Wanderings of a beauty

The country homes of old England, standing amid their ancestral trees, what visions of quiet happiness do they recall to my mind! Memory loves to linger before thy hospitable portal, oh, Rookwood! and hear once more the kindly greeting of the amiable and affectionate family, some of whose members, alas! now sleep their last sleep—the others are dead, at least to me; for

Far more so, than the departed, who ever watch us with their loving eyes, changeless, immortal.

A verdant spot in life’s desert was that dear home to me, whose halls ever resounded with the cheerful laughter of its happy and beloved inmates—the sisters all that women ought to be—the brothers, noble, manly, and gallant as the knights of old—the venerable father, indulgent, yet firm as a rock—the mother, whom I never knew, excepting by her portrait, a lovely countenance, gentle and tender as a Madonna of Raphael.

Each nook and dell of that fair Park is engraven on my heart of hearts. On this grassy slope, I walked with Mary, as she bent her steps toward the village, where the poor awaited her with blessings. In yonder pleasant path, Anne, the wit of the family, almost killed me with laughter. On that gently-rising eminence, the hounds threw off—and there, after a hard day’s run, William, the eldest son, who was ever in at the death, presented my delighted self with the brush. Under the shade of those wavy beeches, which every moment strewed their leaves in our path, did the graceful and chivalrous George teach the timid school girl to ride, or rather, to manage her rein; he was a very Bayard on horseback, and a kind horse-master to boot. He loved to see the noble animals well and judiciously treated, whether on the road or in the stable. I remember a saying he had, which amused us all immensely—it was this:

“Never ’ammer your ’unter along a ’ard road—if you wish to ’ammer along a ’ard road, ’ire a ’ack and ’ammer ’im.”

George was handsome, accomplished, and good—to my girlish fancy, a very “preux chevalier, sans peur et sans reproche”—but he was a decided lady’s man, and, of course, a passionate and rather general admirer of beauty. I knew I was not handsome, so I never again accepted an invitation to join that dear and happy circle; and thus ended the one romance of my life.

But this is a digression. My readers will remember the very pressing invitation I had received from Mrs. Edward Travers, to join her at Woodlands; nevertheless, I judged it unadvisable, for the present, to accede to her wishes, trusting that, thrown entirely on her husband for society, the young wife might, in time, learn to consider him as her first and best friend. It was, therefore, not until the first week in October, that I started from Warenne Vicarage, at about 7 A. M., for the railway station, in order to take the train, which met the express from London, as this was the only one which would enable me to reach Woodlands the same evening.

It was one of those lovely and soft, yet fresh mornings peculiar to our climate, at this season of the year, when the sky, though serene, is not cloudless, and the air is at the same time balmy and exhilarating, and, as it were, charged with vitality. The white hoar frost clung like gems to the blades of grass, and caused the varied tints of the Autumn leaves to appear still more fresh and glowing.

I, for my part, confess to feeling great delight in railway travelling—the commencement of a journey, especially if the end of it promises pleasure, always raises my spirits in fine weather.

In England, this mode of locomotion is more than comfortable—it is luxurious. The termini and the stations are so well ordered, that you may obtain your ticket at your ease, without that rushing and pushing incident to all other European countries. If you have to wait the train, you do so in a clean and comfortable room in winter with a large fire; or, if a lady, you can remain in an inner room, with dressing-room attached, where you may command the services of a female attendant. The first class waiting rooms are, of course, much better than those of the second and third classes, though these also have every reasonable convenience. Should the carriages be in waiting at the terminus, (which is usually the case) the traveller, after securing his ticket, may instantly take his place, and, arranging his dressing-case, wraps, &c., comfortably ensconce himself in his seat, before the arrival of the less punctual passengers. If our traveller have taken a first-class ticket, he will find, even if he has filled a second place with his necessary encumbrances, he will rarely be disturbed; for those who in England can afford to pay for the best accommodations, are usually of a class to whom good manners are habitual—they will, therefore, rather seek another seat than put a fellow-passenger to inconvenience. The railway companies being most liberal with their carriages, the chances are, if you arrive early and manage well, you will always secure room for your legs. Six places are the usual complement of each first-class compartment; these have elastic cushions, and are partitioned off with arms, like an easy-chair, so as to allow the occupant of each seat to lean back. The French arrangements are still more commodious—while the German second class, “Wagen,” is equal in comfort to the English and French first class carriages. These latter, in Germany, are literally small “salons,” containing a sofa, arm-chairs, centre-table, and even large and handsome mirrors on the walls.

What a contrast to the American cars! Surely, Madame de Staël must have had prophetic vision of these odious vehicles, when she declared travelling to be “Le plus triste plaisir de la vie”—for I can testify, that the old diligence, with its numerous inconveniences, is as the gates of Paradise, compared to the straight-backed benches of cotton velvet, the stuffy atmosphere, and the miscellaneous and unsavory company in a Yankee car! The coupé of a diligence, at least, permits of cleanliness and privacy; but where, Oh! ye Goths and Vandals, may we take refuge, in this land of “liberty and equality”—but not “fraternity”—from squalling babies, tobacco-juice, spittoons, and the great unwashed?

My readers, even though Americans, must pardon these observations. There are very many fine institutions in this splendid country; but there is also much room for improvement.

The American steamboats can “whip all others out of creation;” but land travelling leaves much to be desired. All these thoughts might possibly have passed through the writer’s mind, had she been an American, as she flew, with the speed of the wind, through the green and highly-cultivated meadows of Merry England, seated in the luxurious fauteuil of a first-class carriage.

The journey was without incident or accident. On reaching the Derby-junction station, the train for that Shire, was, in railway phrase, “shunted” on to the midland-counties line. A sandwich and a cup of coffee, hastily swallowed, and away flew the train, at the speed of sixty miles an hour, through a rich country, diversified by hill, wood, and water—all glowing in the beams of the now setting sun. One hour more, and we stop. I catch a glimpse of the most coquettish little hat in the world, shading a radiant and lovely young face. Springing out, I am caught and kissed, and hurried into a carriage in waiting. One moment, and John, the footman, touching his hat, says: “Please, ma’am, the luggage is all right.” A pretty, silvery voice at my side, replies: “Very well—home.” John mounts the box, and Evelyn and myself are once more together and alone.