XXVIII

THE "ROB" ROOM

I asked John if he was writing to you and he grinned and said perhaps I had better write. The fact is, he has not been behaving very well, and is, I suspect, rather ashamed of himself—at least, I hope he is!

We came to Windsor and put up at what John insisted upon calling the "Purple Sow," though it is really the "White Heifer."

The next morning we went to St. George's Chapel, which seemed to me the most beautiful church I had ever seen, and where the music would have filled your heart with joy. By some ill chance, it was one of the days when they sing the Athanasian Creed, and, to my horror, John refused to stand up! He said it was "blasphemous," and I felt like asking, like the man at Barchester: "If you once begin, where will you end?" But thought it best to let him alone.

The same afternoon we were shown over the castle with a horde of sightseers. John was perfectly quiet until we came to the room in which the trophies are displayed. As we were standing before one of the glass cases in which are splendid swords and cups of gold and jewels from India and China, and "the uttermost parts of the sea"—a record of the least admirable page in English history—John, I could see by the expression of his face, was thinking. I could only hope he would not "start" anything! But he is like Benny Joyce, who, when he was asked in Sunday School if he had any faults, replied that he thought he could say he was without any, except when his brother Tony provoked him!

Well, John's "brother Tony" was near at hand, in the person of the typical English shop-keeper.

Turning to John, he said, in a tone half-ashamed and half-exultant:

"I say, we have collared a lot of things, have we not?"

"Yes," replied John, "that is why it is called the 'Rob' room!"

I must say, while I wished he had said nothing, I do think this was awfully quick!

The man looked puzzled for a moment, and then replied: "I suppose you mean the Robe Room." But as he received no answer he evidently thought it over, and then burst out with:

"Oh, I say! That's awfully good. I see, 'Rob' room! Would you mind if I told that to my wife?"

John grimly remarked that he would be delighted. So he trotted off to the other side of the room and began talking with evident glee to a woman with a most uncompromising face. Apparently her reaction was not what he had expected, and his countenance fell. He returned to John, and in a most truculent tone, remarked:

"You are an American, aren't you?"

To which John, in an equally aggressive tone answered: "I thank God I am."

"I thought so," he replied. "And, if you don't mind my saying so, my wife thinks, and I quite agree with her, that your remark was a most objectionable one."

Did you ever hear of anything more absurd? I am glad to say John had the good sense not to make a scene. So we withdrew—but not with the honors of war! Do you wonder he does not feel like writing to you?

We had intended going west from here and resuming our interrupted journey, but a letter from Lady Groves, who is a friend of Maud's, asking us to spend the night with them at their place, near Reading, delayed us again.

We did not arrive this time for tea as there was something the matter with the car—ignition trouble, I believe—but fortunately it was put right in time for us to reach our destination for dinner.

How can one express the charm of a welcome to an English house? These people, who seem so "standoffish," when one does not know them, expand into the most winning cordiality when they receive one into their own homes. So that one feels that an "Englishman's house is not alone his castle, but also a hospice!"

The bedroom, to which I was shown, called the "Bird" room, because of the pattern of the paper and the chintz, was filled with real "Sheriton," which had never even heard of Grand Rapids! There was a dressing-room for John, equally attractive, but more "manly."

John, as usual, declined to give up his keys to the footman, and threw his things around everywhere, in what looked like hopeless confusion, but in a way which, as he said, enables him to "find things."

There were but two guests besides ourselves at dinner, a Mr. and Miss Buckthorne. Sir William took me in and Mr. Buckthorne Lady Groves, so Miss Buckthorne fell to John.

It seems the Buckthornes had one of the finest private collections of "Sir Joshua's" in England, but they are "land-poor" and so have been obliged to sell most of them. I thought it might interest Miss Buckthorne to hear about one of them, which Mr. Frazer bought, and began to explain how it was hung in his new gallery.

Perhaps it was not tactful to speak of it at all, at any rate she was not in the least interested, and from her manner I thought John was not likely to have a good time.

Her brother, on the other hand, was a most interesting person, so much so that I listened so intently to his conversation that I forgot all about John and his partner. When, however, I did look at him, I found that there was an ominous silence on his side of the table. When we went upstairs I inquired how he had enjoyed himself. He was delighted with his host and hostess, and said that he found Mr. Buckthorne one of the best-informed men he had ever talked with, but rudely remarked that "she," meaning, I gathered, Miss Buckthorne, "was the limit."

I said: "I noticed you did not have much to say to one another."

"I had plenty to say to her," he growled, "but after the first course she never spoke to me."

"Oh, John," I said, "tell me just what happened."

"Well," he said, looking rather sheepish, "we did not hit it off."

"I hope you did not criticise England?"

"Certainly not," he indignantly replied. "Well, I will tell you just what happened. As we were going into the dining-room she said to me, in that wooden voice of hers: 'How do you manage in America, about precedence, having no aristocracy?'

"I said, 'We are greatly troubled about it, and I fear will never find a solution of the problem until we become again an English colony.''

"John," I cried, "how could you?"

"Well, she looked so melancholy that I thought I would jolly her up a bit."

"Yes," I retorted, "but haven't you been here long enough to learn that what you call 'jollying' the English call 'ragging,' and leave it to schoolboys, and do not indulge in it at dinner-parties?"

"Well, I learned to-night," he replied. Seemingly that was the end of the matter, but I knew better, and insisted upon knowing all, so he continued: "She asked what we were doing in the meantime, and I said: 'Oh, we are just experimenting.'

"'How do you mean "experimenting,"' she said.

"Well, at one house the butler, when he announced dinner, said: 'The oldest lady present will please go in first.' Of course, no one would move; so that night we had no dinner. The next dinner we went to, he said: 'This evening it is requested that the most beautiful lady present will lead the way.' And as they all rushed together, several people were injured, and again the dinner had to be given up. And, when I left, I found that every one was standing as near the door as possible, so as to slip in first and get the best seat at table."

She gasped, and exclaimed, "How extraordinary!" and never spoke another word during the dinner. I do not know now whether she is thinking it over, or whether she suspects that I was engaged in that interesting pastime of "pulling her leg," though from the glimpse I caught— But I spare you!

XXIX

VESTED INTERESTS

I think Ruth has written you some nonsense about me to which I hope you will pay no attention. She is somewhat of a romancer. I do not mean that the bare facts are not as she states them, but I have your own high authority for the dictum that "A fact is often a most misleading thing"!

