XXI

THE BLACK COUNTRY

My letter was from Archdeacon Williams. I had never met him but had read his books and been much influenced by them, as I know you have been. To tell the truth, I hesitated about accepting his invitation to spend the "week-end," for I feared I might be disappointed! Authors are like miners: they put the precious metal into their books, but when one gets to the mine there is apt to be a lot of "slag" lying about! But it was not so in this case. The books are the man—he lives as he talks.

England is the land of contrasts. Shropshire seems to belong to another planet, when one gets into the dark and chilly atmosphere of the black country. It was most depressing. Instead of the charming vicarage I had pictured, I found a plain brick house on the street of the town, and instead of a blooming garden, a few sickly shrubs, blackened, like everything else, by the smoke from the mills.

But within all was sweetness and light. The house was overflowing with delightful children, and every one seemed to be at work. Or, perhaps I should say, every one seemed to have a purpose, for as I arrived at tea-time, work had been suspended.

There was but one drawback: the archdeacon does not smoke, and does not seem to have heard that any one else does! I thought that three days would be more than I could bear. But, indeed, mind and body were kept so busy that I hardly missed my pipe at all! Can I say more?

The archdeacon and I sat up until all hours of the night, talking of the things which are most worth while.

He is an extraordinary man—not only a good classical scholar but also a notable mathematician. He is quite at home in all the scientific theories which are the vogue to-day, and insisted that theology can have no interest for the modern mind until theologians abandon the mediæval, a priori method for the inductive, and use words as the symbols of truths which can be verified. Then it will be found that the "faith" for which the saints contended was the reality without which man cannot live. He said many things of which I will tell you when we meet; but one I send you now, for you might have said it yourself! "Men are forever talking about 'faith' as if the important thing were the quantity of it, whereas the thing that matters is its quality. The faith which overcame the world is not the mass of opinion which has accumulated through the ages, but the deep conviction that God is Spirit, and that the character of that Spirit has been revealed in the person of Jesus."

The way the man works would, I think, astonish you. This is what we did on Saturday: breakfast at 8, then prayers in the parish church at 9. He agrees with Bishop Creighton that it is better to have many of the parish come together for prayers each day than to have family prayers, with which, I am sure, you will no more agree than I do! At 9.30 he shut himself in his study and did not appear again until 1 o'clock. Then we had dinner, all the family taking part in the talk, which was good, and I listened. The last you will not believe, but it is true!

Mrs. Williams is as remarkable in her way as he, and is a real intellectual companion. When I spoke to him of her, he said: "Think of the men who are asphyxiated by dull wives!" I did!

The children adore their father, though Rose—a girl of about twelve—told me they could have a pony if their father did not give so much to the poor. When I suggested that this was a good way to use money, she agreed, but added: "It seems a pity there is not enough for both." In which opinion, no doubt, many will agree.

At 2.30 a large van drove up to the door, and into it we all piled, except the very little ones, to go to the Sunday-school treat. We stopped at many a corner to pick up the teachers—all of whom were workers in the mills—and drove to a grove some miles away, where the feast was spread.

I sat next a man of about fifty years of age, who, when he learned that I was an American, "let himself go." He had friends who had migrated to the "States," and admitted that the wages were much larger than in England, but added that, as the expense of living was so much greater, there was not much in it. I did not remind him that the greater expense meant also better living conditions, for I wanted to hear him talk. He complained that our people worked longer hours than they did, and were so tired at the end of the day that they could not enjoy the rest when it came. He wanted to know if the tariff helped our trade. I laughed and told him there was great difference of opinion on that subject, and that I did not pretend to be an authority, but was inclined to think that the willingness of the workers to use new machinery had more to do with our prosperity than anything the government did.

"Ay," said he, "that is what the masters tell us, but we do not heed them. We know that this new machinery can be speeded up till a man's heart is broke."

It was not the man's opinion that interested me so much as his willingness to talk; for I had heard frequent complaints that the working men would talk freely only with their mates. But I got a new light on that, for, when we had risen and sung "God Save the King," my neighbor turned to me and said: "You will excuse me if I have talked too free, but this is the first time in my life that I ever talked with a gentleman."

I could have wept. "But," I said, "you must often have talked to the vicar?"

"Ay," he replied, "but he is a man." And with this cryptic saying I had to be content!

One other thing he told me that I am sure will interest you. He said that in the dark days of the cotton famine, during our Civil War, he could remember as a little boy seeing his father go, with many others, to receive the food distributed to the poor. "That was the only time any of my name received anything from the rates, and it was bitter hard for father. There were men who came up from Liverpool and told us that if the working men of Lancashire would send a deputation to Parliament, the war would be stopped, and we could get cotton to open the mills. But my father was one of those who said that it was the cause of free labor you were fighting for, and that if the men would hold on a bit, God would come to our help. He learned that, I now know, from John Bright. And so the men held out. But it was hard." Isn't that fine? And doesn't it make Lord John Russell and Gladstone look cheap?

By some ill chance Rose and I got separated from the rest of the party, and the van drove off without us. When Rose learned this, she thought it a huge joke, and said we should have to walk. I said: "Not on your life!" This familiar saying filled her with delight, and she cried: "Oh, I say, that is a jolly saying; I must tell that to Dick, and he can take it back to school!"

"That is all very well," said I, "but what is going to take us back to home?"

She suggested a "fly." I solemnly remarked that I did not believe there was a fly big enough to carry us both.

She looked at me for a moment in astonishment and then cried: "Why, I believe you are thinking of an insect!"

I asked what else one could think of. She pondered this a moment and then said she believed I was making game of her. Nothing, I assured her, was farther from my thoughts.

"Well," she said, "if you are sure you don't know, I will tell you; a fly is something that a horse pulls."

I asked if it was a cart. But apparently she had given me up as hopeless, and taking me by the hand, led me to a livery-stable, where the proprietor produced a fly and announced that the price would be ten shillings, and asked if he should "put it down" to the vicar. Rose looked much alarmed at this, and was proportionately relieved when I paid the amount.

There was silence for a little space after we started, and then Rose said, as if to herself: "Daddy would have walked."

"Yes," I replied, "but you must remember he is over six feet tall, and his stride is about three-foot-three, whereas I step only about two-foot-six; so you can calculate how much longer it would take me to walk seven miles than it would him."

"Don't you hate arithmetic?" she exclaimed.

I admitted that I was not fond of it.

