Part 11

This incident gave rise to a discussion upon the coach one day as to the influence of faith in one's ability to do certain things affecting the result. The man who goes in to win may win: the one who goes in to lose can't win. So far all were agreed. Some of our party were disposed to lament the lack of faith which characterizes this age. "There are no Abrahams now-a-days," said one. "What would you do, Tom, if you should receive a message commanding you to offer up your son upon the altar?" "Well," said Tom, who was a telegraph operator in his early days, "I think I should first ask to have that message repeated." All right. So would we all of us. Still there is a wide province for faith. If it does not exactly remove mountains now a days, it at least enables us to tunnel them, which is much the same thing as far as practical results are concerned.

[Sidenote: _English Hospitality._]

We can tell you nothing of the hotels of Wolverhampton, but the fourteen of us can highly recommend certain quarters where it was our rare privilege to be honored guests. Whether the English eat and drink more than the Americans may be a debatable question, but they certainly do so oftener. The young ladies quartered at Newbridge reported this the only bar to perfect happiness; they never wanted to leave the garden for meals nor to remain so long at table. As the Prima Donna reported, they "just sound a gong and _spring_ luncheons and teas and suppers on you." The supper is an English institution, even more sacred than the throne, and destined to outlive it. You cannot escape it, and to tell the truth, after a little you have no wish to do so. There is much enjoyment at supper, and in Scotland this is the toddy-time, and who would miss that hour of social glee!

Mention must be made of the private theatricals at Merridale and of the amateur concert at Clifton House, both highly creditable to the talented performers and productive of great pleasure to the guests. I find a programme of the latter and incorporate it as part of the record:

PIANOFORTE DUET "Oberon" _René Favayer_ Misses A. J. B. and A. C. B.

SONG "Twenty-one" _Molloy_ Miss S. D.

SONG "The Raft" _Pinsuti_ Mr. B. P.

LADIES' TRIO "O Skylark, for thy wing" _Smart_ The Misses B. and Miss D.

SONG "A Summer Shower" _Marziales_ Miss D.

SONG "The Better Land" _Cowen_ Miss M. B.

SONG "The Lost Chord" _Sullivan_ Miss P.

PIANOFORTE SOLO "La Cascade" _Pauer_ Miss A. D.

SONG "Let me dream again" _Sullivan_ Miss R.

SONG "The Diver" _Loder_ Mr. A. B.

SONG "My Nannie's awa'" ---- Miss J. J.

DUET "When the Wind blows in from the Sea" _Smart_ Miss M. B. and Mr. B. P.

SONG "For ever and for ever" _Paolo Tosti_ Miss A. J. B.

SONG "The Boatswain's Story" _Molloy_ Mr. B. P.

GOD SAVE THE QUEEN.

[Sidenote: _Private Theatricals._]

A great many fine compliments have been paid to performers in this world, but do you remember one much better than this? Our Prima Donna sang "My Nannie's awa'," my favorite among twenty favorites; and she did sing it that night to perfection. We were all proud of her. When she returned to her seat next to M., there was whispered in her ear: "Oh, Jeannie, the lump's in my throat yet!" All the hundred warm expressions bestowed upon her did not weigh as much as that little gem of a tribute. When you raise the lump in the throat by a song you are upon the right key and have the proper style, even if your teacher has been no other than your own heart, the most important teacher of all.

After the theatricals at Merridale came the feast. The supper-table comes before me, and the speeches. The orator of the Wolverhampton connection is ex-Mayor B. He speaks well, and never did he appear to greater advantage than on that evening. It's a sight "gude for sair een" to see a good-natured, kindly English gentleman presiding at the festive board, surrounded by his children and his children's children, and the family connections to the number of seventy odd. They are indeed a kindly people, but oh dear! those who have never been out of their little island, even the most liberal of them, have such queer, restricted notions about the rest of mankind! This, however, is only natural; travel is in one sense the only possible educator. England has been so far ahead of the world until the present generation, that it is difficult for her sons to believe she is sleeping too long. The best speech of the evening upon our side was made by Our Pard, who said he felt that after he had forgotten all else about this visit, the smiling faces of the pretty, rosy-cheeked English young ladies he had been admiring ever since he came to Wolverhampton, and never more ardently than this evening, would still haunt his thoughts; and then, with more emphasis, he closed with these memorable words: "And I tell you, if ever young men ask me where they can find the nicest, sweetest, prettiest, and best young ladies for wives, they won't have to ask twice." (Correct! shake, Pard!)

We were fortunate in seeing the statue of Mr. Villiers unveiled. Earl Granville spoke with rare grace and ease, his style being so far beyond that of the other speakers that they suffered by comparison. The sledge-hammer style of oratory is done. Let ambitious youngsters make a note of that, and no longer strut and bellow, and tear a passion all to tatters, to very rags. Shakespeare understood it:

"In the very tempest and I may say whirlwind of your passion, You must beget a temperance to give it utterance."

