Part 14

This was the Charles of whom Lincoln knew so little. Mr. Blaine tells this good story among a hundred, for he is wonderful in this line: When Lincoln and Seward went to Fortress Monroe to meet Mr. Hunter, who represented the Confederate Government, the latter was exceedingly anxious to get the President to promise that if the rebels would lay down their arms no confiscation of property (slaves, of course, included) should follow, and that no man should be punished for taking part in the rebellion. Mr. Hunter concluded by saying that this would only be following the course pursued in England after the contest with King Charles. "Well, Mr. Hunter," said that sagacious and born leader of men, Father Abraham, "my friend Seward here is the historian of my Cabinet, but the only thing I remember about King Charles is _that Cromwell cut his head off_!" Lincoln did not know very much, you see, but then he knew the only part much worth knowing upon the subject, which is one of the differences between a great man and a learned one.

It was at this celebrated interview that Lincoln took up a blank sheet of writing-paper and said to the Confederates, let me write _Emancipation_ here at the top and you can fill the rest of the page with your conditions.

Lincoln seized the key of a political position as Napoleon did of a military one, and never relaxed his grasp. He would tell stories all night and make his auditors shout with laughter, but whenever the real business was touched upon, he made his opponents feel that the natural division was that the buzzard should fall to them while his long bony fingers were already fast upon the turkey. He could afford to joke and be patient, for he saw the end from the beginning, and had faith in the Republic.

[Sidenote: _Richelieu and Cromwell._]

See what the whirligig of time brings round. Near Preston, in the valley of the Ribble, was fought in 1648 the battle of Preston or Ribblesdale, in which Cromwell defeated the Scotch army under the Duke of Hamilton, and the English army under Sir Marmaduke Langdale. The Royalists were driven at the point of the bayonet through the streets of Preston, and, though they made a stand at Uttoxeter, were finally overthrown and both generals and many thousand men made prisoners. It was a notable struggle, for the Royalists had more than twice as many men as the Parliamentarians; but then the latter had the great Oliver, who knew how and when to strike a blow.

Booth may not be great in anything, as some think, but I do not know his equal in "Richelieu;" and in one scene in particular he has always seemed to me at his very best. The king sits with his new minister, Baradas, in attendance at his side. Richelieu reclines upon a sofa exhausted while his secretaries "deliver up the papers of a realm." A secretary is on his knee presenting papers. He says:

"The affairs of England, Sire, most urgent. Charles The First has lost a battle that decides One half his realm--craves moneys, Sire, and succor.

KING. He shall have both. Eh, Baradas?

BARADAS. Yes, Sire.

RICHELIEU. (_Feebly, but with great distinctness._) My liege-- Forgive me--Charles's cause is lost. A man, Named Cromwell, risen--_a great man_--"

That is enough, a great man _settles_ things; a small one nibbles away at petty reforms, although he knows nothing is settled thereby, and that the question is only pushed ahead for the time to break out again directly. English politicians are mostly nibblers, though Gladstone can take a good bite when put to it.

Will you lay "violent hands upon the Lord's anointed?" "I'll anoint ye!" says Cromwell, and then, I take it, was settled for the future the "divine right of kings" theory; for since that time these curious appendages of a free state have been kept for show, and we hear nothing more of the "divinity which doth hedge a king." Some one of the party remarked that we had not seen a statue or even a picture of England's great Protector. I told them a wise man once said that the reason Cromwell's statue was not put among those of the other rulers of England at Westminster was because he would dwarf them. But his day is coming. We shall have him there in his proper place by and by, and how small hereditary rulers will seem beside him!

[Sidenote: _Cromwell at Drury Lane._]

We noticed in the _Pall Mall Gazette_ a curious proof of Cromwell's place in the hearts of the people of England. The pantomime at Drury Lane had a scene in which all the Kings and Queens of England marched across the stage in gorgeous procession. Each was greeted with cheers or hisses or with more or less cordial greeting as the audience thought deserved. When Cromwell appeared in the line a few hisses were answered by round after round of cheering, and the Lord Protector nightly received a popular ovation far beyond that accorded to any other ruler. That the manager of the leading theatre in London should have thought it admissible to introduce the Republican among the Kings is a straw which shows a healthy breeze blowing in the political currents of English life.

He was truly a host in himself; besides, his men were fighting for something better than had been, the others only for maintaining what had before existed. It is this which drives Conservatives to the wall when radicalism moves in earnest upon them. The aspirations of the race for further and higher development nerve the arm which strikes down the barriers of an ignorant past. Who could battle enthusiastically only for such incomplete and unsatisfactory development as we have already reached and pronounce it good! The prize is not worth it. What the race is capable of achieving in the broad future is the mainspring of our assault upon every abuse or privilege, the heritage of the past which disgraces the present.