"I simply loathe it," she declared. "Such a silly thing, I call it! Why should one spend hours in trying to find out how many yards of carpet it takes to cover the schoolroom floor, when all one has to do is to run through Tod Lane and ask Mr. Small, who keeps the shop, and he can tell in a moment, without even looking at a book."

"But suppose Mr. Small thought it to his advantage to sell you more carpet than you needed?"

"Why, he wouldn't do such a thing," she indignantly replied; "he is a churchwarden."

There was another short silence and then she began again: "Ten shillings is a lot of money."

I agreed.

"However," she continued, "I suppose it doesn't signify. Americans are very rich, are they not?"

I said some were.

"But you must be to hand out ten shillings just like that."

"Oh, I don't know. My share is only five shillings. You will pay half, will you not?"

"Not living!" she hastily exclaimed. "There, I have that wrong. Please say it again." When I had repeated the familiar slang, she echoed it. Evidently it gave her great satisfaction, for I heard her muttering it to herself over and over again. Finally she said: "That is a jolly saying." Then, with apparent irrelevance—but that no doubt was due to my slowness in following her mental processes—"I am glad you came."

I laughed and said I was glad too.

"Not," continued this artless young person, "that we were glad when we first heard you were coming—I mean except daddy. Mother said: 'Dear me! I fear he will expect a bathroom to himself!' And Dick said: 'Is he as dirty as all that?' Even daddy laughed at that. And Dick was so much pleased with himself that he got a bit above himself, and went on to say that all Americans were 'bounders.' So daddy stopped his 'sweet,' and he did look silly! But it seems to me you are just like other people, only rather 'droll.'"

As we drew near the house she evidently began to think that, after all, Dick might be an authority on "bounders," for she remarked, with studied carelessness: "I shouldn't think it necessary to repeat at home everything we have been talking about."

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

"Buggy-riding?" she cried; "what is that?"

"Why, what you call a fly, we call a buggy."

Her reaction was rather deliberate, but finally she exclaimed: "Oh, I see. 'Bug' and 'fly.' That's awfully good. I must tell Dick that!"

XXII

AN "AVERAGE" SUNDAY

Sunday was "some" day! Early service at 8 o'clock, a hurried breakfast at 8.45, and then we started for the mission chapel, where the archdeacon was to preach. I was curious to see how this scholar would adapt himself to the sort of congregation I knew he would meet there. Nothing could have been better. He did not "condescend to men of low estate," but gave them as thoughtful a message as he would have delivered at the university, yet clothed in such simple language as the most unlearned could understand.

"Truly," I said to myself, "here is a scribe who bringeth out of his treasure things new as well as old."

The archdeacon has, of course, besides his duty as vicar, many calls for work outside the parish. I was told that this day he was to preach at a church some twelve miles distant, and, therefore, there would be no time for dinner! However, Mrs. Williams made us a package of sandwiches, which we munched as we drove to the church where he was to preach the annual sermon on education.

The church was a barn of a place, and the atmosphere decidedly "evangelical." There were the old square pews which one sees in pictures of the eighteenth century; and when we knelt down my legs were covered by the voluminous folds of a bright-blue silk dress, worn by a farmer's wife, so that I was not quite sure of my identity, till a pair of stout white stockings, encasing most solid ankles, showed me that my own legs had not yet emerged!

The sermon was a plea for parochial schools, which would have left me cold had it not been for the interpretation of the Parable of the Sower, from which the text was taken. "The soil," said the preacher, "is human nature. At the first glance it might seem as if man was no more responsible for his character than is a field for the different conditions of its soil. But there would have been no 'gospel,' that is, 'good news,' in that. No, what it means, every farmer will understand. There is no soil that is hopeless, and none that does not need to be cultivated. Our schools are to make poor soil good, and good soil better." And so on.

On the way home the subject of education could not be ignored. The archdeacon was none too pleased to learn that I did not think well of parochial schools, and insisted that "godless" schools were worse than none. He would not agree that dogmatic teaching might be dispensed with and yet character be built up. When I pointed out that Jews and Catholics made up a large part of our urban population, and, not unnaturally, the one objected to Christian and the other to Protestant teaching, he could only see how unfortunate it was that we had no Established Church! Once more I was impressed by the fact that no man is liberal all through! Though he had been in the "States," his journey had led him only to the South—and that, too, in the days of Reconstruction. He had never seen New York or Ohio or New England, so that I could not feel that he was to be blamed for thinking poorly of our school system. But he made one remark worth remembering, to see if he is a "seer" as well as a prophet, which latter he assuredly is.

"You are doing the thing on the 'cheap.' You do not pay your teachers enough to make it worth while for men to make teaching a profession, and, as a result, not only the girls but the boys as well are for years under the influence of women. This is bad and cannot fail to affect the national character—as you will find if a great crisis were to come. It may, as I have heard it said, tend to 'refinement' of speech and manners, but the price is too high. It will make them effeminate, that is, sentimental, and sometimes hysterical. It is the manly virtues of endurance and disregard of trifles, which men alone can inculcate, which have made England what she is. Should a great war come—and I fear that cannot be long delayed—you will find your boys cannot bear the strain."

I hope that, as Nehemiah liked to say, "It may be counted to me for righteousness" that I refrained from mentioning 1776, or 1812, or even the Civil War—the "Bloody Angle," and Pickett's charge at Gettysburg—for that might have raised the Alabama!

In the evening I preached in the parish church—"the noblest parish church in England," I was told Ruskin called it. Well, the sermon was not worthy of the church. I don't know what was the matter. You know how such things go! One trouble was that, all the time I was speaking, I wished to say something else! Ruth haunted me! I could hear her whispering: "Better be dull and decent than 'start something'!" So I was dull!

At nine o'clock we sat down to a supper of cold beef and bread and cheese, and mighty good they tasted. Now was not that a day? I asked the archdeacon if it had been an exceptional day. "Oh, no," he said, "I should say an average day. I often go to the town hall after evening service and speak to the men who do not care to come to church. 'Securalists,' they call themselves, and as they are almost sure to heckle one, it is generally interesting, and sometimes exhausting."

There is no doubt that the English clergy work harder than we do—that is, those who pretend to work. While Americans find the climate trying, I am inclined to think one can accomplish more in a climate like this than in ours, which alternately exhilarates and depresses one. But I suspect there is a deeper reason which we do not like to admit, which is that they are better educated than we are! With us there is too much "cramming" for the occasion, whereas they have a treasury from which they can draw as they have need. It is possible also that there is an advantage in an established church which has not been recognized. While the "dumb dogs" take advantage of the "vested interest" to do as little as possible, the best men work in an atmosphere of leisure almost unknown to us. Unconsciously we are influenced by the competition which is the "life of trade." I do not mean that we do this in any unworthy manner, but with the subconscious feeling that we are expected to "make good," and this leads to "pressing," which is as fatal to the best work as it is to the best golf! Men like Williams seem to me to work without haste and without rest.