At any rate, I know she could not have told you about the interesting conversation we men had over our cigars after dinner, last night. After the ladies withdrew Sir William asked me many questions about our church. He wished particularly to learn how "The Anglican Church in the States" got on without the supervision of the state. I explained how rectors were "called," and bishops elected, and deputies to the General Convention chosen, etc. He was greatly interested, and said that unless something was done to give the laity a voice in the management of the parish, he believed the days of the Church of England were numbered. I asked him why he felt so despondent, and he said:

"Take the case of this parish: the rector is an uncouth creature who was given the living by a man to whom his father was tutor, and who probably took orders with this in view, for he is far more interested in his glebe than in the cure of souls. He will not listen to any suggestions, but goes his own way. All the money goes into his hands and there is no accounting to any one. I do not suggest that he is dishonest, but I do say that a man who had the right feeling would recognize that the people should know the amounts given, and the purposes for which they are used."

I said: "Surely there is a churchwarden?"

"True, but he is the schoolmaster, appointed by the rector and dependent upon him. The service is conducted in a most slovenly manner, and the music is quite painful. I offered to pay for a proper choirmaster, but he said that was an insult to his wife's sister, who plays the organ. The result of his bad manners and dictatorial spirit is that the congregation has dwindled to a mere handful, and they are mostly children whom the schoolmaster compels to come. The fact is that dissent is increasing at an alarming rate, and I think that soon there will be nothing left but the parson and the glebe!"

"Can the bishop do nothing?" I asked.

"Apparently not. The bishop says that if a responsible person will prefer charges he will take the matter up, but that 'a man cannot be deprived of his living because he happens to be unpopular.' Of course, if the Church of England exists to provide 'livings,' there is nothing more to be said. But if its purpose is to minister to the people, a way must be found to accomplish that. But I fear the attempt will prove fatal to the Establishment."

Of course, you and I should not feel that this would be fatal to the church, but what these men fear is that if the impartial hand of the state is withdrawn, the church will become a sect, or rather as many sects as there are now parties. And if disestablishment comes before the laity have gained their rights, we can guess what the "ecclesiastic" clerical, and especially the laymen—whom Thomas Browne once referred to as "ecclesiastical eunuchs"!—will make of it.

Mr. Buckthorne, who had kept silent while we were talking, now said: "This is a hard case, but it is nothing to what our parish has to endure." I said, "What is your trouble? What has your parson done?"

"You might better ask what has he not done! In the first place, there is a very ugly story about a farmer's daughter—the rights of which I neither know nor wish to know—but as a result none of the farmers will have anything to say to him. In the second place, he sits in the bar of the public house every Saturday night till closing time, drinking with the village topers, and consequently the respectable tradesmen will not come into the church. And finally it is reported—I do not say it is true, for I should not like to bring such a charge against any man without positive proof—but I do know it is commonly believed that he has shot partridges sitting! and, of course, after that, no gentleman will have anything to do with him."

"I should hope not," cried Sir William indignantly.

No, I did not laugh at this moral anticlimax. I again asked if the bishop could do nothing.

"Oh, the bishop has been appealed to, and, being a good man himself and a gentleman, is, of course, greatly distressed. I was one of those who went to see him, but all he could say was: 'Dear me, this is very sad. But it is to be remembered that the man is a rector and has a vested interest in the living. Of course, if responsible people can be found to substantiate these charges, undoubtedly he could be brought to trial, but it must not be forgotten that the law against libel is very stringent, and I should not care to move unless I could be assured that a verdict in my favor was a little more than probable.' And so the matter was dropped."

"What shall we say to these things?" Well, the obvious thing is that it is not royalty, as the Fourth of July orators used to declaim, nor the House of Lords, as the Hyde Park speakers are asserting, nor the palaces of the bishops, as some of our non-conformist friends believe; it is the "vested interests," which the new democracy must blast out of church and state before the people can determine their own destiny.

I suspect, if we were face to face, you with your sceptical spirit would suggest that there is something else to be said, which is that this quiet and intelligent-looking Mr. Buckthorne may have been feeding me on the same diet I served to his sister. At any rate, if not about the lesser immorality of his parson, at least about his heinous crime of shooting partridges, sitting.

I do not deny that this is possible, and indeed, much as I should wish to believe such a story, I am almost in hopes it is not true, for, if you will read to the end of this long story—which must, however, be left to my next—you will see why I have to-day a fellow feeling for the wretch, which last night I should have thought impossible!

XXX

"THE AULD UN'"

We had intended to take our departure the next morning, but Sir William was so insistent that we should stay at least a part of the day that we decided to wait until the afternoon. This gave great pleasure to Ruth, who wished to see the garden—she is still dreaming of that country parsonage where she will have a garden of her own!

As there was nothing in particular for me to do our host suggested that I might take a gun and go out with him to "pick up a few rabbits." I told him the only ones I was likely to pick up would be those shot by some one else, for I had not handled a gun since I was in college. But, evidently, he felt about that as you would feel if a brother parson were to say that he was so rusty in his Greek that he could not read his New Testament. It would not seem credible!

You must know that nothing can be done in England without "dressing for the part." Sir William was already arrayed for the battue, but I had to get out some knickerbockers, which took time because the troublesome footman had put them away! However they were found at last, and they with my Norfolk jacket made me presentable, so we started with the keeper, who carried over his shoulder a sack in which were evidently live creatures of some sort, for the bag was constantly agitated. I hoped they might be rabbits for me to "pick up," but they proved to be ferrets.

When we reached the warrens these crawling creatures—which look like diminutive dachshunds—were shaken out of the bag and promptly melted into the earth. Soon there was heard a faint squealing, and the keeper announced that one of the young ferrets was killing a rabbit and would be of no further use to us. But the others had a deeper sense of duty, or were better sportsmen—which seems to mean the same thing—for soon the rabbits began to pop up all over the place. Sir William had potted two before I could get my gun to my shoulder. The keeper called my attention to the fact that it was necessary to "look lively," but that is a thing at which I have never been good.

However, I determined that I would do better the next time the rabbits appeared. This I did, for a moment later I saw a little bunch of fluff, no bigger than your fist, roll over and then lie still. One would have thought I had killed a bull moose, so generous was the applause of the keeper and Sir William. I felt like Mr. Winkle—or was it Mr. Tupman—when he shut his eyes and brought down the bird! I shot a number of times more but without success, and began to think I really must look more lively still. And I did! There were a few moments when no more rabbits appeared, though, from time to time, one of those slimy ferrets would come to the surface, stretch its long neck and look around to see if anything of interest appeared, and then silently melt again into the earth. Suddenly a head appeared from a hole some distance away. Sir William did not move—evidently had not seen it, so, thinking this was my chance I fired, and the creature rolled over, kicked once or twice, and then lay still.

