, there is so much to learn. We are upon historic ground in the fullest sense, and so crowded too with notable men and events. Bruce slew the Red Comyn here in the church of the Minorite Friars, now no longer existing. The monastery, of which it formed a part, the foundation of the mother of John Baliol, King of Scotland, stood on an eminence, the base of which is washed on the north and west by the waters of the Nith. It is said to havebeen deserted after the pollution of its high altar with the blood of the Comyns, and about two centuries afterward the Maxwells built a splendid castle out of its ruins and almost on its site; but the fortune of war and old Father Time levelled its massive walls in turn, and now no vestige remains of either monastery or castle. The castle of the Comyns, too, which occupied a romantic site a little way south of the town, at a place still called Castledykes, has left but slight memorials of its olden grandeur.
Among the noted men of the world whom Dumfries numbers among her children are the Admirable Crichton, Paul Jones, Allan Cunningham, Carlyle, Neilson of the hot blast, Patterson, the founder of the Bank of England, and Miller of the steamship. Still another, a Scotch minister, was the founder of savings-banks. While not forgetting to urge his flock to lay up treasures in the next world, he did not fail to impress upon them a like necessity of putting by a competence for this one, sensible man! How many ministers leave behind them as powerful an agency for the improvement of the masses as this Dumfries man, the Rev. Mr. Duncan, has in savings-banks? All the speculative opinions about the other world which man can indulge in are as nothing to the acquisition of those good, sober, steady habits which render possible upon the part of the wage-receiving class a good deposit in that minister's savings-bank. The Rev. Mr. Duncan is mykind of minister, one who works much and preaches little. There is room for more of his kind.
It is to Dumfries we are also indebted for the steamship, as far as Britain's share in that crowning triumph is concerned, for, upon Dalwinston Lake, Miller used the first paddles turned by steam. The great magician also has waved his wand over this district. Ellangowan Castle, Dirk Hatteraick's Cave, and even Old Mortality himself are all of Dumfries; and as for Burns, there is more of his best work there than anywhere else, and there he lies at rest with the thistle waving over him, fit mourner for Scotland's greatest son, and of all others the one he would have chosen. How he loved it! Think of his lines about the emblem dear, written while still a boy.
Home of Burns.
I wanted to stay a week in Dumfries, and I deemed myself fortunate to be able to spend Sunday there. Two Dunfermline gentlemen now resident there, Messrs. R. and A., were kind enough to call upon us and offer their services. This was thoughtful and pleased me much. Accordingly on Sunday morning we started with Mr. R. and did the town, Maxwelton Braes, Burns's house, and last his grave. None of us had ever been there before, and we were glad to make the pilgrimage. Horace Greeley (how he did worship Burns!) has truly said that of the thousands who yearly visit Shakespeare's birthplace, most are content to engrave their names with a diamond upon the glass, but few indeed leave the resting-placeof the ploughman without dropping a tear upon the grave; for of all men he it was who nestled closest to the bosom of humanity. It is true that of all the children of men Burns is the best beloved. Carlyle knew him well, for he said Burns was the Æolian harp of nature against which the rude winds of adversity blew, only to be transmitted in their passage into heavenly music.
I think these are the two finest things that have been said about our idol, or about any idol, and I believe them to be deserved. So did Carlyle and Greeley, for they were not flatterers. Of what other human being could these two things be truly said? I know of none.
Our friends, Mr. and Mrs. N., are the fortunate owners of Friars Carse estate. They called upon us Sunday noon, and invited us to dine with them that evening. A delegation from the party accepted, and were much pleased with their visit. Friars Carse is a lovely spot. The winding Nith is seen at its best from the lawn. As we drove past on Monday we stopped and enjoyed a morning visit to our friends, who were exceedingly kind. Mr. N. has earned the grateful remembrance of every true lover of Burns by restoring the heritage and guarding with jealous care every vestige of one of the half dozen geniuses which the world will reverence more and more as the years roll by. He has wisely taken out the window upon the panes of which Burns wrotewith a diamond, "Thou whom chance may hither lead," one of my favorites. This is now preserved, to be handed down as an heirloom in the family, finally, we hope, to find its place in some public collection. While we were in the mansion a granddaughter of Annie Laurie actually came in. I know of no young lady whose grandmother is so widely and favorably known. We were all startled to be brought so near to the ideal Annie Laurie of our dreams. It only shows that the course of true love never runs smooth when we hear that she did not marry the poetic lover. Well, may be she was happier with a dull country squire. Poets are not proverbially model husbands; the better poet, the worse husband, and the writer of Annie Laurie had the poetic temperament pretty well developed.
Drumlanrig Castle.
"Right, Perry!" We are off for Sanquhar, twenty-eight miles away; the day superb, with a freshness unknown in the more genial South we are rapidly leaving behind. What a pretty sight it was to see Miss N—— bounding along upon her horse in the distance, an avant courier leading us to a warm welcome at her beautiful home! Would I had been beside her on Habeebah! We spent an hour or two there, and then with three enthusiastic cheers for "Friars Carse and a' within it," the Charioteers drove off; but long must fond recollections of that estate and of the faces seen there linger in our memories as among the most pleasing of our ever-memorable journey. A home upon the Nith near Dumfrieshas many attractions indeed. Our drive to-day lay along the Nith and through the Duke of Buccleugh's grounds to his noble seat, Drumlanrig Castle. Here we have a real castle at last; none of your imported English affairs, as tame as caged tigers. How poor and insignificant they all seem to such as this! You want the moors, the hills and glens, and all the flavor of feudal institutions to give a castle its dignity and impress you with the thoughts of by-gone days. Modern castles in England built to order are only playthings, toys; but in Scotland they are real and stir the chords. You cannot have in England a glen worthy of the name, with its dark amber-brown, foaming, rushing torrent dashing through it. We begin to feel the exhilarating influences of the North as we drive on, and to understand its charm. Byron says truly:
"England! thy beauties are tame and domesticTo one who has roamed on the mountains afar.Oh, for the crags that are wild and majestic!The steep frowning glories of dark Loch na Garr."
"England! thy beauties are tame and domestic
To one who has roamed on the mountains afar.
Oh, for the crags that are wild and majestic!
The steep frowning glories of dark Loch na Garr."
This was the feeling upon the coach to-day. My eyes watered now and then and my heart beat faster as the grandeur of the scenery and the influences around came into play. This was my land, England only a far-off connection, not one of the family. "And what do you think of Scotland noo?" was often repeated. "The grandest day yet!" was said more than once as we drove through the glen; but this has been said so often duringthis wonderful expedition, and has so often been succeeded by a day which appeared to excel its famous predecessor, that we are careful now to emphasize the yet; for indeed we feel that there is no predicting what glories Scotland may have in store for us beyond.
Our luncheon to-day was taken upon the banks of the Nith; an exquisitely beautiful spot. There was no repressing our jubilant spirits, and sitting there on the green sward the party burst into song, and one Scotch song followed another. There was a strange stirring of the blood, an exaltation of soul unknown before. The pretty had been left behind, the sublime was upon us. There was a nip in the air unfelt in the more genial climate of the South. The land over which brooded peace and quiet content had been left behind, that of the "mountain and the flood" was here, whispering of its power, swaying us to and fro and bending us to its mysterious will. In the sough of the wind comes the call of the genii to mount to higher heights, that we may exult in the mysteries of the mountain and the glen,