It was no "Blue Monday" to which I awoke. All was healthy activity, as if Sunday had been indeed a day of rest. The children were shooed into the schoolroom, for though it was the holidays, there were tasks which must be done before the next term. Mrs. Williams had a meeting of women, for some good work, and the archdeacon had gone to his study as soon as breakfast was finished to talk over and arrange with his curates the work of the new week.

So I drove to the station in a "fly," and bought a third-class ticket. But as I was about to take my place, the guard appeared and, touching his cap, asked if I was from the vicarage. When I said, "Yes," he said, "This way, please," and showed me into a first-class carriage, the door of which he promptly locked, when he had again touched his cap and said: "Thank you, sir."

"But," you will say, "this was 'graft'!" How crude you are! Do you not know that "graft" is confined to Tammany Hall? This was proper respect to persons of importance!

"Convey, the wise it call. Steal! foh; a fico for the phrase."

XXIII

DOWAGER AND COWBOY

John left me on Friday for Saltbridge, to visit Archdeacon Williams, whom, as you know, he is always quoting. They have never met and I do hope they will not be disappointed in one another, and that John will behave! I feel like a mother whose child has gone to visit strangers. However, I comfort myself with the thought that children often behave better when they are left alone—I suppose because they then have a keener sense of responsibility!

I expect him back this afternoon and am hastening to write you before his return, for I would not have him see this letter for worlds. He would never cease teasing me about my "beloved English."

He had scarcely gone before a telegram came from Gertrude Shelburne, asking me to come to them for the week-end. I was glad to get it, first, because I am devoted to her, and second, because I wanted to see their place, which I had been told was beautiful—I suppose I ought to add that I had already begun to be a trifle triste without John.

On the map it did not look far from Shrewsbury to Deepford, but the porter told me it would save time if I went up to "town" and caught the Brighton express, which would stop at Deepford if I told the guard I was for Admiral Shelburne's. This did not seem probable, but it proved to be true.

I arrived for tea, which was being served on the lawn, quite as in an English novel. I felt somewhat like the poor governess, in such stories, who is destined ultimately to marry the heir of the adjoining estate, but has not yet discovered her fate! For I was feeling a little shy—not because the people were so fine, but because they were so intimate. If one does not know the people talked of in an English household, it looks as if one did not know anybody! However, that did not last long, for Gertrude, who had been motoring with a young man when I arrived, soon appeared and made me feel at home.

If I were a human pig I should arrange to have, each day, an American breakfast, a French dinner, and an English tea! What would I do for luncheon? Do as I did to-day. Go without one in order to enjoy the tea!

Admiral Sir George Shelburne, as I believe he is formally called, is as delightful as ever. He kissed me, not quite with the paternal air which should go with his years, but rather like one who has had a sweetheart in every port! He is under the impression that he rules the house as he once ruled a man-of-war. As a matter of fact, Gertrude manages him and every one else!

After tea the admiral asked me if I would like to see the gardens. As this was the "first time of asking" I was able to say with a clear conscience that I should be delighted. How I wish you might see these gardens! There is a "lady's walk" that you would rejoice to make a water-color of. It is enclosed by brick walls of a deep red, and the borders are a riot of color. Take down your Latin dictionary and read anywhere in it, and you will get a notion of the names the admiral called off to me! Whether they were right or wrong I have no means of knowing, but it sounded very learned. I asked the admiral if his taste had laid out the lady's walk, and he modestly admitted that it had; and the best of it is he believes it. Gertrude is a wonder!

The "guests" were a young man who is secretary to some one in the government, and is never separated from a despatch-box, supposed to contain international secrets upon which the peace of the world depends. I do not think I ever met any one who took himself quite so seriously. He is supposed to be devoted to Gertrude, and is probably as much interested in her as he can be in any one besides himself. So I fear she is, at best, but a bad second! There is, however, trouble brewing for that young man, as I learned as soon as I saw a "photo" (by the way, one never says "photograph" in polite society, but "photo," and "pram," and "bike." It is a liberty the owners take with their language. This sounds like John, the reason being that for the moment I feel like John. But you will be saying: "What about the photograph?") How curious you are! Well, if you must know, it is of a young naval officer the Shelburnes met at "Gib," two years ago. He has a straight nose and a firm chin à la Gibson, and blue eyes, and his name is Guy. Doesn't this tell you all you need to know? The admiral is supposed to favor the young man with the despatch-box—possibly because he knows too much about sweethearts in every port. How do you guess it will end? See what powers of condensation I have! It took Gertrude two hours to tell me what I have written in a few moments!

There are two perfectly uninteresting men besides the one already spoken of, and three nondescript women who devoted themselves to me. Only one of them calls for any attention. This is Lady Agatha Bumstead. She is handsome and really means to be nice, but unfortunately she has been in the "States," and does not want to hear, but only to tell about them.

After dinner, while the men were sitting over their wine, she suddenly said to me: "Have you any honest judges in America now?"

I said I hoped so.

She replied: "I am glad to hear it. When I was in New York, with my dear husband (she is a dowager), I remember they were trying a judge for taking a bribe, and I was told it was quite common."

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

"Yes," she replied, "that was the name of the governor" (sic).

I said I thought things had improved since then, and that, after all, he was but one of the hundreds of American judges, and that it was hardly fair to condemn the whole bench because of the iniquity of one Tammany judge.

"But," she said, "I thought all the judges in America were appointed by Tammany. I remember my husband said, when he was trying to recover some of the money he had put into that awful Erie, that all the judges were appointed by Tammany."

Hoping to get a more favorable view of America if I moved out of New York, I asked if she had travelled much in the "States."

"Far more than I wished," she dryly remarked.

I expressed my sympathy.

"You see," she continued, "it is hard for people of refinement to put up with the lack of manners in America. Of course, you will not misunderstand me, my dear; I do not mean people like yourself; indeed, as I was saying to Sir George at dinner, I should hardly know you were an American. I had in mind the lower classes."

I feebly remarked that I thought they meant to be "kind."