At Preston many of us received letters from home. Harry's funny one from his little daughter Emma (a namesake of our Emma of the Charioteers) gave us a good laugh. I remember there was one announcement particularly noteworthy: "Ninety dollars gone to smash, papa. The pony's dead." There is your future special correspondent for you.

At eleven o'clock this evening the party received a notable addition--Andrew M., my old schoolfellow and "the Maester's son," arrived from Dunfermline. He was received at the station by a committee especially appointed for the purpose, and shortly thereafter duly initiated into all the rites and mysteries of the Gay Charioteers. He was required, late as it was, to sing two Scotch songs to determine his eligibility. There may be some man who can sing "Oh! why left I my hame?"--my favorite at present, and written by Gilfillan in Dunfermline, note that--or "When the kye come hame," better than our new member, but none of us has been so fortunate as to meet him, nor have I ever heard one who could sing them as well for me; but there may be a touch of Auld Lang Syne in his voice which strikes chords in my heart and sets them vibrating. There are subtle sympathies lurking in the core of man's nature, responsive to no law but their own, but I notice all press Andrew to sing, and keep very quiet when he does. We had the pleasure of seeing the new member get just as daft as the rest of us next day, gathering wild flowers along the hedgerows, the glittering, towering coach coming up to us. He had time to say: "Man, this canna be _vera_ bad for us!" No, not very; only we did not know then how bad it would be for us when, after the dream-like existence had passed and we were back once more to our labors of this work-a-day world, thrown out as it were from a paradise and falling as Milton's Satan fell; but it's better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.

Fortunately we did not know then that for months after our fall there were to be only sad memories of days of happiness so unalloyed that they can never again be equalled. It is not at all desirable to be honestly persuaded that you never again can have seven weeks of such days as made us happy, innocent children; but we shall see. There are as good fish in the sea as were ever caught, and though it is true they do not seem to bite as they used to, may be we can venture to try coaching again. The height of our musical season was during this part of the journey. Miss R., Miss J., and Mrs. K. are all musical and blessed with the power of song. Messrs. M., McC. and K. differ only as one star differs from another in glory; and there was another gentleman, who shall be nameless, who sang without being asked, and who, as usual, was not encored by his unappreciative audience, his being evidently the music of the future.

[Sidenote: _Scotch Songs._]

Davie deserves notice. He sang a beautiful Scotch song to-day, "Cowden Knowes," and when he was done Andrew immediately asked: "Whaur did ye get that? Ye didna get that out of a book!"

Right, my boy. It was at his father's knee. Who ever learnt a Scotch song out of books? They are possessed of souls, these songs, to be caught only from living lips. The bodies alone are to be found within the bars.

Passing Bolton we saw the first bowling green, sure proof that we are getting northward, where every village has its green and its bowling club, the ancient game of bowls still offering to rural England attractions paramount to more modern sports.

We lunched at Grisdalebrook, ten miles from Lancaster, which was to be our stopping-place. To-day's drive was made fragrant by the scent of new-mown hay, and we passed many bands of merry haymakers. When Dickens pronounced no smell the best smell, he must have momentarily forgotten that which so delighted us. I do give up most of the so-called fine smells, but there are a few better than Dickens's best, and surely that of to-day is of them. We went into a Catholic church in one of our strolls--for let it be remembered many a glorious tramp we had--and the coach was rarely honored with all the party when a chance to walk presented itself. The requests posted upon the door of this church seemed to carry one back a long way:

"Of your charity pray for the soul of Rebecca Robinson, who died June 7th, 1880, fortified with rites of Holy Church, on whose soul sweet Jesus have mercy. R. I. P."

There were several such requests. What a power that church has been and is, only one who has travelled the world round can know. In England here it is but a sickly, foreign plant, so fearfully foreign. We can all repeat Buddha's words and apply them to it, but they should not stop here:

"And third came she who gives dark creeds their power, Sîlabbat-paramâsa, sorceress, Draped fair in many lands as lowly Faith, But ever juggling souls with rites and prayers; The keeper of those keys which lock up Hells And open Heavens. 'Wilt thou dare?' she said, 'Put by our sacred books, dethrone our gods, Unpeople all the temples, shaking down That law which feeds the priests and props the realm?' But Buddha answered, 'What thou bidd'st me keep Is form which passes, but the free truth stands; Get thee unto thy darkness.'"

[Sidenote: _The Roman Church._]

Say what we will about the Roman Church, there is something sublime in her attitude. Neither sense nor reason make the slightest impression upon her; for she stands confident in her power and her right to save, denying the power to others, regardless of the conclusions of science and the fuller knowledge of to-day. This gives her the hold she obtains among the ignorant masses, whether at home or abroad.

