Part 2

You have crossed the North Atlantic too often to be bothered with an account of our trip. We ate too much--indeed, I am told the temptation to do so is greater on these boats than on any except those of the French Line--and also we took too little exercise. And yet we seem none the worse for it! Possibly that was due, in my case, to the fact that I slept a great deal, and that when I was not sleeping or eating I lay in my deck-chair and wondered how any one could ever worry! Is it not surprising how the petty worries of life drop overboard at Sandy Hook? This cannot be true, I suppose, of the foolish men who keep in touch with the office by wireless, but it was true of us. Yet one day I was startled by hearing my name called by a page, who ran along the deck with a slip of paper in his hand. Fortunately, it was only a word of greeting from the Stoddards, who were returning on the _France_, and sent us a message of good-will.

I did, however, have certain experiences which were unusual. The first night out I was sitting in the drafty and fearfully decorated smoking-room when a man approached me and asked if I would take a hand at poker. I declined politely but he insisted, urging that it was "only a friendly game, twenty-five cents a point." I again declined, saying I did not play. He returned to his friend and remarked in a loud tone: "De trouble mit men who hafe lifed all der lives in a village is dat ven dey meet a stranger, dey tink he must be a con man."

On Sunday morning we were wakened by the band, which played, beautifully, "Ein Feste Burg." I supposed that would be the only Sunday observance, and was not a little surprised to receive a message from the captain, asking me to hold service in the Lounge. This I did, the full band assisting. There were a number of Americans aboard, and most of them attended. But what surprised me greatly was to notice a number of Jews, several of whom later spoke to me and expressed their satisfaction. They said that they did not know that we used the Old Testament in our service! I asked one of them, a cultivated man, if he attended the synagogue. He shook his head sadly and said, not since he was a boy, unless it were to go to a funeral, and added that this was true of thousands of cultivated Jews. I said it seemed to me a dreadful thing that the race which had given the greatest spiritual gifts to mankind should be losing interest in the highest ideals of life, and asked if it were not possible for them to find in some form of Christianity, which, after all, was an evolution of Judaism, the satisfaction their souls must crave. He looked at me for a moment, and then said bitterly: "If Christians began by treating us as if we were human, perhaps we might be willing to listen to their gospel of brotherhood." I wonder if, instead of a Society for the Conversion of the Jews, we do not need a Society for the Conversion of Christians!

This service was memorable for another reason. For the first time in my life I prayed for the Kaiser. Indeed, it was the first time I had ever heard him prayed for! This gave great satisfaction to the German-Americans, who, while they are glad to enjoy the liberty of the Republic, their hearts, without doubt, certainly many of them, are with the Fatherland. They may, some day, become a menace to us should we ever have trouble with Germany. But that is not likely in spite of our experience in Manila Bay! But, indeed, I do not see why we should complain of them when we think of the attitude of the English who make their homes with us. How many Englishmen of the better class do you know who have been naturalized? Not a score, I venture to say. They write letters to the English papers, and sometimes to our own, complaining of the iniquities of Tammany Hall, but do not lift the burden with one of their little fingers.

However, you will have had enough of this! How inevitably we parsons take to preaching when we are not fooling!

We reached Plymouth on a lovely evening and glided into the harbor as quietly as you bring your knockabout to its mooring. I was much impressed by the discipline of the crew. There was neither shouting nor confusion, and the great ship dropped anchor as quietly as a ferry-boat comes into its slip. One thing, however, surprised me. As soon as we entered the harbor a sound of firing was heard, and little water-spouts shot up all over the surface of the water. They were evidently harmless mines being exploded from the batteries on shore. Still I wondered they did not cease while the captain was engaged in such a delicate operation, and it did not seem in keeping with the English sporting spirit. I spoke to one of the officers about it, and he replied, with much dignity: "The English do this each time we enter one of their harbors. It does no harm, and is only a childish way of showing their hatred of our merchant marine, which is their only serious rival. But it is a mistake, as they will some day learn."

Of course there may be no truth in this, and the explosions at that particular time may have been only a coincidence, but it is sad that such bad feeling should exist between these two great nations as to make it possible for such things to be believed. The Germans are talking most foolishly about "Der Tag," but English plays and novels, and even such a paper as the _Spectator_, are helping to sow the seeds of suspicion. That in this day England and Germany will go to war is, I believe, thought possible only by the "retired admirals." But the mere suspicion leads to fear, and that, in turn, might lead to war.