"Kind, my dear," she exclaimed in a shocked tone. "What business have they to be 'kind'? It is for us to be kind, for them to be respectful. I cannot say I met any such. I had an experience once which left an indelible impression on my mind. You," she continued, turning to one of the other women, who were drinking in this unprejudiced view of our country, "can have no conception of what that country really is. While we were in New York, trying to save something out of the wreck of the Erie, my husband met a man from the West who told him that there was a fortune to be made in silver-mines, and he started with him to look into it. I may say here that he lost every penny he put into this venture. The mines were 'pickled'—no, I think the word they used was 'salted.'

"However, that does not signify now—what I was going to tell you was, that he was detained longer than he had expected, and wrote me to join him in a place called Cheyenne. So I started; but what I endured in those sleeping-cars I never told even my husband. It wasn't proper! The passengers were of the most ordinary type, mostly bagmen, I should say. And the women! Vulgar and overdressed. I must say, however, I was rather pleased with the black man who waited on the passengers. He was rather grotesque, but was the only one I saw who seemed to have at all the bearing of a servant, and even he had a habit of smiling when spoken to which looked like impudence, till one learned that the poor creature had never been properly trained. Well, at length we reached Cheyenne. I had been told that it was the capital of the State, or whatever the district was called, and you may imagine my disgust when I found that it was a mere jumble of miserable wooden houses.

"My husband was not there to meet me—he had gone into the mountains to inspect a mine, and there had been a 'wash-out' or a 'hot-box.' I am sure I do not know the difference; I only know it was either the one or the other which continually caused delays. So there I was, with no one to meet me, and it was night. I looked round for a porter, and of course there was none. I saw a rough-looking man leaning against the station-house, and said to him: 'My man, carry my portmanteau to the hotel, please.'"

The pause which followed was so long that I thought the story ended, or that the narrator had fallen asleep. But I was mistaken—her emotion choked her. Finally one of the others said:

"And what happened then?"

In a sepulchral tone she answered: "He spat! Then, without a word, he picked up the bag and led the way to the hotel. I handed him a shilling, and instead of touching his cap—by the way, it was not a cap at all, but a hat with a huge brim—which, if you please, he took off with a flourish and, declining the tip, remarked: 'Always a pleasure to help a lady!' I thought I should have died of shame at his insolence!"

I nearly choked, but fortunately did not, for every one else was shocked. After a painful silence Lady Agatha continued: "I must say some people have a peculiar sense of humor. I told this shocking story to Charlie Beresford, and he laughed till the tears ran down his face, and asked me to let him put it into a book he is writing on America. But I would not consent. It might give offense—Americans are very sensitive—and I think it most important that nothing should be done to cause ill-feeling between the two countries, for, as Sir George was saying at dinner, one cannot tell how soon we may need one another's help."

Here Gertrude, who had been walking on the terrace with the complacent secretary, came in and took me to her room to talk about the blue-eyed Guy.

Now you see why I do not want John to see this letter. He thinks he has a strong sense of humor, but it is ten to one he would no more understand the dowager than she understood the gentleman in the sombrero. How I should like to meet Sir Charles Beresford and hear him on dowagers and cowboys!

But, honestly, are not the English the most impossible people! I do not mean ridiculous—no one would accuse them of being that—but funny as the camel is. "There ain't no sich animal." Only there is!

XXIV

"BY PURENESS, BY KINDNESS, BY LOVE UNFEIGNED"

Before leaving Shrewsbury I had told Ruth on which train I would leave Saltbridge, and, as I had to change trains at Manchester, she could send a wire to the station there if she had any special orders to give me. The wire was awaiting me, and from it I found that not only had Ruth gone off "on her own" to Deepford, but that she had received an invitation from the Sanfords asking us both to come to them. She said that she was proceeding to London, and that she would go to the Sanfords' by train, and hoped I would meet her there with the car.

So I returned to Shrewsbury, where we had left the car, and the next day drove slowly through Stratford-on-Avon, where I had been before, and so did not stop, waiting till Ruth and I could make the pilgrimage together. I caught a glimpse of the spire of the parish church and could "visualize" the smug bust in the chancel, which an ungrateful town permits to be called Shakespeare!

I stopped the night at Banbury, where there is one of those old coaching inns which affect the imagination like an old print. The following day I went on to Oxford, where I left the car, and ran up to London for some necessary shopping. This, I know, will make you indignant, but I am going to "do" Oxford when Ruth, that lover of "Lost Causes," is with me. Besides, as my next journey is to the northeast, it was better to leave the car at Oxford than to go through London.

When I returned to Oxford I went again on my way and spent the night at Ipswich, in the same inn in which Mr. Pickwick had the compromising adventure with the lady in curl-papers. But there was nothing seen to recall that joyous night. No one I saw looked as if he had ever heard of the most distinguished guest the inn had ever entertained!

The next day I reached the Sanfords' for tea. I understand now why the heroine in an English novel always arrives at tea-time! It is the ideal hour. One does not have to dress for a function and is received into the family at once.

This family consists of but two—the husband and wife—a lovely couple. I do not know which of them we loved best when the visit was over. An ancestor of Mr. Sanford's was one of the non-jurors—and that night I lay in his bed. As a bed it was a good bed, but as a place for sleeping it was naught—as Touchstone would have said. As I lay awake I thought of the noble folly of the non-jurors, and of Macaulay's unsympathetic picture of them, though, curiously enough, the only time he speaks well of a bishop, so far as I remember, is when he praises the "seven bishops." How characteristic this is! They are admirable when they defy the Stuart, but contemptible when they refuse to bow the knee to his Dutch hero! These thoughts led me on to Henry Esmond—that most interesting prig—and so on, hour after hour, the mind wandered through the history of England till I longed for the scenery of the land of Nod!

I would not have you think that my wakefulness was due solely to the imagination awakened by the old non-juror's bed. It was due to a more modern and more material cause, namely the strong Ceylon tea, which was so good that I had taken more than I am accustomed to. What we call "English Breakfast," the English call "China" tea, and, so far as my experience goes, is seldom served. Certainly it could not have been expected in this house, because Mr. Sanford is largely interested in the cultivation of Ceylon tea and, not unnaturally, thinks it superior to China. It is undoubtedly good, but so strong that it is apt to be followed by a sleepless night on the part of the uninitiated.

The next day was Sunday, which began, I need not say, with a bountiful breakfast, at which, of course, we served ourselves, Mr. Sanford walking around the room with a little blue bowl in his hand, eating porridge and talking delightfully. By the way, do you believe the story of the American "Belle Mère," who, arriving at the castle of her noble son-in-law late at night and therefore coming to the dining-room for the first time at breakfast, and, seeing no servants, said to her daughter: "Honey, can't you get no 'help' at all over here?" I do not. Ruth does, and begged me not to tell the story here lest it be thought that the good lady was typical!