I looked for applause, but as you may have noticed the audience does not always respond at the moment one expects!

There was a moment of silence, and then Sir William exclaimed: "Good Lord! You've shot the ferret!"

The keeper groaned as if he had lost his only child, and said, with tears in his voice: "It was the auld un'."

There was nothing to be said, and the keeper sadly buried his favorite, and I felt as if I were one of that party who had buried Sir John Moore:

"Not a drum was heard.
Slowly and sadly we laid him down!"

We walked away without a word. There came, however, to my mind a story Sir William had told me as we left the house in the morning, of an American who came over to one of the great "Shoots" in Yorkshire and asked his host as they started out the first morning, "How much he ought to give the keeper?" and he replied: "It depends upon where you hit him." I laughed then, but I was not laughing now! For I was wondering what sum would make good the loss of an "Auld Un'."

I gave the keeper what I could afford—indeed more—but I am not sure he will ever be the same man again! I know one thing. I could have bought a fat red deer for what that little handful of fluff cost me!

As we started to leave the little clump of pines which had been the scene of the murder, the keeper threw the sack on the ground and said to the boy who had accompanied us—to bring home the rabbits, I suppose—"You can bring 'em home, Jock."

He evidently had not the heart to gather up the remaining ferrets, and so strode away after Sir William. The boy looked up at me with a grin and held up the index finger of his right hand, on which there was the scar of a bite. I gathered that he and the "Auld Un" had not been the best of friends, and that there was one of the party who did not mourn its untimely death!

I hurried after the others, and when I caught up with them, broke my gun to eject the lethal cartridge and the one that had not been fired, but my host said: "Oh, I wouldn't do that; we might meet a grouse on the way back. Jenkins," he said, turning to the keeper, "have you seen any hereabouts?"

"There was a brace, Sir William, in the stubble-field this morning. They may be around now, we might take a look."

"I think, then," said Sir William, "we will cut through the Green Lane, and see what there is in that field."

We had hardly entered the lane when a bird rose from behind a bush with a whirr that startled me, but I fired almost without taking aim, and brought it down. There was an awful silence, and then Sir William said, in a strained voice: "I hardly know what we had better do. Still, as it is done, Jenkins, you had better send it up to the Hall."

"Excuse me, Sir William," said Jenkins, "but there would be a lot of talk in the servants' hall, and I think it would be better if I took it home with me and burned the feathers, and no one but ourselves need be any the wiser. Thank God, the boy is back there in the wood! And I don't suppose the gentleman will talk."

After a long pause my host replied, with a sigh, that he supposed that would be best.

Perhaps you will be asking, what was the trouble? I knew no more than you! At first I thought I must have killed the twin brother of the "Auld Un'" but reflected that ferrets do not fly. It could not have been one of the keeper's children as I feared when I caught a glimpse of his face, for children do not have feathers to burn! At last, I said, rather testily, I fear: "Would you mind telling what is the trouble?"

Sir William looked at me, more in sorrow than in anger, and solemnly replied: "It was a pheasant."

Even then I did not understand. But little by little it came out that I had committed the unpardonable sin. For the time of pheasants was not yet! There is a heavy fine for shooting them out of season, but that did not trouble my generous host. It was the shame of the thing! If it were ever known among his fellow sportsmen that he or his keeper had been seen with a dead pheasant in their possession before the appointed day, he was a ruined man!

Never again can I laugh at Mr. Winkle! It is true I had not posed as a sportsman, but I should have had the moral courage to decline to have anything to do with a sport which might bring sorrow to the owner of the beloved "Auld Un'," and entail a shameful secret on my kindly host.

Much as I like them, I was glad to leave these kindly people, and one of them at least, I am sure, was glad to have me go! I can only hope that I may not be hereafter bracketed in his mind with the miscreant who is suspected of shooting partridges "sitting"!

XXXI

CHURCH AND STATE

We were now headed for Chester, but stopped the Sunday at Malvern. We had to take refuge in the hotel near the station because the more select one was full; but we found it comfortable, and the people with whom we came in contact made up for the exclusive refinement of the smaller inn.

On Sunday morning Ruth announced that she was going to take a "day off," so I went to the Abbey alone. It is a beautiful building in spite of restorations, but, as usual, I was more interested in the people than in the building, and as I had to look with Ruth's eyes as well as my own, the first thing that attracted me was the number of children present, and, secondly, the beauty of the girls' hair. There were a score of girls whose hair would have made the fortune of the proprietor of a capillary tonic. It was long and glossy, and fine as silk. Sometimes, it seemed to me, the color was rather pale, but it floated over their shoulders in waves of beauty. I thought of St. Paul's remark that a woman's glory is her hair, which showed a more sympathetic appreciation than one would have expected from such a source. Indeed, it is almost the only thing he says about women which appeals to the modern mind.

You remember Newman's complaint, in the Apologia, that if there is anything more dreary than the Anglican service, he does not know what it is. Well, that may have been true in his day before the Romantic spirit, which in its ecclesiastical form we call the Oxford Movement, had revealed the beauty of the liturgy, but it could hardly have been justly said of the service this morning at the Abbey. But the sermon! I have since learned that the vicar was ill and that a curate was suddenly called upon to take his place. It would have been far better had there been no sermon at all. The service was enough. I believe it is often enough, and the trouble with us parsons is that we do not know when to stop! I do not mean after the sermon has begun, but before it! Certainly in this church, had the organist been taken suddenly ill they would not have called on a choir boy to play the organ, nor should that curate have been allowed to fret the congregation as he did. Well, it had one merit, it was but ten minutes long.

As I walked away I was joined by a man whom I had noticed at the hotel. He abruptly remarked: "Beastly sermon!" Well, "dog will not eat dog," so I only said: "Did you think so?"

"I should say I did. I call it a disgrace to allow such an exhibition. Damn lazy beggar, he didn't even get his text right. I wonder if there is any other profession in which such incompetence would be tolerated? I do not know what his stipend may be, I only know he is grossly overpaid no matter how small it may be."

There did not seem to be anything to say that would not sound like an anticlimax after such eloquence, so I kept silence, a thing, by the way, an Englishman never resents.

One often hears it said that Englishmen do not care for sermons, but I suspect they like them as much as other people, when they can get them! I have been wondering since if I should have been so much impressed by the girls' hair if there had been more men in the church!