[Sidenote: _Coffee Houses._]

The effort now making throughout Great Britain to provide coffee-houses as substitutes for the numerous gin palaces has not been neglected in Wolverhampton. The Coffee House Company which operates in the city and neighborhood has now fourteen houses in successful operation, and, much to my astonishment and gratification, I learned that seven and a half per cent. dividends were declared and about an equal amount of profit reserved for contingencies. In Birmingham there are twenty houses, and cash dividends of ten per cent. per annum have been made. If they can be generally made to pay even half as well, a grand advance has been made in the war against intemperance. I visited one of the houses with ex-Mayor D., who, I rejoice to say, is Chairman of the Company, and in this great office does more for the cause than a thousand loud-mouthed orators who only denounce the evil about which we are all agreed, but have no plan to suggest for overcoming it. It is so easy to denounce and tear down; but try to build up once and see what slow, discouraging labor is involved.

The prices in these coffee-houses are very low: one large cup of good tea, coffee, or cocoa, at the counter, 1_d._ (2 cents); one sandwich, 1_d._ (2 cents). If taken upstairs in a room at a table, one-half more.

There is a reading-room with newspapers free, bagatelle-table, and comfortable sitting-rooms; also a ladies' room and a lavatory, and cigars, tobacco, and all non-alcoholic drinks are provided. Men go there at night to read and to play games. The company has been operating for three years, and the business increases steadily. We saw similar houses in most of the towns we passed, and wished them God-speed.

A chairman of a company like this has it in his power to do more good for the masses, who are the people of England, than if he occupied his time as member of Parliament; but the English exalt politics unduly and waste the lives of their best men disputing over problems which the more advanced Republicans have settled long ago and cleared out of their way. They will learn better by and by. We must not be impatient. They are a slow race and prone to makeshifts politically.

[Sidenote: _Lincoln and the Deserter._]

A delegation of the Charioteers passed a happy day visiting one of the celebrated homes of England, Bilton Grange, near Rugby, the residence of Mr. John Lancaster, whom Americans will remember as the owner of the yacht "Deerhound," who rescued Commander Semmes, when the "Kearsarge" swept the infamous "Alabama" from the seas. Mr. Lancaster showed us the pistols presented to him by the Confederate Officer as token of gratitude. This seems like ancient history already, so rapidly has the Rebellion and all thoughts thereof faded away. Jefferson Davis goes to and fro exciting no remark, arousing some pity. Had he been invested with the crown of martyrdom, how different would be the feeling of his people to-day! It is with Davis as with the deserter of whom Hon. Daniel J. Morrell tells: He took the mother of the runaway to see President Lincoln, in Washington, to plead for the life of her darling boy, who had been court-martialed and was to be shot in a few days. Lincoln first upbraided my friend for subjecting him to such an ordeal, but the poor woman was already in the room, sobbing as if her heart would break, and there was no help for it. Lincoln conducted her to a seat, asked a great many questions, learned that the boy had returned to work at Johnstown, and provided for his mother and sister from his earnings, giving as an excuse for leaving the army, that it was lying idle on the banks of the Potomac and he knew it could not move until spring.

The President mused a few moments, apparently undecided what action to take. Even the woman held her breath for the time and awaited in silence the word which was to rejoice her or doom her to misery forever.

"Well, I don't believe it would do him any good to shoot him, do you, madam?" asked Father Abraham of the mother, in a tone of inquiry so natural that one would have thought he was actually in doubt upon the subject himself and wanted the opinion of the person who knew the boy best.

The mother was speechless. During the inquiry the President had been rolling a small strip of paper into a ball. He handed this to Mr. Morrell, saying: "Read that when you get out, Daniel, but mind you don't tell Stanton."

Mr. Morrell beckoned the woman to the door, placed her in the carriage, read the slip, and ordered the coachman to drive at once to the office of the Provost Marshal. Here is what he found in that tiny strip: "P.M. Washington--Send Private Johnston, Company B, 9th Penn. Infantry, to his regiment. A. L."

That is the kind of thing that took our trusting hearts and gave this wood-chopper of Illinois such power as all the hereditary monarchs of the world can never hope to acquire. Just so with Jefferson Davis:--it wouldn't do anybody any good to shoot him. Happy America! strong enough to laugh at all powers which talk of assailing you.