I do not think Mrs. Sanford would have believed it. But, if she had, she would have understood, for she has many American friends and a more sympathetic understanding of our problems than any one I have so far met in England. Mr. Sanford was rather inclined to be depressed about England, and deplored the present policy of the Liberal Government—especially in regard to land. Of course I know nothing about the matter, but I could not help thinking I heard a faint echo of the old non-juror's voice. This, however, is sure, he is the quintessence of the feudal system at its best, having its deep sense of responsibility.

We walked to the little church, which is at their gate, and as we drew near and met the people on their way to worship, I was struck by the affection—so much better than perfunctory respect—with which my hosts were greeted both by farmers and tenants alike.

Mr. Sanford showed Ruth and me into the second pew in the transept, while he and his wife occupied the one in front of it, which is the squire's. He read the lessons, and I wished I could read as well! I once heard a distinguished minister at home praised for his reading of the Bible because it "sounded so modern—as if he were reading the morning paper." Well, his reading was not in the least like that! He read with deep reverence, as "The covenant made with our fathers" and now delivered unto us.

The rector, a cousin of our host's, was indisposed, and his place was taken by a near-by vicar. The sermon had neither the interest of the morning paper nor the awe of an ancient revelation! Indeed, it was a stupid thing, which I guessed was one of those which, it is said, can be bought "ready made," and of any shade of churchmanship. This one had no color at all!

The preacher was invited to dine with the squire and accepted. He must be a survival. He explained the difficulty the country parson has in collecting his tithes. Turning to his host, he said: "I had a most disagreeable task last week; Scroston was in arrears again, and I had to distrain his cow."

Mr. Sanford looked much distressed, and said: "I don't think I should have done that."

"Neither should I, had it been a personal matter; but one must consider one's successor. If a precedent were once established, it might lead to much trouble." And to this there seemed to be no reply!

After dinner, when the neighboring parson had left, Mr. Sanford suggested a "look round." Ruth said she had some letters to write, which in England means a nap, so we started off together. In my ignorance I supposed a "look round" meant a stroll about the place. I soon found it meant something more like what we call a "hike."

There is a wide-spread impression among Americans that England is a small place. Let any one go with an English gentleman after a good Sunday dinner, for a "look round," and I venture to say he will change his mind! I suppose I am "soft" from motoring, but I know I was "all in" when we at length reached home. But my host, no longer a young man, seemed as fresh as when we started.

He had been much amused by my attempts to make up to a farmer, whom we met—also "taking a look round." We were crossing a beautiful field, in which were some noble oaks whose wide-spread branches cast so deep a shadow that it looked black, and, by way of making myself agreeable, I remarked to him: "I have been telling Mr. Sanford how much I admire your trees. You must be proud of them."

"Aye, they look well to a town dweller, but I never notice them except at hayin', and then I wish they was anywhere else."

"But you turn your cattle into this field sometimes, I suppose, and they must enjoy the shade on a hot day."

"Well, if they stand under one of them on a hot day, they'll be in a draft, and get a chill, and maybe die."

This certainly was not encouraging, but I did not know enough to stop. Just then some heifers came nosing around, and I said: "That's a beautiful heifer."

"Which one?" said the farmer.

"The white one," said I.

"I wish you lived about here and I could sell her to you. No farmer would buy her."

"Why not?" said I.

"We think the white ones is 'saft,'" he replied.

This, as I say, gave great satisfaction to Mr. Sanford, who recounted it at tea with great gusto.

The servants all went to evening service, but the family did not, so I "wrote letters"!

Supper was served at nine o'clock, and then all the servants came in for prayers—"cook" first, and the kitchen-maid last, the butler standing aside to close the door, and then solemnly taking his place.

Mr. Sanford read a chapter, and after that a beautiful prayer that all might be faithful in their duties, kind, and considerate to one another, honor the King and love the church. Then Mrs. Sanford took her place at the harmonium and played several hymns, in which all the servants joined—I thought the footman's tenor worthy of a church choir, and I suspect he thought so too! and I am sure the housemaid agreed with us both! Altogether the singing was beautiful.

When the service was over, Mr. Sanford said, very simply: "My friends, we have now come to the beginning of another week, and I wish to thank you all for faithful service. If, at any time I have been impatient with any of you, I ask your forgiveness. And now I bid you all good night."

The butler showed them all out, looking at the footman, I thought, as much as to say: "Have you any complaint to make about the master? If so, kindly address yourself to me!" As for me, I confess I had a "lump" in my throat.

As we drove away next morning, Ruth said: "I suppose by this time you have become a Tory!"

"No," I said, "not quite, but if you ever hear me say a word against England again say 'Sanford,' and I will cry 'Peccavi.' How cheap and self-conscious democracy seems after this glimpse of English gentle people. Where can their like be found?"

XXV

THE COUNTY FAMILIES

John should be writing this, but he says he is tired. I am sure he must be. But there is another reason, which is that he is cross, poor dear, and you, no doubt, will think with good reason when you hear what he has been through.

On leaving Sharrow—the Sanfords' place—we drove to the village where still stands the inn known as "The Maypole" in "Barnaby Rudge." Willit is dead, and I saw nothing as attractive as Dolly Varden, nor anything as horrible, I am thankful to say, as Hugh. In other words, we felt as Thackeray says he felt when he visited Tours—it had none of the charm which he had expected after reading "Quentin Durward"!

I urged John to leave the car at the Maypole and go to town by train, for I knew it would be an exhausting experience to drive through the city. But no. He was determined to see if he was enough of a chauffeur to accomplish a feat which tries the nerve of a professional! So we started.

The road led us to the east side of the city, which we entered with the late market-carts. No words can describe the congestion. It was not only the innumerable wagons of every description which made progress almost impossible, but the swarms of creatures which I suppose one must call "human," though there was little indication of their humanity except the power of speech, and when one had heard that, one was tempted to wish they were without it! There are veritably two Englands, the one we had just left, of green fields and clear brooks and kind hearts and noble deeds, and now this sink of iniquity. There is nothing in New York to compare with it, for, shocking as our tenement-house district is, one is comforted by the thought that it is temporary, that there is an upward trend, and that the children of the tenements—almost exclusively of foreign-born parentage—are destined to escape. But these poor creatures are predestined to "damnation" before they are born. There is all the difference between the East Side of New York and the East End of London that there is between a stream which has been defiled by the drainage of factories, but which will purify itself after it has flowed a certain number of miles, and a malarial swamp, whose stagnant waters have no power of movement and, therefore, no hope of cleansing, but will breed sickness from generation to generation. This is the reverse of the medal inscribed "As it was in the beginning," etc.