Well, here I am talking politics, which is more tiresome than preaching!

V

THE CAR ARRIVES

On reaching London we found that the freight steamer on which the car had been shipped had not yet arrived. As Ruth was most anxious to see her sister, who lives in Yorkshire, she was persuaded to proceed by train and leave me to bring on the car alone. This was, indeed, a happy solution of a problem which had caused me some anxiety. I was quite ready to risk one valuable life, but did not care to risk two!

The next day I received word that the _Georgic_ had arrived at the Tilbury docks, and that the car was being held "at the risk of the owner." I had been advised to take a chauffeur with me and not to attempt to drive the car into London myself, which advice I followed.

When we arrived at Tilbury, which is about twenty-five miles from London, we found the car, still in its crate, standing on the docks. There were few formalities to be complied with, and a carpenter was soon at work opening the case.

While waiting I fell into conversation with the third officer, who had charge of the unloading of the vessel, and expressed my admiration of the docks, and said I wished we had some equal to them in New York. He admitted they were a fine bit of work, but said that the possibilities of our port were the greatest in the world. "I have often wished," he added, "that I might see that port fifty years hence. You see, it is the only great city in the world that is directly on the sea, and therefore has much the same advantage now that Venice had of old. The East River, being as it were a canal, connecting New York Bay with Long Island Sound, and the Hudson being an estuary of the sea, the largest ships can dock almost in the heart of the city, discharge cargo, then load again and pass out at any tide. Nowhere else is such a thing possible."

I said I was thinking rather of the cleanliness and "smartness" of the docks than of their convenience.

"I grant you," he said, "that we beat you there. But already you are replacing your old wooden docks with concrete, which will last as long as stone. The reason your docks are not so clean as ours is because of the high price of unskilled labor with you. If we had to pay twelve shillings a day to the man who sweeps and tidies up, we should have to have the work done twice a week as you do."

"Well," said I, "that means that we shall never be able to have docks and streets as clean as yours."

"If it did," he replied, "there are better things than neatness. Neatness may imply poverty on the part of labor, and poverty leads to drink and so to the breeding of more poverty."

"Still," I urged, "though neatness may imply poverty, slovenliness shows a lack of self-respect. A city that cannot keep its front door-step clean is a bad neighbor."

He laughed at this homely illustration but said the solution of the problem must be found in another way. "It is all very well to talk of the 'dignity' of labor, but where is the dignity in sweeping up dung?--perhaps taking up the last of it in one's hands. No man does it willingly, he is driven to it by necessity."

I quoted:

"Are these things necessities? Then let us meet them like necessities."

"You may be surprised to learn that a sailor knows his Shakespeare, but I read a play every voyage, and so I recognize that great speech of the king. But the question is are these things necessities? I say no. Machinery must be, and I believe will be, invented to do the work which no self-respecting man ought to be asked to do habitually. Some day we shall have great vacuum cleaners to do such work, and then you will have your docks and streets as clean as ours, and at half the price."

I should like to have had more talk with this intelligent young officer, but the car was now ready, so the chauffeur and I took our places on the front seat.

At that moment a wretched specimen of the casual laborer appeared, and, touching his greasy cap, inquired: "Shall I wind her up, Guv'ner?" I nodded and he stooped down to find the handle. Then he looked up with a grin, remarking: "You 'ave fergot the 'andle, sir!" Meanwhile I had touched the self-starter; the little electric engine had begun to hum, there was a click and the car glided away. I tossed the poor wretch a shilling, but he was too astonished to say "Thank you." He simply exclaimed, in a dazed way, "Well, I'm damned!" There was a cheer from the bystanders, and we slipped through the gate and turned toward London.

The chauffeur took the wheel, and of course the talk turned upon cars. He admitted that the American cars were "smart" and wonderfully cheap, but declared that they could not compare with English cars in durability. "They tell me that at the end of a year you American gentlemen turn in your cars, at a great loss, and get a new one in exchange. But an English car will be as good after five years as this will be at the end of one. So, I do not see there is much saved."

I said we found it cheaper to scrap an old machine than to run up a bill for repairs.