As you know the Cause Célèbre is making great excitement here as all over the world—perhaps more here. As the judges were expected to give their decision yesterday, I hurried to the railway station early this morning to get a Sunday paper. But there are no such things! Did you know that? It seems incredible that the result of this portentous trial is known all over the world except a hundred miles from the spot where the verdict was given. But it is so!

In the evening I attended service at the little church near the hotel—Ruth's day off lasting into the evening! Not that I am surprised. We parsons work off the nervous strain in the act of preaching and forget that the family has the strain without the relief! At any rate, that is the way with Ruth. I think she expects each Sunday that I shall come, what the English call a "cropper," so I am glad when she can be induced to rest on the Lord's Day. But, on the other hand, a parson is like an actor, of whom I have heard it said that if he gets a night "off" he goes to some other theatre! Well, apart from its religious influence, which I trust was not altogether lacking, I am glad I went to this church, for reasons I will now explain.

When the time for the notices came, the parson, with more hesitations and swallowings than I can describe, said: "My brethren, at this morning's service (ahem) I reminded you that a trial in which the whole world is interested, (swallow) and in which questions of the most momentous importance were to be decided, (ahem) was being held, (ahem) and I suggested (swallow) that it would be well, if in your private prayers, (ahem) you would ask that the judges might be guided to a right judgment. Since then, however, (a fearful swallow) I have been informed that a private telegram (ahem) has been received, by a person present at this morning's service, saying (ahem) that the judgment had been rendered yesterday. Possibly (ahem) it may seem to some of you (swallow) that prayers offered after an event (ahem) could in no wise affect that (swallow) event (swallow) and (ahem) were therefore quite futile. But while this is (ahem) a not unnatural, it is (swallow) a hasty conclusion. It may be that they will not immediately (ahem) effect a reversal of a judgment which, I am sure we all feel, was wrong. But even if that should not be the result, who can put a limit to the Divine Omnipotence? I do not believe those prayers were in vain—I do not believe any prayers are in vain. I believe that in ways we cannot foresee, God will bring good out of evil."

You will note how, when he got on his own ground of personal experience, his confidence increased and his hesitations ceased. Illogical as it all sounds when it is put down in "cold" type, I could not but admire the man's courage in sticking to his guns. And I suspect he had laid hold of a great truth which he could not quite swing—as who could?—and shall watch this case with new interest to see if public opinion (which somehow we dissociate from the influence of God's Spirit) does not compel the court to do justice in spite of all.

I suppose there must have been a sermon, but I cannot remember anything about it. I had enough to think of in meditating on the notice! I wonder how often this is the case!

On returning to the hotel I went into the smoking-room for a final pipe. There were three other men there, evidently "gentry"—you know the type and also the oppressive silence of such places. One would have supposed that no one of them had ever seen the other! For a long time no one spoke. Finally one of them said:

"That was an extraordinary remark of the parson's this morning, asking the congregation to ask in their prayers that the French judges might be led to a right judgment, when many of us knew they had already rendered their decision!"

The silence which followed was so long that I thought the others did not wish to be drawn into a discussion on such a subject. But I was mistaken. One of them, when he "got good and ready," as they used to say in the part of the country I know best, expressed himself as follows:

"It was worse than futile, it was highly improper. I felt incensed! I should never dream of praying for the damned scoundrels—I should consider it almost blasphemous."

Another long silence, and then he continued: "Moreover, I resent any attempt on the part of a parson to dictate to me what I should or should not pray for. I consider such things entirely private between me and my Maker. His advice was an infringement of personal liberty, and I highly resent it."

As no one spoke for a little space, I had time to rejoice in this exhibition of sturdy Protestant independence, but finally the silent member of the party spoke:

"I am thankful to say," he remarked, as he knocked the ashes out of his pipe, "that I was not present. My wife told me about it, and I said to her: 'My dear, this only illustrates what I have said more than once, that the clergy never intrude into politics without making damn fools of themselves.'"

I fled and sought for Ruth! At length I found her sitting in the drawing-room with three ladies—probably the wives of the smokers. She did not see me, and this is what I heard:

First Lady: "Do you mean to say you like to live in America?"

Ruth: "Yes, very much."

First Lady: "But do you not have a great deal of lynching there?"

Ruth (confusedly): "I am sorry to say we do have a good deal."

Second Lady: "What is lynching?"

First Lady: "Why, if a man is unpopular in a community, the leading people drag him away to a convenient tree and hang him. Sometimes they burn him. Shocking, is it not?"

Second Lady: "It would be shocking as a regular thing, but I confess it seems to me a most admirable custom for certain occasions, and I should be glad if it were brought over with other American inventions that we have found so convenient. Think what it would mean to wake up to-morrow and learn that Lloyd George had been hanged in the night!"

Third Lady (vindictively): "Yes, and better still, the whole Liberal cabinet."

Second Lady: "Oh, that would be more than one could hope for."

First Lady (whose humanitarianism seems to have been poisoned by party politics, but is trying to prevent a Reign of Terror in England): "Surely you would except John Burns?"

Third Lady: "Perhaps I should. I sometimes think that he has really repented, and that now his face is set toward the light."

At that moment Ruth turned and caught my eye. She followed me out of the room and, though choking with laughter, said: "I would give a good deal if you had not overheard that conversation!"

"Wouldn't have missed it for worlds," I replied. "I have another picture to hang beside it, and I shall call them 'Church and State!'"

XXXII

THE CHAPLAIN TO THE QUEEN

Our journey led us now to Chester, whence we started on a little trip through Northern Wales. I was not very keen for it, for I feared it might prove too "post-cardy!" But it did not.

If your memory fails you, you may turn again to your "Baedeker," for I do not intend to bore you with descriptions of scenery.

At Betts-y-Coed we stopped at the "Waterloo," and took as many photos of the brawling brook as Mr. Pecksniff's pupils made elevations of Salisbury Cathedral.

But far more interesting to me than any landscape was the porter of the hotel—John. You recall Oliver Wendell Holmes's description of the "Two Voices"—if not look it up in your "Autocrat," mine is in the trunk at Chester. One of these voices, I remember, was that of a German chambermaid in a hotel at Buffalo, and the other—I have forgotten where! Well, John's voice is more beautiful than theirs, I am sure. Indeed, I think it the most beautiful speaking voice I have ever heard—as more musical than the English voice than that is more musical than the Philadelphian's—at which you never tire of girding! The timbre is exquisite, and there is a caressing quality in it which belongs to the Celt alone. Motorists, dusty, tired, hungry, and cross drove up hour after hour, and John's greeting was as comfortable as a warm bath. And when I say bath, I mean a wallow in a tub and not a wash in a tin basin—but I forgot. Ruth asked me not to mention "baths" again until we passed Sandy Hook. I do not know why. Perhaps you do?