Through this seething mass, then, we made our way into White Chapel, the nursery of crime, into Cannon Street, where the great wholesale houses distribute the wealth of the empire, and where the great dray-horses, almost as large as elephants, block the way, past St. Paul's, the silent witness to a faith which the life around seems to have forgotten—if it ever heard of it!—into Holborn, with its restaurants and shops and law-courts, and at last into Leicester Square, with its foreign population and its palatial music-halls.

It has taken but a few moments to write this, but it took hours to drive it, and I confess when it was over I felt like the Irishman in the bottomless Sedan chair: "If it wasn't for the honor of the thing, I'd as lief walk." I had the good sense not to ask John how he felt. I could tell by looking at him: his face was white and drawn.

Before we started from the Maypole, John had suggested wiring to the "Holland" for rooms, but I induced him to come here—"Garvin's Private Hotel"—instead, and now I wish I had not!

The Slocums had advised me to come here rather than to one of the great caravansaries, which they said are so "Cooksy." They told me that they always stopped here, and that I should like the class of people one meets here—the county families—and also that one received that personal attention which formerly made English hotels unique, and which Americans and Germans were killing.

Well, I found it good enough. The bedrooms may have been dingy—to speak the truth they were—but the maid was pleasant and efficient, and the dinner, if not exciting, was palatable. But John said it "had nothing on a Lexington Avenue boarding-house." The truth is, he was tired out, and vexed because a telegram, which he had expected to find here, had not arrived.

The next day he went to the manager, and an investigation was begun which led to the discovery that the telegram, which had arrived the day before, was in the porters' rack! It seems that Garvin's has doors on two streets, and the porter of the door by which we did not enter had received it. When John asked why it had not been sent to his room, he was informed, first, that no one had told that porter that we were in the house, and, second, that telegrams were sent only to private sitting-rooms! I don't know which excuse made him the more angry. It was then he made his remark about the Lexington Avenue boarding-house. Not that he knows anything about them, for he has never stayed in one in his life, but because it was the first thing he thought of. It was an example of what I once heard you call "the universe of discourse." But, "you bet," I didn't tell him so!

At dinner John looked round the dreary dining-room and asked where were the "county families"?

I also was feeling the strain of the day, and said "I hoped to meet them later."

He replied he hoped he might be out when they called.

By this time I was well-nigh desperate, and suggested that he go outside and smoke his cigar in the street, for I had caught a glimpse of the "Smoke Room," which looks out on a mews, and is more like a dog-kennel than a room, and I did not feel I could stand any more remarks about "private hotels"! Entre nous, I advise you never to go to one. I have no doubt if you were a "county family," and came up every year as your father had done before you, and took the "first floor front," with a private sitting-room, they would "do you well." But it is no place for transients.

As we had no sitting-room, I went to the dreary parlor to read and, if possible, to quiet my mind before going to bed. But instead of reading, I began to think of John, and the more I thought of him the sadder I grew. I know no one who bears the great troubles of life more patiently than he, but a petty thing, like this telegram, poisons him as the black flies poisoned me in the Adirondacks! They only bite most people, but they send me to bed with a temperature! And the worst of it is he suffers such remorse after one of these attacks. Why should we laugh at Mrs. Gummage? There are people who "feel it more than others." However, I reflected that there was nothing I could do about it, and so turned to my book.

It was one of those dreary books of Benson's, which are conducive to intellectual and moral indigestion—wallowing in imaginary emotions—and I did not see how I could read it in the frame of mind I was then in. But I did not have to, for I was suddenly startled by a voice saying: "If you won't think me rude, I should like to know where you got that hat?"

My first thought was that Garvin's was another sort of private institution, but peering into the dim corner, I saw a typical "county family," or rather the head of one. He was a hale and hearty old man, somewhat over sixty, and had the ruddy complexion which only English country life can give. I saw he was not dangerous, and also that he was unquestionably a "gentleman," so I replied: "I am glad you like it. I got it at Bonwit Teller's."

"I don't know the shop," he said, in a disappointed tone.

"Well, that is not surprising, for it is in New York."

"Really! And are you an American? I never should have," etc.

"Did you want a hat like this for yourself?" I demurely asked.

"Oh, I say! Now you are trying to pull my leg."

I looked at the solid limb in question, and assured him I had no such purpose.

"No, I didn't want it for myself. The truth is, I saw you at dinner—by the way, why do they call that leather they served to-night 'mutton'? I wonder if they have ever tasted mutton? Awful food they give one at these hotels nowadays! Poison, I call it! I always stop at my club when I come up to town, but this time I have my wife and daughter with me. Couldn't take them to the club, of course, so came here. Family been coming here forever, I should say; came when the father of this man had it. This man married the French maid, and she has put on the table a lot of kickshaws, and calls them a 'menu.' Silly stuff. There was no such nonsense in the father's time. One just called the waiter and said, 'What's the joint?' and that was all there was to it. But, as I was saying, I saw you at dinner, and said to my daughter: 'That's a deuced pretty-looking girl over there, and I wish you had a hat like hers.' You don't mind my telling you this? Wouldn't do for a young man, but an old man has his privileges."

I assured him I was flattered, and the simple-hearted old squire replied: "Not at all. The simple truth."

I was rather confused at this and, not quite thinking what I was saying, asked what his daughter said.

"'Why,' she said, 'if you admire the lady's hat, you had better ask her where she got it.' And, by George, I said I would, never dreaming, you understand, that I should really ever speak to you.

"You see, they have gone to the play, but as I have taken a cold, something I never have at home, I thought I would stop in and write some letters. But the fire in my sitting-room (though it is August, the evenings are chill) smokes so I came in here, and no sooner got settled down than I heard some one come in and, looking round, saw it was you. Matilda will be surprised when she learns that I have asked about the hat." And he chuckled to himself at the thought.

I turned again to my book but the old man was not done with me. "So you are an American. Is it true that Americans have baths in their drawing-rooms?"

"I have never seen one there, but as they have them generally about the house, I should not be surprised."

"Oh, you must not take me too seriously," he said in a sorrowful tone; "I was only ragging you a bit!"

I laughed, not, I fear, with, but at, the simple old soul.

