Part 15 (1/2)
”When he that day with th' waggon went, He little thought his gla.s.s was spent; But had he kept his Plough in Hand, He might have longer till'd the Land.”
[Sidenote: _A Modern Phaethon._]
One could not expect that the moral inculcated here would find favor with our Americans. How could the Mighty Republic ever have been brought to its present height and embraced the majority of all English-speaking people in the world, if her sons had not been ambitious and changed from one occupation to another? ”Stick to your last” is only fit for monarchical countries, where people believe in cla.s.ses. This young man was of the right sort and should have a verse of praise on his tombstone instead of this one which reflects upon him. One of the party declared that the man must have been the best workman on the place, and that in America he would soon have owned the acres he ploughed instead of ploughing here for some landlord who spent the resources of the land in London or on the continent. The poetess of the party was commissioned to provide a subst.i.tute for the obnoxious verse which should applaud the act of this modern Phaethon who _would_ try to drive the wagon, after he had learned all he could about ploughing. We were driving homeward, and as the discussion ended in the manner aforesaid, a sweet voice broke forth:
”I winna hae the laddie that drives the cart and ploo, Although he may be tender, although he may be true; But I'll hae the laddie that has my heart betrayed, The bonnie shepherd laddie that wears the crook and plaid.”
The Charioteers gave it the swelling chorus:
”For he's aye true to his la.s.sie, Aye true to his la.s.sie.
Aye true to me.”
Who knows but the refusal of some rural beauty like her of the song to have the laddie that ”ca'd the ploo” may have stirred our unfortunate youth to a change of occupation? The ”s.e.x” is at the bottom of most of man's misfortunes (and blessings too, let it be noted) and why not of this lamentable end of the would-be wagoner!
The day was so warm, and our next stage to Buxton being not very long (twenty-six miles), we decided to spend the day at Edensor and take an evening drive. We met here, enjoying their honeymoon, a bride and groom who were well known to our Wolverhampton delegation, and how do you suppose they were travelling? Not in the ordinary mode, I a.s.sure you. I mention this incident that some of my charming young lady friends, who give me so much pleasure riding with me, may make a note of it. They were doing beautiful Derbys.h.i.+re on horseback! It was delightful to see them start off in this way. I became interested in the bride, who must be no ordinary woman to think of this plan; she told me it was proving a wonderful success; and the happy young fellow intimated to me, in a kind of confidential way, that her novel idea was the finest one he had ever been a party to. I asked him if he could honestly recommend it, and he boldly said he could. We must think over this.
The evening ride was one of our pleasantest experiences. How entrancing England is after a warm day, when everything seems to rejoice in the hours of peace, succeeding the suns.h.i.+ne which forces growth!
”When the heart-sick earth Turns her broad back upon the gaudy sun, And stoops her weary forehead to the night To struggle with her sorrow all alone, The moon, that patient sufferer, pale with pain, Presses her cold lips on her sister's brow Till she is calm.”
[Sidenote: _Buxton._]
It is thus the earth appeared to me as we drove along; it was resting after its labors of the sunny day. The night was spent at Buxton, that famous spa, which has been the resort of health-seekers for more than a thousand years, for it was well known to the Romans and probably to their predecessors. We saw many invalids there drinking the waters, which are chiefly chalybeate; but I take it, as is usual with such places, the change of air and scene, of thought and effort, and, with most, change of diet and freedom from excess, count for ninety-nine points, and the waters, may be, for one. But it is of no consequence what does it, so it is done, therefore Buxton continues to flourish.
How wise a physician was he who cured the Great Mogul when all other remedies had failed! The miraculous Tree of Life was upon a mountain five miles from the palace, and had to be visited daily, in the early morning, by the sufferer, who was required to repeat an incantation under its boughs. The words literally translated were no doubt something like this: ”Pray away, you old fool! but it's the walk that does it.”
You need not laugh. This put into such Latin as the schools delight in might be made to sound frightful to the Mogul ”and scare him good,” as the negro exhorters deem to be essential for spiritual recovery.
Our hotel was a magnificent ”limited company” affair. The start next morning was a sight, in the first real downpour in dead earnest we had experienced. The sky was dark--not one tiny ray of light to give us the slightest hope of change; the barometer low and still falling. Just such a morning as might have begun the flood. Clearly we were in for it; nevertheless, at the appointed hour the Gay Charioteers, arrayed in their waterproofs, with the good hats and bonnets all inside the coach, pa.s.sed through the crowds of guests who lined the hall, wondering at these mad Americans, and took their accustomed seats with an alacrity that showed they considered the weather ”perfectly lovely.”
There are two miles of steep ascent as we leave the town, and a few of us decided to walk, two of the ladies among the number. Those who started upon the coach were all right; the pedestrians, however, found themselves far from dry when the top was reached--feet and knees were wet. By noon the rain had ceased, and we stopped at a little inn, where fires were made, our ”reserve” clothing brought into use, and our wet clothes dried, and we were as happy as larks when we sat down to luncheon. Is not that a wise test which Thackeray puts into the mouth of one of his waiters: ”Oh, I knew he was a gentleman, he was so easily pleased!” Well, our host and hostess at that little inn, who were taken so by surprise when a four-in-hand stopped at the door, said something like this about the American ladies and gentlemen as they left. Why not? Nothing comes amiss to the Gay Charioteers, and so on we go to Manchester, getting once more into the grim, smoky regions of manufacturing enterprise.
MANCHESTER, July 6.
[Sidenote: _Manchester._]
Mine host of The Queen's takes the prize for the one best ”swell” dinner enjoyed by the party; but then the rain and the moderate luncheon at the little inn, so different from the picnics on flowery banks, may have given it a relish. The Queen's was evidently determined that its American guests should leave with a favorable impression, and so they did.
There was time to visit the Town Hall and walk the princ.i.p.al streets, but all felt an invincible repugnance to large towns. It was not these we had come to see. Let us get away as soon as possible, and out once more to the green fields; we have cotton-mills and warehouses and dirty, smoky manufactories enough and to spare at home. The morning was cloudy, but the rain held off, and we left the hotel amid a great crowd. The police had at last to step in front of the coach and clear the way. The newspapers had announced our arrival and intended departure, and this brought the crowd upon us. Getting into and out of large cities is the most difficult part of our driving, for the Ordnance map is useless there--frequent stoppages and inquiries must be made; but so far we have been fortunate, and our horn keeps opposing vehicles out of our way in narrow streets and in turning corners. We were bound for Anderton Hall, to spend the night with our friend Mr. B----. Luncheon was taken in a queer, old-fas.h.i.+oned inn, where we ate from bare deal tables, and drank home-brewed ale while we sang:
”Let gentlemen fine sit down to their wine, But we will stick to our beer, we will, For we will stick to our beer.”
The number and variety of temperance drinks advertised in England is incredible. Non-alcoholic beverages meet us in flaming advertis.e.m.e.nts at every step--from nervous tonics, phosphated, down to the most startling of all, which, according to the London _Echo_ of June 2d, the Bishop of Exeter advertised when he opened a coffee-house, saying:
”It looks like beer, It smells like beer, It tastes like beer, Yet it is not beer.”
Better if it had been, your reverence, for your new beverage was probably a villanous compound, certain to work more injury than genuine beer. In this country we also try to cheat the devil. I mean our unco good people try it; but we call it ”bitters,” and the worse the whiskey the better the bitters.