What is it makes the Celt so much more lovable than the Saxon? Some of their qualities are not sterling. Some of them are not quite honest in small matters, and their standard of truth is not ours. They used to tell us in the seminary that the elder brother in the parable stood for the Jew, and the prodigal for the Gentile. Why does not some man who does not wish to be a bishop or to go to the General Convention, say that they are types of the Saxon and the Celt? It has the advantage of a "modern instance," and is probably quite as true!

At any rate, it is the Celt who is lovable, though the Saxon may be admirable. Well, perhaps that means that the Saxon has arrived, and that the future belongs to the Celt. This, at any rate, is my feeling as I think of the Welsh. Perhaps my feelings may undergo a change when I cross to Ireland! In the meantime, I am sure the Welshman would object to be called a prodigal, as who would not!

The average American returns from England declaring that the climate is wretched, and I have often shared that opinion myself, but, after all, where can one enjoy the twilight as in the British Isles? We do not know what it means, at home. But here from eight to ten in the evening is the most enjoyable part of the day. We were sitting in the garden of the hotel in this pleasant time, I smoking and Ruth thinking—I wonder of what? There was a far-away look in her eyes—when a man came out of the dining-room and settled himself in one of the basket chairs on the lawn, not far from us and, drawing out a dainty case, lit a small cigar, whose aroma floated to us. I glanced at him indifferently, but when Ruth said, "That is an interesting face," looked at him more carefully. He was evidently a clergyman, but his dress was not that of the conventional parson, with the rigid "dog collar." He wore a waistcoat which buttoned to the throat, but was open enough to show a lawn cravat and a shirt of fine linen, which softened his somewhat formal costume. He looked not unlike the portrait of Dean Stanley which hangs in your study, and evidently belonged to the same period or a little later. His face showed breeding and was one that would attract attention. It lacked, however, the high intelligence of Stanley, being rather weak—indeed almost self-indulgent—in a refined way. Suddenly I recalled him. It was the Rev. Henry Waitland, rector of a fashionable West-end "Chapel of Ease." I had last seen him when I was in college, at one of John Ropes's Sunday dinners. I remembered that I had been told that he was a well-known man in London, a friend of Ellen Terry's and other celebrities. Indeed, he had the reputation of being more interested in the drama than in divinity! I thought it might please Ruth to meet him, so I strolled over and introduced myself, reminding him of our last meeting.

He was polite, but not enthusiastic. Indeed I was reminded of the remark of the "con man" on the steamer! However, when he caught a glimpse of Ruth, and learned she was my wife, he seemed to think better of us, and asked to be presented.

When we had talked a little about Boston and he found that Ruth knew the right people, he thawed out and began to talk about London and the distinguished people he had known. It was most interesting to hear about the people one knew from books and get the impressions of an eye-witness.

Ruth asked him what a "Queen's chaplain" was? He laughed and said it was a man who had to leave his own congregation and go to Windsor to preach before the Queen whenever "commanded." Ruth remarked that she should think that would be a bore. But he said it was an honor. This sounded like a snub, but was evidently intended only as a statement of fact.

"Still," he added, "I will not deny that it is sometimes inconvenient. For instance: A few years ago I was summoned to preach the Easter sermon before her Majesty, and would much have preferred to stop at home for that day. However, I went to Windsor, and found that my old friend Ponsonby was to take the service, but as I was to preach he suggested that I read the gospel. But imagine my surprise when, instead of saying the collect for Easter, he said a collect which for the life of me I could not recall, or rather could not tell to what Sunday it belonged! You may imagine my embarrassment! I said to myself: 'Whatever shall I do? Shall I read the Gospel for Easter, or shall I match Ponsonby?' It seemed the decent thing to stand by him, but then I said to myself, 'How can I match Ponsonby, when I don't know this minute what Epistle he is now reading?' And then I said to myself: 'You have nothing to do with Ponsonby. You have been commanded to preach before her Majesty on Easter Day, and your business is to read the service appointed for that day!' And that is what I did.

"After service the Queen sent for me, and after saying a few pleasant things, added: 'I was both astonished and annoyed that Mr. Ponsonby should not have read the Collect for Easter.' I didn't want to be unfair to Ponsonby, but I said: 'You may imagine my feeling, ma'am, when I heard a collect for I did not know what day, and though I said to myself "Shall I match Ponsonby?" I did think it best to read the collect appointed for the day.'

"'You were quite right,' said the Queen, 'and I shal1 tell Mr. Ponsonby how much I dislike any deviation from the appointed service.'

"So you see," he added, "that honors have their burdens."

Now I ask you, has Trollope any clerical story to equal this?

XXXIII

THE RETIRED COLONEL

We took many lovely drives, using Betts-y-Coed as a centre, but as you have done it all on foot you will not want to listen to my raptures, so I will again tell you about the people I met.

I had not cared to go to Llandidno, for it is the paradise of trippers, but John the porter told me we ought not to miss it, so thither we went. The sands were a sight never to be forgotten. Hundreds of children were on the beach, the little ones laboriously building houses, forts, and even towns—all of which the lapping sea soon licked up. "Vanity of vanities," saith the preacher. But the preacher knew nothing of children, else he would have said they were the only wise ones. Their play is not "vanity," it is when men lose the sense of proportion, and act as if things "seen" are eternal, that vanity eats out the heart. These children were wise. They knew their labor was but for a moment, and therefore did not weep, but rather laughed, when the tongue of the sea touched their work and it was gone. However you do not care to hear me moralize!

Surely no more beautiful children can be found in the world than these English children. They may lack the vivacity of French and American children, but, on the other hand, they are free from the self-consciousness of the one and the febrile nervousness of the other. They are superb little animals, which is what a child ought to be. Those that I saw on the sands—and I suppose it is generally true—had the supreme animal virtue, which is obedience. The babies obeyed the nurses, the "middle-sized bears" obeyed the "big bears," and all obeyed—not as with us—the mother, but the father. For it is the man who is the supreme court in England. One never hears the familiar "Well, ask your mother!" And the result is a well-organized feudal society, in which there is far more happiness than in many of the so-called democratic, but really anarchistic, families that you and I could name. In short, the family is a microcosm of that larger life in which, some day, the children are to take their places.

When I imparted these reflections to Ruth, she said: "You have missed the best."

"And what might that be, Madame Philosopher?" said I.