"I have never understood this craze for bathrooms myself," he continued; "I think it far more comfortable to have the maid bring the tub into the room at the same time she draws the curtains and lights the fire, for then one takes one's bath in comfort, rather than go into a cold closet. Nor do I like to lie down in a tub. It makes me feel as if I were ill—at Harrowgate or some such place, don't you know. More than that, I suspect there is a lot of talk about bathing that does not amount to much. There is a daughter of one of my tenants who went as housemaid to one of the great hotels in Chicago—the Blackamoor, I think it is called. She came home to visit her mother a year ago, and I asked her if it were true that many rooms had private baths. She said that every room in the place had its own bathroom, and that the very bag-men, if you please, would swagger in and say, 'Room with bath,' but that days would go by without their being used! Just ordered them to put on side. She is a very shrewd girl, and she explained to me why it was that Americans have so many bathrooms. She said the ladies insisted upon it because they did not wish to be seen going along the passages in the flannel gowns they all wear. She said if they had handsome bath-robes, such as English ladies wear, they would not be ashamed to be seen going to the bath."

Don't you think that girl earned a good tip? But perhaps you, like my garrulous old friend, will think I am trying to "pull your leg," but I give you my word it is all true. I am not sure whether you will say "Aren't they the limit?" or "Can you beat it?" I said both!

John came in in a penitent mood, as I knew he would, and brought me a superb bunch of roses—a sort of "sin-offering." What should I have done had I married a saint!

XXVI

THE BOAT-RACE

I think Ruth has written you about our stay in London, so I will say nothing about it except to advise you to avoid "private hotels." Ruth has so many fine qualities that there must be some flaws or she would not be long with us! One of them is this: If a person of whom she is fond advised her to go to—well, I won't say it! no argument would have any effect upon her. She would wish to start at once! Well, that is over for the time, so let us forget it.

By good chance we met the Ingrams from Boston at the hotel, and they told us, what any porter at a real hotel would have known, that the race between Harvard and Cambridge was to take place that day, so we started early in the car to get a good place on the river-bank. We drew up near Mortlake, where there is a bend in the river, and which, I was told, was the best place because the leading boat at that spot has seldom, if ever, been passed.

It was one of those perfect days which redeems the English climate, and shows that the poets must have had some experience of heavenly weather, and not, as the cynics on our side of the water have suggested, imagined the weather which they describe! The river was a sight not soon to be forgotten. There were hundreds of punts on the river and more pretty girls and stalwart young men than could be assembled in any other country in the world, I suppose. All of those were not on their way to the boat-race, however, but were the usual Saturday crowd "out for a good time." We saw scores of punts tied up to the trees on the river-bank, in which the girls were busy making tea, and the boys, clad in white flannels, were smoking their brierwoods. I suppose there was the usual amount of sentiment but it was not in evidence. Indeed, both girls and boys seemed keen for tea!

The right bank of the river was lined with motors, while the path through the meadows on the opposite side was crowded with those who had come from town on buses and trams, and were now running along the bank, seeking the best places from which to view the struggle. But how a race could be rowed on that river was more than I could guess. One could not have moved a skiff through the mass of boats which crowded it from bank to bank. Yet nothing was done to clear the course. I feared a foul. But just before the time for starting, a little motor-boat shot out from the bank, and without any blowing of whistles or shouting or confusion of any sort, but apparently in answer to the simple request of the official standing in the bow of the launch, boats and punts disappeared, as if by magic, and in a twinkling the course was clear! I thought with shame of what would be seen at home in like conditions—the noise and bullying, on the one hand, and the overflowing of the course as soon as the backs of the police were turned! But this was a striking exhibition at once of the law-abiding spirit of the English and the equal respect of individual rights. For, as I have said, the liberty of the individual was respected up to the last moment, and then the crowd willingly conceded the rights of the community.

Half New York seemed to be there, and one heard the shrill voices of our charming compatriots as the word was passed along: "They are off!"

The betting was in favor of the English crew, and when the boats appeared around the bend of the river, it was easy to see why it should have been.

Harvard had the outside—slightly longer—course, but even so, it was evident that they were outclassed. Better form I never saw than Harvard showed. The men moved like a machine. There was no splashing and no sound was heard as the boat swept by. Not so Cambridge: the water was churned as if with a screw, and there was much shouting. It may have been only the voice of the coxswain, but I thought I distinguished several voices, but the boat moved, or, rather, it seemed to leap, after each stroke, while the Harvard shell seemed to settle and wait after each stroke for the next. Just as they passed us Harvard spurted, and a gallant effort it was, but too late, and Cambridge shot under the Mortlake bridge, nearly two lengths ahead. Then I heard what I had never heard before—and what I suppose cannot be heard out of England—the roar of a great multitude. Our college yells seemed thin in comparison—the silence settled down, and the river was filled again with the little boats, which had scuttled to the banks to let the racers go by.

We went on our way wondering why it was that no amateur American crew had ever beaten an English one in a four-mile race. When the car was blocked by a mass of motors a little distance above the bridge, a punt floated slowly by, and a nice-looking lad called out to me: "Which won?" It never occurred to me that he, less than a mile from the finish, did not know the result, when crowds were at that moment reading the bulletins in Times Square and men were discussing it in the clubs in Hong Kong.

So, thinking he was "pulling my leg," I answered "Harvard."

"Hard luck," was all he said, as his punt slipped quickly by.

I was therefore considerably startled when a man in the car next ours remarked, in an indignant tone:

"You had no right to say that. You know it is not true!"

"Why," I replied, "so did he."

"Not at all, or he would not have asked."

"Well, I am sorry; I supposed he was poking fun at me."

But this only made matters worse. For he now shouted:

"You had no right to assume that. The lad was evidently a gentleman and would not have been guilty of such an unsportsmanlike thing."

By this time I felt as if I had poisoned the favorite for the Derby, and in desperation said:

"Well, after all, no great harm was done."

"That is more than you know," replied this uncompromising individual; "he may have had something on it!"

Now I felt as if I had picked the lad's pocket, and did what any pickpocket would do, escaped as soon as possible!

We drove to Maidenhead for tea and had the good luck to find there the Siegels. I don't think you know them. He is one of the so-called "Pittsburgh crowd"—inventor of a patent car-seat or something of the sort—and has made a mint of money. I have been told that in Pittsburgh he is called "Chilled Steel"! Well, he is anything but that when one meets him away from business. He overflows with kindness and fun.

After cordial greetings I told him of my experience on the towing-path, and he was greatly amused.

"But," he said, with mock solemnity, "you ought to have known better than to monkey with sport in England. It is their religion. It was like crying 'To Hell with the Pope' on St. Patrick's Day."