He replied: "That may be, because wages are so high, but in the long run the American car is the more expensive."

"But you must remember," I replied, "that every year there are improvements."

But he shrewdly remarked: "There are changes; I do not know that they are always improvements."

It was fascinating to watch this skilful driver thread his way through the traffic; so well did he manage that in a much shorter time than I had supposed would be possible, we reached the garage, in a street not far from Leicester Square.

There were things enough still to do to occupy the rest of the day--the grease, with which the brass work had been smeared to protect it _en route_, removed, the car cleaned and polished, and the batteries filled with distilled water, which could be obtained only from a "chemist," and all valves and bolts tested. Then there were last purchases to be made, to insure comfort in a climate in which, even in summer, the American shivers like a Mexican hairless dog! So it was not till the next afternoon that, the chauffeur still driving, we started on our great adventure.

VI

THE GREAT NORTH ROAD

I had supposed we should go north at once, instead of which the driver headed west through Regent Park, thus avoiding the narrow and crowded thoroughfares of East London, which stretch far to the north. Then, by by-ways which a stranger could never have found, we came to Hatfield, where I had planned to spend the night, and there the chauffeur left me. I confess that when I parted with him I felt as I have heard the sick say they felt when the nurse departed--both weak and lonely!

The inn at Hatfield is called the "Purple Cow," or by the name of some other zoological curiosity, but was comfortable enough except that its proximity to the tracks of the Great Northern Railway makes it as conducive to sleep as a room on the "L" at home!

There is no garage connected with the inn of uncertain name, but there are vast stables, now, alas, well-nigh empty. The ancient ostler looks with no kindly eye on motors, but he was, I think, more favorably disposed toward me when I showed an interest in his tales of former days, when, so he said, as many as a hundred horses had found bed and fodder at one time under his care. This, of course, was in the good old coaching days, which he could remember as a boy, before railroads had changed the face of England. Indeed this continued, he said, for a long time after that, while gentlemen still travelled in their carriages. But the motor-car had given the _coup de grace_, and in his mind's eye the old man could now see "Ichabod" inscribed across the long, low front of the building which had once echoed to the songs of postboys and the neighing of many steeds. So, when he declined to wash the car, saying he "knew nothing of such things," I could not find it in my heart either to protest or to lessen his tip when I departed. Rather I felt the same sort of sympathy with him which I, a stanch Protestant, felt when I saw in France or Italy, old monks wandering through the aisles of some deserted abbey. From both the glory had departed, and utility can never have the charm of beauty.

I was the only guest at the inn, and instead of ordering a chop, as any one but an American would have done, I foolishly said I should like "dinner." Therefore I was served with soup--enough for a bath--a large fish, and a roast chicken, followed by a huge tart! When I saw the bill I remembered Ruth's prophecy that we should save money by stopping at small inns! There was enough left to feed the inn-keeper's family for a week. Perhaps it did!

After dinner I strolled to the gates of "Hatfield House" and looked up the long avenue, but catching only a glimpse of the hall. There came to my mind certain articles by Godkin, in the _Nation_, in which he had spoken with biting sarcasm of Lord Salisbury, and then I recalled what A.V.G. Allen used to say, that "Salisbury was the typical Englishman." You know what a radical Allen was in theology; yet he was a Tory in English politics. From Salisbury the mind naturally rebounded to Gladstone, the political Liberal but the ecclesiastical reactionary. Such musings led me to ask myself if nature did not arrange our temperaments as a clock-maker does the pendulum of a grandfather clock, of metals with different expansive qualities, lest a man be radical or conservative _à outrance_? Turning such thoughts over in my mind in that dreamy fashion which is so delightful because it calls for no action, I turned back to the inn, "and so to bed."

Next morning the weather was apparently "set fair," and I drove out of the stable-yard in good spirits. Mile after mile I drove sedately on, gaining confidence with each hour. When I had inquired of the dreary ostler what road to take to Yorkshire, he had replied, in surprise, "The north road. There ben't no other, so you can't miss it." Little he knew what I am capable of!