[Sidenote: _Moral for Englishmen._]

In driving to and from Bilton Grange, we passed famous Rugby and talked of our favorite Tom Brown. What a sad pity that Mr. Hughes was carried away by the fascinations of a scheme for transplanting gentle manly Englishmen to the Rugby colony in Tennessee! It was foredoomed to failure, and to much heart-burning and recrimination. Of all men in the world, your well-educated young Englishman is least adapted for such a life as Tennessee has to offer. Had the West or North-west been selected, the result should have been different so far as pecuniary considerations are concerned, for even poor management there could not have kept the land from rising in value. The stream of emigration from the older States to the new might have told these men where to go; but it seems that whenever foreigners attempt to do anything in America through an organization, their first thought is how to do it in a manner as far as possible from that of the Americans. The consequence is, they generally lose their money. Moral for our English cousins: "When in America do as the Americans do." If they settle in Iowa do you go and sit down beside them there. And to my iron and steel friends in this little island, just one word: If Americans are not overpoweringly anxious to develop the wonderful resources, say of Alabama, for instance, just you take Rip Van Winkle's plan "go home and t'ink about it jest a leetle" before you undertake the task. These Americans do not know everything, of course, but it is just possible they may know something about their own country.

"Nae man can tether time nor tide, The hour approaches, Tam maun ride."

Our six days at Wolverhampton had passed rapidly away in one continual round of social pleasures, and now we were off again to fresh woods and pastures new. The horn sounds. We call the roll once more. Mr. B., Senior, had left us at Windsor, but the Junior B. he sent us fitly represented the family. If he couldn't tell as many funny stories nor quote as much poetry as his sire, the young Cambridge wrangler could sing college songs and give our young ladies many glimpses of young England. He was a great favorite was Theodore (young Obadiah).

Miss B. and he left us at Banbury, much to our regret, but London engagements were imperative. Mr. and Mrs. K. arrived. If ever a couple received a warmer welcome I never saw nor heard of it. It seemed as if we had been separated for years, and how often during our journey had one or another of the party regretted that Aggie and Aaleck were missing all this.

It was upon the ocean that Ben and Davie conceived the idea that a run to Paris would be advisable. Leave of absence for two week was accordingly granted to four--Mr. and Mrs. McC., Miss J. and Mr. V.

We bade them good-bye at Wolverhampton, Thursday, June 30th, and saw them fairly off, not without tears upon both sides from the weaker sex. These partings are miserable things always. Their places were taken by Miss J. R. (a Dunfermline bairn), Miss A. B., and Mr. D. Next morning we gathered the clans at Mr. G.'s, calling at the houses of several other friends for the contingent they had so kindly entertained; thence to Merridale for the remainder and the final start.

It was a sight to see the party on the lawn there as we drove off, giving three hearty cheers for Wolverhampton. In special honor of the head of the clan there, the master of Merridale, we had just sung "For he is an Englishman." Yes, he is the Englishman all over. Our route for many miles was still in the black country, but near Lichfield we reached again the rural beauties of England. How thankful to get away once more from the dirt and smoke and bustle of manufactories!

The new members had not gone far before they exhibited in an aggravated form all the usual signs of the mania which had so seriously affected all who have ever mounted our coach. The older members derived great pleasure from seeing how completely the recent acquisitions were carried away. Their enthusiasm knew no bounds, and we drove in to the Swan at Lichfield brimful of happiness. We had left Wolverhampton about noon, the stage for the day being a short one, only twenty miles.

* * * * *

LICHFIELD, July 1.

[Sidenote: _Lichfield Cathedral._]

The cathedral deserves a visit, out of the way of travel as it is. Its three spires and its chapter house are the finest we have yet seen; and then Chantrey's sleeping children is worth travelling hundreds of miles to see. Never before has marble been made to express the childish sleep of innocence as this does.

It was strange that I should stumble upon a monument in the cathedral to Major Hodson, whose grave I had seen in India. He lies with Havelock and Lawrence in the pretty little English cemetery at Lucknow, poor fellow, and here his friends and neighbors away in quiet Lichfield have commemorated his valor.

How well do I remember my visit to that historic burial place in far off India and the impression made upon me as I stood beside the tombs of the heroes who fell in the days of the great mutiny! The inscription on Lawrence's is: "Here lies Henry Lawrence, who tried to do his duty." What could you add that would not weaken that?

We talked, standing by Hodson's monument, of the long struggle and the relief at Lucknow, and of what I had written of it in my "Notes of a Trip round the World." As it pleased the Charioteers, perhaps I may be pardoned for quoting a part of it.