"If you had not set up to be a philosopher, yourself," she pertly remarked, "you would have seen the obvious, which so many philosophers overlook. It is the hair and the eyes of these children that makes them so beautiful. Did you ever see such hair as these girls have? It floats in the air like the corn-silk on an Indiana farm! And look at the eyes of the boys; they are not blue as we count blueness, but real blue, like the delphinium. I wonder if the English reputation for truthfulness above other nations is not in part due to the prevailing blue eyes? Who could doubt anything that angel were to say?"

I looked at the "angel" in question, and laughed heartily at this attempt to imitate Taine!

The people on the sands were not trippers. Those hung round the shops and the booths, where, for a penny, one might take a shy at "Aunt Sally." Or, if they came to the sands at all, gathered in shrieking groups about the "niggers," men blacked up, indeed, but whose yellow hair and blue eyes made disguise as impossible as did their cockney accent. Why is it, I wonder, that all people think they can imitate negroes? I once saw a minstrel show given by Chinamen, and, I assure you, it was scarcely more grotesque than these "niggers" on the sands.

No, my friends were not such as these. They were what Matthew Arnold, in his supercilious way, called "Philistines." But I miss my guess if, should a great crisis arise, the "culture" of England will not be saved, if saved it is, by these same Philistines, even as David of old was saved by the bearers of the name from the tyranny of Saul! "The submerged tenth," in England, as elsewhere, is green or rotten; the upper classes are over-ripe; it is the great middle class, without charm or culture, which will show what England's heart is, when the great struggle comes.

"But," you will say, "what struggle? Only a little while ago you were writing that you thought all this talk about war was nothing but what you elegantly called 'fluff,' and now you write as if an ultimatum from one of the great powers was imminent. What has happened to change your tune?"

In reply, I can only say "Nothing tangible." But there is a tension which one comes gradually to feel. For instance, the German contempt and hatred of England is too well known to call for comment. It is like what my father told me our Southern friends felt about the North in the days before the outbreak of war, and which he felt had as much to do with secession as did slavery. But few people with us appreciate the feeling in England toward the Germans. Business men are exasperated by Germany's expanding trade—especially in regard to trade-marks—the statesmen, even of the Liberal school, are anxious about the naval activities across the North Sea. But more significant still is the fact that some of the "best-selling" novels and most popular plays are picturing the invasion of England by Germany. This, of course, appeals most strongly to the Jingoes, but even such a respectable—if semi-chauvinistic—paper as the Spectator is solemnly discussing an "amicable" division of the "backward" world—including Brazil, to which, said the writer—it was a leading article—"we should have no objection." Shades of Monroe! And yet, while they do not seem to think we should have any voice in the partition of the world, they are apparently convinced that we must feel about the mother country as Canada does. The truth is, the people of England have never recognized the independence of the United States! That is to say, they cannot believe that we do not regret the Revolution as sincerely as they now do, and that, were it possible, we should be glad to enter into a closer political association with them. In other words, while the fact of our independence must be assumed by the two governments, our sentiments must be colonial!

A few days ago I was talking with a retired colonel, who is convinced that war may break out any day, and he said to me: "I suppose if the old country had her back to the wall you would come to her help?"

I answered: "I do not think you could count on it. It would depend a good deal on the cause of the quarrel. There was a strong feeling against England during the Boer War, and there are thousands of Americans of pure British stock who do not think that Ireland has had a fair deal."

He looked at me for a moment as if he could not credit his ears, and then simply said: "My G—d!"

Had I known how deeply it would wound him, I would not have spoken. Certainly the thought of war between us and England is too horrible to put into words, and I dare say if there were a possibility of England's being crushed by a world power the superficial differences would be swept away like the sand-forts of the children, and deep would call to deep as it was recognized that the two peoples share a common ideal, and that it must be defended for the good of mankind. You know how I feel about war, yet I confess that should there be a righteous war in which England and America fought side by side it might not only remove the petty misunderstandings of the past but also lead to an abiding peace in the future. If only England could see that the Irish question is an American question!

Meanwhile, I wish the Times would let Germany alone, and English travellers let us alone for a while!

Dr. Weir Mitchell once told me that he had a patient—a policeman from somewhere in the Jerseys—Newark, I think—who was a victim of an idée fixe. He asked him if he had ever been bitten by a mosquito? The man, with a wan smile, said: "What do you think?"

"Very good," said Dr. Mitchell. "When you let it alone it soon ceased to trouble you, but if you scratched it it festered, and you had a hard time. You must quit scratching this thought!"

But what was the poor fellow to do if every passer-by scratched it?

XXXIV

A PROBLEM IN CASUISTRY

Well, we now have the Celt with a vengeance! Cork is the most detestable place I ever saw. Such drunkenness, filth, and squalor I never dreamed possible outside of China! Ardent Home Ruler as I am, I can now understand the Ulsterman's fear and hatred of a rule that might turn Belfast into such a dunghill! You will say, and no doubt you are right, that this shows a lack of faith, and that thrift drives out filth. But sometimes it works the other way. At any rate, one cannot wonder that the Ulsterman should think that not faith like a mustard-seed, but like a mountain, would be needed to enable a man to believe that Protestant Ulster can be benefited by an alliance with Dublin and Cork. However, this is supposed to be the chronicle of a car and not a new treatise on the Irish Question.

When we were at Chester I bought a "slicker," which the salesman called a "shirt," and by that name it has gone between us ever since. As you may fancy, it has proved a useful article when I tell you that here, "The rain it raineth every day," not all the time, of course, but when one least expects it. The very sun is wet! But when it shines the landscape has the same sweet expression that one sees on the face of a dear little girl who has shed a few tears and is again smiling.

The morning we left Killarney it was not raining like that, but coming down in torrents. Indeed we were the only travellers who faced the storm. A good part of the company assembled on the porch to see us start. The hood was up, so that Ruth could not see me as I went to the rear of the motor to see if the chains were tight, but, ever solicitous of my welfare, she called out in an agonized tone: "John, have you got your shirt on?"

To which I replied: "I am not sure. I slept in it, but whether I put it on again after my bath, I can't remember!"

You never saw a crowd melt away so suddenly! One lady ejaculated "Fancy!" and one man laughed and waited to wave us farewell. He, I had been told, was a duke. I do not know if it were true. In Ireland one is never quite sure what is true. And, what is worse, or better, if you feel that way, I am unable to tell a duke from the commonalty!

Ruth says there is nothing funny in this story, and that I acted as if I lived on Second Avenue! Well, I can't tell. It made a duke laugh—if he were a duke—and that is no small feat!