The roads are all so good that it is not as easy as one would suppose to keep to the great highway. There are no "mud roads" branching from the pike, as in Pennsylvania, where the difference is evident at a glance. So, when I had overcome the first nervousness and begun to take notice of the country, glancing first to the right to watch the cattle feeding in the deep meadow, and then to the left where the wheat was almost ready for the harvest, and speculating on the yield as compared with the new land at home, it is not strange that I should have diverged from the right way. Indeed it was not alone "the things which are seen" which caused me to err, there was also the "unseen" which filled the mind's eye. For this was not the first time by any means that I had travelled the Great North Road! I had trod it on foot with dear Jeanie Deans, thankful for an occasional "cast in a cart," and by coach with Mr. Squeers, and in the pleasant company of Mr. Pickwick also, if I am not mistaken. Well, the result of all this contemplation of things, "visible and invisible," was that when I finally inquired the way, I found I was more than twenty miles too far to the eastward--not far, indeed, from Cambridge. I found, moreover, that human nature is the same on the country roads of England as at home! For the laborer to whom I spoke showed the same superiority that one notices in those foolish people who get up early in the morning as they greet the late riser! He told me I must retrace my road for some miles to get again on the North road. But as this is a thing I detest, I insisted that by keeping on I should ultimately regain the road I had lost. He reluctantly admitted this might be done, if I kept on as far as Royston. As all places were now the same to me, this is what I decided to do, much to his disappointment I am sure, for he would have liked to see me pay the penalty of my folly.

As you have no doubt mentioned in more than one of your sermons, "Disappointments are often blessings in disguise." This proved to be one of them, for it led me back into an England older than that of Scott or Dickens--even to the England of Fielding!

VII

THE ENGLAND OF FIELDING

Again I was the only guest at the inn which was called, perhaps, "The Dappled Hart," but there was an excellent dinner waiting for any who might stop. There was lamb as tender as one could wish, and peas which had not been withered by transportation, and a cherry tart, over which custard had been poured, which, I fear, came out of a bottle such as the advertisements on the boardings illustrate with a picture of a greedy little girl waiting impatiently to be helped! When I praised the freshness of the peas the young woman, who served me none too graciously, I know not why, unless because I had no chauffeur, said they had been picked in the garden that same morning. This menu, I may say, seldom changed, though sometimes the lamb had grown to mutton, or even changed to some other animal; but, whatever the meat was called, it was invariably excellent, and far better cooked than one would find in a place of the same size at home.

When I had dined, or, as there was no soup, I suppose I should say lunched, I asked if I might smoke. But the uncompromising young woman said "Certainly not," and pointed the way to the bar. This was reached by crossing the paved way which led from the side street to the stables, passing under an archway. The bar proved to be a low, damp room, in which, I think, if one sat long alcohol would become a necessity. There were several small tables arranged for those who wished to be semiprivate, but I noticed that the few customers preferred to lean against the bar and talk to the landlord, much as in the saloons at home. After a casual glance they paid no attention to me, and I sipped my coffee and smoked my pipe in silence.

Then a man entered who seemed to be a stranger, but who evidently knew the Masonic sign, for he soon fell into conversation with them. He was evidently what we call a "drummer," but had none of the jollying manner of the guild as we know it, for there were long pauses in the conversation. Then entered a man who was evidently quite at home, and felt himself to be of some importance. He immediately began to lay down the law on every subject mentioned, to which the others submitted meekly. But not the drummer! He too had his opinions, and was willing to have them known, and, encouraged by the landlord, plucked up spirit and began to give as well as take. I now anticipated some interesting talk, and was not disappointed. The dominating man had ordered whiskey and soda, or rather it had been prepared by the landlord as if he were familiar with his customer's taste. As he slowly sipped it he looked at me, as much as to say: "My friend, I shall make short work of you when I am ready." But I was saved by the drummer. He began by explaining some of the inconveniences to which a stranger, such as he, is subjected in a strange town, and rashly suggested that provincial England would be improved by the establishment of places of "Convenience," such as every traveller on the Continent is familiar with.

This is what the village doctor--for such I now learned he was--was waiting for. He took high moral ground and proved to his own satisfaction--and I think carried the house with him--that this would be the beginning of the end of English morality. "Did the gentleman mean to suggest that England should become as France?"

The gentleman "meant to suggest nothing of the sort," and rather cleverly shifted the ground from the moral to the physical. But here, of course the doctor was too much for him, remarking with a complacent smile: "I think I may be allowed to speak with a little authority on that aspect of the question, being a medical man myself."