English ways and by-ways

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:

"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 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."

"Why then have a sermon at all?"

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

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

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

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

XIV

RURAL ENGLAND

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

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

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

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

"But your last name?" she asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

XV

EDUCATION

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

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

"Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul,
As the swift seasons roll:
Let each new temple, nobler than the last,
Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast—
Till thou at length art free,
Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

XVI

A BY-ELECTION

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

"Like some tall palm
The stately fabric grew."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

XVII

SHEEP-DOGS

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

XVIII

BRIGANDS AND BOOTBLACKS

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"They are dissenters from the church of Christ!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

XIX

THE PISTON-ROD

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ruth said: "What can that be?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What's the trouble?" said one.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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