The atmosphere soon showed the Celtic temperament. Or is it the other way about, and is temperament a natural reaction to atmosphere? At any rate the sun soon shone fair and warm, and the conditions for motoring would have been perfect had the roads been better. Unfortunately not only is the surface bad, but the roads are very narrow—a new danger—of which we were soon to have experience.

We were running along at a fair gait—Ruth says racing!—when suddenly, at a turn in the road I found myself under the feet of a team of horses, which loomed up like elephants. It was too late to turn, so I acted automatically, certainly without conscious volition, and threw the car into a hedge. It was a stout one, and the car rose like a hunter and came to rest on the top, which held it! No, this is not an "Irish" story, only a story of Ireland.

A gentleman was walking across the field and ran to our assistance. Gallant Irishman that he was he asked no questions, but assisted Ruth to descend. She was deathly pale, but, I am proud to say, neither screamed nor indeed spoke. Some laborers gathered and helped to drag the car back onto the road, none the worse, so far as I could see, for its strange adventure, save for a few scratches.

I now turned my attention to the driver of the cart, who all this time had remained upon his high perch, gazing at our efforts like a god upon Olympus, "careless of mankind."

"My friend," I began, in as quiet a voice as I could control, "that came near being a nasty accident."

"It did that, your honor."

"You came near having both those horses killed."

"That would have cost your honor a pretty penny, for the likes of them can't be found in the county. Sure the gentleman standin' there will tell you they took the first prize at Dublin not a year ago."

"Well, you are pretty cool about it. The lady might have been killed, too."

"That would have been a pity, for it's a sweet face she has. I was wondering she'd risk her life with you."

"Risk her life with me! Why, you impudent fellow," I cried, being by this time thoroughly angry, "the fault was all yours. You were on the wrong side of the road."

"Well, as for that, your honor," replied this incorrigible fellow, "this road's that narrer, it ain't properly got two sides!"

I could think of nothing better to say than that I would report him to the police in the next town, and took the name of the owner of the cart, which was painted in large letters on the side. I did stop and report the matter to a policeman who was directing the traffic in a town near by. He was sympathetic, and said:

"I know that man well, and the next time he comes to market, I will represent him to himself!" This was all the satisfaction I got. Indeed, I suspect it is as much as could be expected in Ireland. After all, it was worth something to increase one's stock of phrases. To represent a man to himself is no small feat!

A little later I got from Ruth a new light on Irish veracity—or rather, lack of it. She says it arises from no evil motive, but, on the contrary, from kindness of heart! This, she added, makes it different from any other lying in the world. This moral, or immoral, dictum was called forth by the following: I had lost my way—no uncommon experience—and stopped at a hovel to inquire the way. In answer to my call a veritable giant appeared. I asked if the road we were on would bring us to Blarney Castle? After a moment's hesitation he said it would. Not feeling sure he knew, I asked again if there was any turning I must take? But he said: "No, keep straight on this road and it will bring you there."

There was something in the man's face that led me to think he could not be an ordinary peasant, and therefore I asked him if he lived there?

"I was born here," he replied, rather defiantly. "But I've been living in Australia for the past seven years, and have now come back to see the old people."

I said to myself that, unlike most Irishmen when they migrate, he had not bettered himself. As if he read my thought, as perhaps he did, he added, with a glance at his old and torn clothing: "I've better clothes than these, but why would I be wearing them to shame the neighbors!"

Could Sir Philip Sidney have said anything finer?

"Well," I said, as I started the motor, "when I next come here you'll have Home Rule!"

At that the man's whole face lighted up, and he cried: "Glory be to God, ye're a prophet! What's your name?" When I answered "Dobson," without a moment's hesitation he exclaimed: "I've heerd of you!"

I laughed and said: "I see you've kissed the Blarney stone yourself."

But there was no jocular reply. The thing was too serious for that. The man was inflamed. Why cannot the English appreciate that the love of nationality is inextinguishable?

The rain began again and fell persistently and we slithered on our way. It's a long lane that has no turning, and this was one, though it did nothing but turn. Always it was leading to the right, though I felt it should lead straight on or else bear to the left.

Finally we came to a highway that somehow looked familiar, and before we had gone a mile farther, I found that we were where we had started from an hour before! There was the wretched hovel where the giant dwelt, and a vigorous shout brought him to the door.

"See here, my friend," I cried, "what did you mean by telling me that that road would lead to Blarney Castle? I have kept on it all the time, and it has brought me back here."

"Now ain't that a shame? I never thought such a thing would happen to you. Now I'll tell you God's truth. You was clean out of your way when you was last here. You ought to have left the road you are on this minute as much as seven miles back. And when you asked me if yonder road would lead to Blarney Castle, and I looked at the lovely face of the lady, and she lookin' tired, too, I hadn't the heart to tell you you must turn back. I thought when you got on this road again ye would have turned the other way, and not have lost so much anyway. And how was I to know you wouldn't meet a man who wouldn't mind telling bad news, and who would set you on your way? But as for me, I hadn't the heart to do it!"

And that's what Ruth calls "lying from a kind heart!" A cynic might suggest that the "lovely lady" had something to do with this charitable if immoral dictum!

Well, there was nothing to do but to turn back and drive for the third time over a road I had come to hate. About seven miles back we found the proper turning, and, after much splashing, came to Blarney Castle.

I did not kiss the stone, for I had no desire to get a water-spout down the back of my neck by leaning out of the window—as you may remember one must do—to perform the feat. Indeed I thought there was force in Lord Chesterfield's advice to his son, when he said he intended to go down into a coal-mine:

"What for?" asked the noble lord.

"Why, to say I have been down one!"

"Why not say it?" he replied.

Indeed I am inclined to think that is what a good many people have done at Blarney!

XXXV

A DAY OF TROUBLE AND DISTRESS

Whether because I did not kiss the Blarney stone, or for some other reason, the next day was one of trouble and distress. Indeed, it came near being our last day. For several days I had noticed that the self-starter was not working well. Several times it had failed to catch and required a good deal of coaxing. I could not understand it, for it was not yet three weeks since I had filled the batteries with water, which, I had been told, was all that was necessary to insure its functioning. I thought that possibly the damp weather had affected the electrical current, and could only hope that with clearing weather there would be no further trouble. But at the next stop the little engine refused to act at all, and I had to unpack the handle and crank, which is an exercise good for neither the back nor the temper!