"Our first visit was to the ruins of the Residency, where for six long months Sir Henry Lawrence and his devoted band were shut up and surrounded by fifty thousand armed rebels. The grounds, which I should say are about thirty acres in extent, were fortunately encompassed by an earthern rampart six feet in height. You need not be told of the heroic resistance of the two regiments of British soldiers and one of natives, nor of the famous rescue. Hour after hour, day after day, week after week, and month after month, the three hundred women and children, shut in a cellar under ground, watched and prayed for the sound of Havelock's bugles, but it came not. Hope, wearied out at last, had almost given place to despair. Through the day the attacks of the infuriated mob could be seen and repelled, but who was to answer that as darkness fell the wall was not to be pierced at some weak point of the extended line? One officer in command of a critical point failing--not to do his duty, there was never a fear of that--but failing to judge correctly of what the occasion demanded, and the struggle was over. Death was the last of the fears of those poor women night after night as the days rolled slowly away. One night there was graver silence than usual in the room; all were despondent and lay resigned to their seemingly impending fate. No rescue came, nor any tidings of relief. In the darkness one piercing scream was heard from the narrow window. A Highland nurse had clambered up to gaze through the bars and strain her ears once more. The cooling breeze of night blew in her face and wafted such music as she could not stay to hear. One spring to the ground, a clapping of hands above her head, and such a shriek as appalled her sisters who clustered around; but all she could say between the sobs--'The slogan! the slogan!' Few knew what the slogan was. 'Didna ye hear? Didna ye hear?' cried the almost demented girl, and then listening one moment that she might not be deceived, she muttered, 'It's the Macgregors Gathering, the grandest o' them a',' and fell senseless to the ground.

[Sidenote: _Jessie of Lucknow._]

"Truly, my lassie, the 'grandest o' them a',' for never came such strains before to mortal ears. And so Jessie of Lucknow takes her place in history as one of the finest themes for painter, dramatist, poet, or historian, henceforth and forever. I have some hesitation whether the next paragraph in my note-book should go down here or be omitted. Probably it would be in better taste if quietly ignored, but then it would be so finely natural if put in. Well, I shall be natural or nothing, and recount that I could not help rejoicing that Jessie was Scotch, and that Scotchmen first broke the rebel lines and reached the fort, and that the bagpipes led the way. That's all. I feel better now that this also is set down."

In Lichfield cathedral are seven very fine stained-glass windows which were found stowed away in a farm-house in Belgium, and purchased by an English gentleman for £200, and now they rank among the most valuable windows in the world. What a pity that the treasures wantonly destroyed during the Reformation had not found similar shelter, to be brought from their hiding-places once more to delight us!

[Sidenote: _Church Music._]

We heard service Saturday morning, and mourned over the waste of exquisite music--twenty-six singers in the choir and only ten persons to listen in the vast cathedral, besides our party. It is much the same throughout England. In no case during week days did we ever see as many persons in the congregation as in the choir. Surely the impressive cathedrals of England are capable of being put to better uses than this. It seems a sin to have such choirs and not conduct them in some way to reach and elevate greater numbers. In no building would an oratorio sound so well. Why should not these choirs be made the nucleus for a chorus in every district, and let us have music which would draw the masses within the sacred walls? But maybe this would be sacrilegious. Theological minds may see in the music suggested an unworthy intruder in domains sacred to dogma; but they should remember that the Bible tells us that in heaven music is the principal source of happiness--the sermon seems nowhere--and it may go hard with such as fail to give it the first place on earth. In this view of the case it was decided to-day upon the coach that what some had hitherto thought a scandal, viz., that the choirs of most of our fashionable churches cost more than all the other expenses of the church, and that organists and sopranos receive a much larger salary considering the time given than the ministers; or, as one of the young ladies put it, "More is paid for music than for religion"--all this, instead of being reprehensible, as some have unthinkingly believed, may really be, and probably is, quite in accordance with the proper order of worship. Well, I am not going to grudge Miss B. her three thousand dollars a year any longer, said a vestryman; so he was converted to the theory that music stands upon strong ground. Some day, however, my lord bishop and lazy crew, the cathedrals of England will not be yours alone to drone in, but become mighty centres of grand music, from which shall radiate elevating influences over entire districts; and the best minds of the nation, remembering how narrow and bigoted the church was when these structures were built, will change the poet's line and say:

"To what great uses have they come at last!"

The world moves and the church establishment must move with it, or--this is a splendid place to stop--there is as great virtue in your "or" as in your "if," sometimes. Here is the best description of service in an English cathedral:

"And love the high embower'd roof, With antique pillars massy proof, And storied windows richly dight, Casting a dim religious light: There let the pealing organ blow, To the full voic'd choir below, In service high and anthems clear, As may with sweetness, through my ear, Dissolve me into ecstasies, And bring all heaven before mine eyes."

The music at Lichfield does indeed draw you into regions beyond and intimates immortality, and we exclaim with friend Izaak Walton, "Lord, what music hast thou provided for the saints in heaven, when thou affordest bad men such music on earth!"

I remember that when in China I read that Confucius was noted for his intense passion for music. He said one day to his disciples that music not only elevates man while he is listening, but that to those who love it music is able to create distinct images which remain after the strains cease and keep the mind from base thoughts. Think of the sage knowing this when he had probably only the sing-song Chinese fiddle to console him! I forget, he had the gongs, and a set of fine gongs of different tones make most suggestive music, as I have discovered.