Part 20

"Shades of the dead, have I not heard your voices Rise on the night-rolling breath of the gale? Surely the soul of the hero rejoices And rides on the wind o'er his own Highland vale."

I hear the lament of Ossian in the sough of the passing wind.

[Sidenote: _Ruthven Castle._]

We stopped at the inn at Kingussie, one of the centres of sporting interest, but drove on beyond to spread our luncheon upon the banks of the Spey, close to the remains of Ruthven Castle, a fine ruin in this beautiful valley. We walked to it after luncheon. It was here that the Highland clans assembled after the defeat at Culloden Field and resolved to disband, and the country was rid of the Stuarts forever. How far the world has travelled since those days! The best king or family of kings in the world is not worth one drop of an honest man's blood. If the House of Commons should decide to-day that the Prince of Wales is not a fit and proper figure-head and should vote that my Lord Tom Noddy is, there is not a sane man in the realm who would move a finger for the rightful heir; yet our forefathers thought it a religious duty to plunge their country into civil war to restore the Stuarts,

"A coward race to honor lost; Who knew them best despised them most."

But I suppose they were about a fair average of royal races. "Life can be lived well even in a palace," sings Matthew Arnold, and the more credit to such as do live it well there, like Queen Victoria, but it is difficult work and needs a saint to begin with. It does one good to mark such progress. I will not believe that man goes round in a circle as the earth does; upon the king absurdity he has travelled a straight line. When we made kings by act of Parliament (as the Guelphs were made), another lesson was learned, that Parliament can unmake them too. That is one bloody circle we need never travel again. Not one drop of blood for all the royal families in Christendom. Carried, _nem. con._

There was a discussion to-day upon the best mode of enjoying life. Sydney Smith's famous secret was mentioned. When asked why he was always so bright and cheerful, he replied: The secret is "I take short views of things." Somehow this is the Scriptural idea, "Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof." A good story was told of an old man who had endured many of the ills of life in his long journey. His friends upon one occasion, more trying than usual, condoled with him, saying that he really had more troubles than other men. "Yes, my friends, that is too true. I have been surrounded by troubles all my life long, but there is a curious thing about them--_nine-tenths of them never happened_."

That is a story with a moral for you. How many of our troubles ever happened! We dream of ten for every one that comes. One of the Charioteers was ready with a verse to enforce the moral:

"When fortune with a smiling face Strews roses on our way, When shall we stop to pick them up? To-day, my love, to-day. But should she frown with face of care, And speak of coming sorrow, When shall we grieve, if grieve we must? To-morrow, love, to-morrow."

[Sidenote: _Honeysuckle and Roses._]

This was received with evident approval, and just as it ended the huge beds of honeysuckle lying on the hedge-rows we were passing, and the wild roses rising above them on long graceful sprays, nodding their heads as if desirous of doing us obeisance, caused one of the ladies to cry out, "Oh, here are the roses on our way just now! Do let us stop and pluck them to-day, as the poet advises." "Stop, Perry!" "Right, sir!" "Steps, Joey!" "Right, sir!"--and down we are in a moment gathering the spoils. "Do let the coach drive on and wait for us at the top of the next hill." "But wait, ladies, let us all put our flowers inside and arrange them when we stop for luncheon."

It is a superb morning, the hedge-rows prettier than ever; the larks are rising; now and then a hare darts across the road in advance. The whirr of the partridge or pheasant stirs the sportsman's blood, and upon every tree some feathered songster pours forth his song. Faust need not have sold himself to the devil for youth, after all. We find it here in this glorious gypsy life.

Upon remounting the coach after an hour's frolic in the lane, some one wanted the reciter to repeat the verse which had caused the stop, but he said there was a second verse which also had its moral, and, if permitted, he would give this instead. Agreed to, provided he would give the ladies a copy of both verses for their books--one copy for the lot, and this each would copy for herself. His terms, however, were that he should repeat it alone to Miss ---- and teach it to her (sly dog), and she could make the copies. He then gave us the second verse:

"If those who've wronged us own their faults And kindly pity pray, When shall we listen and forgive? To-day, my love, to-day. But if stern justice urge rebuke And warmth from memory borrow, When shall we chide, if chide we must? To-morrow, love, to-morrow."

This was voted a fit companion for the first verse, so the Charioteers to-day had two moral lessons.