A little later we came to a road which branched from the highway to the left, and Ruth, who had charge of the map, called out: "To the right." I leave it to you: would not you have thought that meant to turn somewhere? If not, why not say: "Keep straight on." At any rate, I turned sharp into the left-hand road, only to find that we were in a cul-de-sac. Turning was impossible, so I kept on, wondering why Ruth, who must have known how tired I was, should have driven me into such a place!

Finally, we came to a gate, and as I did not dare leave the car lest it stall—we were on an incline which tipped the car back and made cranking difficult—I asked Ruth to get out and open the gate. I saw that just beyond there was a place where, with great care the car might be turned, but where the chances of stalling were great. Still, I thought, if I could keep the car going I might manage it. I called to Ruth not to get in and began slowly to turn. The road was just the width of the wheels, with a bog on each side. Looking up I saw a huge dog lying in the way. It was as ugly a looking brute as one would wish to see, even if it was chained. I blew the horn. It did not stir. Then, to my horror, I saw Ruth, who is more afraid of a dog than I am of a cat, which is saying a good deal, seize the brute by the tail and begin to drag it out of the way! I turned sick with terror, and, under the nervous strain, did what I have not done since I was in college—swore. "Damnation," I cried, "turn that dog loose!" And Ruth, equally excited, answered in a fine frenzy: "I would pull him if he were a mad bull!"

Fortunately, the dog made no resistance, and the car was safely turned. Had it stalled, I do not know what I should have done, for I was "all in."

One would have thought this was enough for one day, but worse was yet to come. About an hour later we came to a railway crossing. All the level crossings are not on Long Island! There are several in Ireland! This one was kept by a woman, with, I think, the saddest face I ever saw. She opened the gate and thanked me for the six-pence I handed her, but neither smiled nor spoke.

We passed onto the track and, probably because I was so tired and was driving carelessly, we stalled. I was about to get out to crank when the woman appeared at my side, and said, so quietly that Ruth could not hear: "It would maybe be better if the lady got out. The Dublin express is due round the curve at any minute!" Could anything have been more considerate? Had she screamed, I fear I should have been so unnerved that we should have been lost.

At that moment the engine of the approaching train gave a shriek and I could feel the rails vibrate. My blood turned to water. We were pinned under the hood, and escape seemed impossible. Almost without knowing what I was doing, I stamped on the pedal of the self-starter, and—I say it reverently—by the mercy of God it caught, and we slid off the track as the express thundered by!

The rushing wind nearly blew us out of the motor. There could not have been a yard between us and the train. I looked at Ruth. She was as pale as death, but spoke no word. You may be sure I did not forget a thank-offering to the poor gatekeeper, who was white with terror.

As we went on our way I said to myself: "If ever we reach an inn in safety, I will give the car away. The impudent driver who said he wondered Ruth would risk her life with me was right."

But it was long before we reached an inn, for I lost my way! This time it was not Ruth's fault. She was probably so shaken that she could not see the way; at any rate she gave me the wrong road, and we wandered over the hills until we were nearly distracted. When we reached Ross late at night you may believe neither of us had much appetite for the greasy supper which was set before us.

Suddenly, without a word of warning, Ruth put her head down on the table and burst into tears! It was so unlike her that I was dreadfully frightened. I got her to bed and put a hot-water bottle to her feet, and sat by her till she was more quiet, and then went outside in the rain to smoke a pipe, and "represent myself to myself." When I had flagellated myself for all my ill temper, and returned thanks for the mercies of the day, I too went to bed, but not to sleep for many an hour. When at last I did fall asleep, it was only to dream of a huge dog, rushing down a railroad track, whistling like a locomotive and breathing streams of fire from his mouth. It doesn't take a Freud to interpret that dream!

In spite of my troubled night, or perhaps in consequence of it, I woke early. The sun was streaming into my bedroom as if to say: "Sluggard, arise. I was only fooling yesterday when I pretended that Ireland had a rainy climate. To-day is like Italy, and even the dirty streets of Ross are beautiful!"

My mind was quickly made up, and as soon as I was dressed I made my way to the station and found that I could ship the motor to Dublin on a flat car and that it would be delivered to us there the next morning. So I returned to the garage and drove to the station, feeling not unlike Tartarin, when he sold the chameau for a ticket in the diligence, which, Daudet remarks, is not a bad use to make of a camel!

Ruth was more relieved, I am sure, than she cared to show, when she learned that she might have a quiet morning in bed and take the train for Dublin in the afternoon.

As we entered the dining-room of the Shelburne that evening, whom should we meet but the Hodges? This was a joy to Ruth, who, I knew, would find rest in telling her story to her sympathetic friend Anne, and a satisfaction to me, for I knew there was nothing about motors hid from her husband, the professor. Indeed, it was he who had advised me to buy a Frontenac, though he himself is "a man who owns one," and was driving his big Packard, with comfort and pride.

When he had recovered from his hilarity over my experiences, he said that next morning we would look over the car and find the trouble with the self-starter, while Ruth and Anne were shopping for linen and laces.

The car was ready for us when we arrived at the Goods station, next morning, and we drove to the garage for a consultation.

There seemed to be nothing wrong with the engine, nor with the connections, but, when we examined the batteries, we found that they had run down! I explained that I had filled them myself not two weeks ago, but when the professor saw that I had failed to note the date on the little card for that purpose, it was evident that he was sceptical. Well, there was nothing more to do but to have the batteries charged again, and as the man of the garage seemed to be a capable fellow, I hoped I should have no more trouble.

We spent two pleasant days in Dublin, saw where Sir Frederick Cavendish had been murdered—this is not mentioned as one of the pleasures! And then went to the cathedral and thought of the savage old dean whom Thackeray has so wonderfully described—perhaps the best of all his portraits—then to Trinity College, where I confess, Charles O'Malley was more real to me than some of the scholars who have made illustrious that ancient seat of learning.

The professor is not "sound" on Irish politics, but when we went to Dublin Castle and saw some of the young men whom England sends to govern the most imaginative people on earth, even he had to admit that things might be improved! Supercilious good manners in an atmosphere of boredom is not the best means for impressing the Irish with the intelligence, nor even with the justice, of England.

The weather was again "set fair," so that we left Ireland in a blaze of glory. The Hodges were on their way to the Giant's Causeway. But when I told them they would find the roads bad, the professor remarked that no doubt all the roads were bad in the south, and that when Home Rule went into effect those of the north would be equally so, but that while the Union Jack floated over Belfast, and the Protestant religion was still a power, he had no fear! So we parted—perhaps it was time!

We crossed to Hollyhead, and, the car running like a witch, it was not long before we reached the Waterloo, where John greeted us as if he had not thought of any one else since we were last there!