The world-wide influence of this faith can never be rightly estimated until one has visited the missions throughout India, China, and Japan. The converts are generally to the Catholic church. To-day on the coach in speaking of this, I told an inquirer that in my opinion one, if not the chief, obstacle to the success of missions to the heathen, lies in the differences between the Christian sects, and I illustrated it by a story:

One day in China I asked our guide Ah Cum, a gentleman and a scholar, and a man of excellent mind, why he did not embrace Christianity. His eyes twinkled as he replied: "Where goee, eh? Goee Bishopee? (pointing to the Cathedral). He say, allee rightee. Go there? (pointing to the English church). Bishop say damme! Goee Hopper? (the American Presbyterian Missionary). He sayee Bishop churchee no goodee--hellee firee. What I do'ee? eh!"

"Stay where you are, you rogue." Confound the fellow! I did not expect to be picked up in that manner.

Ah Cum was severely let alone after that upon the subject of his conversion. I have no hope of him until we agree among ourselves exactly what we wish the heathen to accept. It is in vain we preach one God and five different religions; there must be only one true religion as well. Ah Cum's defence of the worship of ancestors was clever. It ran thus: All religions acknowledge the Creator of life as the true object of worship. Taking hold of his watch chain he began at the first link and said: "I worshipee my parents (passing one link), my parents worshipee their parents" (passing another link, and so on till he had passed quite a number); "by by come to firstee, lifee Goddee. You jump up sky all oncee, miss him, may be."

He thought he had a sure thing passing up link by link to the end. We need clever missionaries to hold their own with these Celestials.

* * * * *

LANCASTER, July 9, 10.

[Sidenote: _Lancaster._]

We had done our twenty-nine miles from Preston and reached Lancaster in good season. There we had a treat. The High Sheriff for the county had just been elected and made his entry into town according to immemorial custom. He represents royalty in the county during his term of office, which I believe is only two years. It costs the recipient of the honor a large sum to maintain the dignities of the office, for its emoluments are nil. The sheriff was staying at our hotel, a very fine one, The County. He is wakened every morning by two heralds richly dressed in the olden style and bearing halberds. They stand in front of the hotel and sound their bugles to call His Highness forth. It is the Lord Mayor's procession on a small scale. Nobody laughs outright at the curious mixture of feudal customs with this age's requirements, however much everybody may laugh in his sleeve; but England will have lost some picturesque features when all the shams are gone. If mankind were not greatly influenced by forms, I could wish that just enough of the "good old times"--which were very bad times indeed--could be preserved, if only to prove how far we have outgrown them; but every form and every sham, from royalty downward, carries its good or evil with it. That not only the substance should be right, but that the form should correspond truly to it, is important if we are to be honest; so I reconcile myself to the passing away of all forms which no longer honestly represent what they imply.

Lancaster is a beautiful place and noted for its admirable charitable institutions. The lunatic asylum and an orphanage attracted our special attention. These and kindred institutions abound in England, and are ably conducted. Rich Englishmen do not leave their fortunes for uses of this kind as often as Americans do. The ambition to found a family, and the maintenance of an aristocratic class by means of primogeniture and entail, tend to divert fortunes from this nobler path into the meaner end of elevating a name in the social scale; but the general public in Britain is most generous, and immense sums in the aggregate are annually collected for charitable institutions. It is common for a class to support its own unfortunates. The commercial travellers, for instance, have an extensive home near London for children of their fellows and for members in their old age, and there is scarcely a branch of industry which does not follow this example.

[Sidenote: _A Noble Charity._]

One cannot travel far without seeing that the British are a people most mindful of the unfortunate. These pretty homes of refuge and of rest we see scattered everywhere over the land, nor are they the least glorious of the many monuments of England's true worth.

A Mr. Ripley, of Lancaster, left his fortune for an orphanage, open to all orphan children born within fifteen miles of Lancaster. Three hundred are now provided for, but so rapidly has the fund grown that it has been found practicable to extend the boundaries of its beneficence, and children from distant Liverpool are now admitted. Bravo! Mr. Ripley. What is an earldom for your eldest son to this! His father's name will carry him farther with the best, and he should be prouder of it. Show me the earl who has done as much for his neighborhood!

Lancaster Castle is a noble one. Here John o' Gaunt hundreds of years ago put his finger upon the dire root of England's woes, as far as the land goes:

"This dear, dear land, Dear for her reputation through the world, Is now _leas'd_ out."