I said it was too bad Harvard was beaten.

"What did you expect?" he asked, and then: "Did you have much on it?"

"Nothing but interest," I replied.

"That's where you are ahead of me," he said. "I had some capital on it!"

"Did you expect Harvard to win?"

"Who, I? Not in a thousand years; but just to cheer the boys up a bit I put a few pounds on them. Well, it's all gone, but I guess I'll charge it up to the 'Charity Fund,' and so have a few coppers left for a cigar after dinner."

"No," he said, speaking seriously for a moment, "I went down to the Harvard quarters yesterday to see Tom Burch's son, who is in the crew, and, say, I hadn't been there five minutes when all the 'pep' began to ooze out of me. Those boys have been training for three weeks in this muggy climate, and it has sapped 'em. I don't say they could have won, anyway, for I understand that that Cambridge bunch is a hard proposition—one of the best crews they have turned out in years—but they might just as well have given our boys a dose of bromide every morning before breakfast as to train them in the Thames valley. If I had the handling of a crew over here, I'd put them on the river the day before the race, so as to learn their way through this winding creek they call a river, and the next day I'd call the race, while those boys still had some U.S. ozone in them. Well, it's all in the family," he continued, "and it will serve as a set-off to the cup races and the polo games, and as long as it was not a German crew that won, I don't much care." I saw by the twitching of his lips that there was a story coming, and was not disappointed. But it is too long for this letter, and so will have to be given in my next.

XXVII

THE CUSTOM-HOUSE

"Mr. Siegel," I said, when tea was finished and we had lighted his cigars, "I thought you were 'German.'"

"You did, hey? Well, I'm German the same way you are English! My grandfather was a real German, but they ran him out in '48, and he went over with Schurz and the rest of that band, and if you can find better Americans than their descendants, I do not know where they are. The German of to-day is another creature, and I want nothing to do with him. Those people are the limit; 'verboten' this and 'verboten' that, till a man doesn't dare do anything without asking the policeman if he may. Women have to stand in the gutter till an officer goes by. Why, when we were in Berlin one of them would have run Maria through with his sword if I hadn't told him I was a friend of the Kaiser."

"Jim," exclaimed Mrs. Siegel, "how you do talk! You know he never touched me, and you never spoke to the Kaiser!"

"Well, he didn't know it! And moreover, as I am a friend of Carnegie—now that he has gone out of business—and had on a good suit of clothes, and so looked as if I could lend money to his boss, he believed it was true, and so let you live. Oh, I can manage the army all right, it is the custom-house officer who 'gets my goat.' I understand how to deal with the American breed, but I am helpless with those fellows. However, I have got things fixed now, so that if we ever have to go back there, it will not be as bad as it was at Frankfort."

"What happened at Frankfort?" I asked.

"Well, I'll tell you. My doctor at home wanted to go to Canada for the fishing, and fearing a competitor would get his business away from him, told me to go to Carlsbad and get a good soak. When I had finished with the prune pure, the veal and the water, I started for Frankfort to meet Maria, who had been at St. Moritz. She had the usual twenty-one trunks, and I asked for the keys and began to open them—getting one key in five right, accusing the French maid of having lost some of them, and getting the usual French change in reply.

"Well, sir, if a man is looking for a sweat he has no need to go to Carlsbad, let him try to open his wife's trunks while a German pig in uniform looks on! When you tell him you can't find one key, but it is the one for the soiled-clothes bag, and he says that is the one he most wants to see, you are 'up against it.'

"I should have had a fit in a few minutes, I believe, if I had not caught sight of Charlie Wilson at the other end of the shed, trying to get his wife's trunks open. But he was not showing the same patience and dignity as I was. His language was something awful. He first told the maid he had given her the key to the hat-box, and she said he hadn't. Then he said he had given it to his wife, and she said he hadn't, so I knew he must be badly rattled. When a man begins to change his lies it's a sure sign he has lost his nerve. Mrs. Wilson began to cry, and her pig laughed. So just to cheer them up a bit I called out: 'Hello, Charlie, I thought you were down at your place on Long Island.' Then I thought Charlie was going to cry! He wiped the sweat off his face and, coming over to me, said:

"Jim, this is something fierce! I have a perfectly good home where we can have chowder three times a day, if we want it, and a swim in the surf every evening, and things to drink that are not made out of hair-oil, and I left it all and came over here because that —— doctor told me to go to Homberg!'

"Well, we finally got all the trunks open, and as they found nothing they could fine me for, we were allowed to drive to the hotel. Mrs. Wilson was still dabbling her eyes with a bit of lace that one tear would have made a sop, and Maria said she was worn out, and was going to bed, and Charlie said he must have a drink, and so I told his wife I would go with him, and see that he did not take two!

"When this had been done I went to my room, took off my coat and collar, and sat down to wrestle with the problem of trunks. After a while it came to me, and I rang for the porter. He came, in his field-marshal's uniform, and said, 'Bitter?' and I said, 'Very bitter,' and then asked him if he could speak the English language? He said he could speak all languages. I guess that was right, but it would have been better if he had spoken one at a time! However, he finally got it into his head that I wanted a locksmith, and said he thought he could get one that evening or the next morning.

"I said: 'My friend, you listen to me: every minute you delay takes off a mark from what is coming to you when I leave, so you can calculate how much will be owing me if you don't get a move on.'

"Well, that got under his skin, and before long he returned with a man in a green apron, who, he said, was a locksmith.

"I explained to the porter that I wanted the locks taken off every trunk, and twenty-one new locks put on, which one key would fit. It took him some time to understand that I did not want twenty-one keys and one lock, but when he did, he translated it into one of his five branches of languages. The man in the green apron began to run around in circles and said there were not twenty-one locks alike in Frankfort. I asked where they could be gotten, and Green Apron said only at the factory.

"Well, where was that?

"In Munich or near there. If he wrote he might be able to get them in a week.

"I asked if his health did not permit him to travel.

"When he got that, he was instructed to take the first train to Munich and get those locks, bring them back and have them on the trunks by noon the next day. It was Maria's birthday, and I wanted to give her a surprise.

"Well, sir, it was done, and now life is easy. The only drawback was that there were no more German custom-houses for us to pass through, and so no more officers who wanted to see how many pieces we had in the wash, for we shipped our baggage 'in bond' and when we reached England the officer said: 'If you will open that one, it will be all that I shall require,' and when I offered him what would be expected at home, he declined it! However, I shall have some fun at home when we get on the dock where the officers loaf while distracted passengers hunt for keys.