There you have it--this England is leased out. The soil is not worked by its owners, and never, till England changes its practice and can boast a peasant proprietary working its own acres in small farms, untrammelled by vicious laws, will she know what miracles can be wrought by those who call each little spot their own--their home. Englishmen are slow to change, but the day is not far distant when ownership of land will depend upon residence on it and its proper cultivation. Denmark's example will be followed. Cumulative taxes will be levied upon each number of acres beyond a minimum number, and large proprietors taxed out of existence as they have been in Denmark, to the country's good and nobody's injury. We tax a man who keeps racing-horses or who sports armorial bearings. It is the same principle: we can tax a man who keeps a larger amount of land than he can work to the State's advantage. The rights of property are all very well in their place, but the rights of man and the good of the commonwealth are far beyond them. I wish England would just let me arrange that little land matter for her. It would save her a generation of agitation.

Lancaster was an ancient Roman station, as is shown by its name--Lune or Lone Castrum, the castle or camp on the Lune or Lone, the little river which washes its plain. For what saith Spencer in the Faery Queen:

"----After came the strong shallow Lone That to old Lancaster its name doth lend."

The memory of man goeth not back to the time when the first castle was built. Indeed it is of little consequence now, for it was almost entirely razed by the Scots in the fourteenth century.

[Sidenote: _Lancaster Castle._]

The present noble structure, or rather the older part of it, is the work of John O'Gaunt, that son of a king who was almost a king himself, and who became the father of kings. To him is due the magnificent Gateway Tower, flanked by two octagonal turrets sixty-six feet high, surrounded by watch-towers. Around the towers and across the curtain, perforated by the gate, which connects them, are overhanging battlements with vertical openings for pouring down molten metal or hot water on the heads of assailants. In a niche in front is a full-length statue of John O'Gaunt in the costume of his day, placed there in 1822. The sole remaining turret of the Lungess Tower, eighty-eight feet high, is called John O'Gaunt's Chair. It commands a view of great extent, comprising the hills of Cumberland and Westmoreland and nearly the whole extent of the valley of the Lune, with the Irish Sea in the distance.

Some moralists, who believe that men and times are degenerate, may lament that this grand old castle--the ancient residence of nobles--should now be the abode of criminals; but, while equally desirous that its architectural wonders may be preserved, I am not inclined to admit that the thieves and cutthroats who now have their homes within its walls through the puissance of the law are any worse morally than were many of the noble barons who robbed and ravished in the good old times when the question of might versus right was always settled in favor of the plaintiff. Some of them indeed more richly merited a halter than the comfortable seclusion from the outer world accorded to their modern representatives. Even good old John O'Gaunt himself was not so virtuous that he could shy moral stones at his neighbors.

[Sidenote: _Bicycles._]

Sunday was spent in Lancaster, and much enjoyed. The service in church was fine and the afternoon's excursion to the country delightful. Here Miss A. B. and Mr. D. left us after receiving the blessing of the party. Miss G. and Miss D., who were to join us here, failed us, but we fortunately found them waiting at Kendall. We started for that town, twenty-two miles distant, on Monday morning. It is the entrance to the celebrated Lake District. Messrs. T. and M., whom we had met at Anderton Hall, passed us on Saturday, before we reached Lancaster, on bicycles. They were out for a run of a hundred and five miles that day, to visit friends beyond that city. We meet such travellers often. Their club now numbers seven thousand members. For an annual payment of half a crown (62 cents), a member has lists of routes and hotels sent him for any desired district, with the advantage of reduced charges. It is nothing to do a hundred miles per day; many have ridden from London to Bath, two hundred miles, within the twenty-four hours.

The country swarms with these fellows. I saw fifteen hundred in Bushy Park one day at a meet. I think seventy-five clubs were there, each in a different uniform. Bicycles are also growing in use for practical purposes, and many post-routes in the country are served by men who use these machines. But it takes roads like the English, and a level country, to do much with them.

Our evening was spent in visiting the ruined castle and admiring a pretty Japanese kind of garden, so much in so little space, which attracted our attention as we passed. The owner, Mr. T., a solicitor, kindly invited us in, and afterward showed us his house. We are always receiving kindnesses from all sorts and conditions of men.

Next day, July 12th, our objective point was Grassmere, eighteen miles away. Such a lovely morning! but, indeed, we are favored beyond measure with superb weather all the time. This stage in our progress introduced us to the scenery of the lakes, and we all felt that it deserved its Wordsworth; but were we ever to let loose and enter the descriptive, where would it lead? This is the rock upon which many a fair venture in story-telling has suffered shipwreck. Great mountains always carry one upward, but those of the Lake District are not great, nor is there anything great in the region. All is very sweet and pleasing and has its own peculiar charm, like the school of Lake Poets.

At Bowness, about midway of the lake, we left the coach for the first time for any other kind of conveyance. After enjoying a rare treat in a sail up and down the lake in the pretty steamer, we rejoined the coach at Ambleside, where we had ordered it to await us.