[Sidenote: _Good Philosophy._]

The student said it was also good philosophy, and taught by no less an authority than Herbert Spencer himself, who had exposed the folly of postponing present enjoyments in the hope that they will be better if enjoyed at a later date. Here are the words of the sage:

"Hence has resulted the belief that, irrespective of their kinds, the pleasures of the present must be sacrificed to the pleasures of the future. So ignorant is this belief, that it is wrong to seek immediate enjoyments and right to seek remote ones only, that you may hear from a busy man who has been on a pleasure excursion a kind of apology for his conduct. He deprecates the unfavorable judgments of his friends by explaining that the state of his health had compelled him to take a holiday, nevertheless if you sound him with respect to his future, you will find out his ambition is by and by to retire and devote himself wholly to the relaxation which he is now somewhat ashamed of taking. The current conception further errs by implying that a gratification which forms a proper aim if it is remote, forms an improper aim if it is proximate."

And this from the "Data of Ethics." So that the poet and the philosopher are as one.

"Does Herbert Spencer write so clearly and simply as that upon such subjects?" asked one of the young ladies. "I thought he was so fearfully deep. His books sound so very learned and abstruse, I have only read his work on 'Education'; that was splendid, and I understood it all, every word. If that book you just quoted from had an easy name I'd go to work at it--but 'Data of Ethics' frightens me. I don't know exactly what Data means, and I'm mixed on Ethics."

The voice of the Coach was clear upon "Education," however, and I recall just now the remark of my little nephew to his mother, when Mr. Spencer did us the honor of visiting us: "Mamma, I want to see the man who wrote in a book that there is no use studying grammar." Amid the thousands of very grateful ones who feel what they owe to Herbert Spencer, may be safely classed that young scion of our family. His gratitude is profound, and with good reason.

Boat o' Garten was to be our refuge, a small, lovely inn on the moors, the landlady of which had telegraphed us in a rather equivocal way in response to our request for shelter. There was no other house for many miles, so we pushed on, trusting to our star. We were all right. The house was to be filled on the morrow with sportsmen, and we could be entertained "for this night only." Such is luck. Even as it was, the family rooms had to be given up to us; but then, dear souls, there is nothing they would not do for the Americans. As for the coach, there was no building on the moors high enough to take in the huge vehicle; but as showing the extreme care taken of property in this country, I note that heavy tarpaulins were obtained, and it was nicely covered for the night. What a monster it seemed standing out in the darkness!

After dinner we received packages of the Dunfermline papers containing the full account of the demonstration there and of the speeches. It goes without saying that there was great anxiety to read the account of that extraordinary ovation. Those who had made speeches and said they were not very sure what, were seen to retire to quiet corners and bury themselves in their copies. Ah, gentlemen, it is of no use! Read your orations twenty times over, you are just as far as ever from being able to gauge your wonderful performances; besides the speech made is nothing compared to any of half a dozen you have since made to yourself on the same subject. Ah! the Dunfermline people should have heard these. So sorry! One can tell all about the speeches of his colleagues, however, and we made each other happy by very liberal laudations, while we each felt once more the generous rounds of applause with which we had been greeted.

[Sidenote: _Last Night on the Moors._]

After mailing copies of the newspapers to numerous friends, there came a serious cloud over all. This was to be our last night on the moors; the end of our wayward life had come. One more merry start at the horn's call, and to-morrow's setting sun would see the end of our happy dream. Arcadia would be no more; the Charioteers' occupation would be gone. It was resolved that something should be done to celebrate the night to distinguish it from others. We would conform to the manners and customs of the country and drink to our noble selves in whiskey toddy with Highland honors. This proved a success. Songs were sung; Aaleek was in his most admirable fooling; "your health and song" went round, and we parted in tolerably good spirits.

There was an unusual tenderness in the grasp of the hand, and mayhap something of a tremor in the kind "Good-night, happy dreams," with which it was the custom of the members to separate for the night, and we went to bed wondering what we had done to deserve so much happiness.

* * * * *

BOAT O' GARTEN, August 2.

Inverness at last! But most of us were up and away in advance of the coach, for who would miss the caller air and the joy of the moors these blessed mornings when it seems joy enough simply to breathe? But did not we catch it this morning! No use trying to march against this blow; the wind fairly beat us, and we were all glad to take refuge in the school-house till the coach came; and glad were we that we had done so. Was it not a sight to see the throng of sturdy boys and girls gathered together from who knows where! For miles and miles there are seen but a few low huts upon the moors; but as some one has said, "Education is a passion" in Scotland, and much of the admitted success of the race has its root in this truth. The poorest crofter in Scotland will see that his child gets to school.

Note this in the fine old song:

"When Aaleck, Jock, and Jeanettie _Are up and got their lair_, They'll serve to gar the boatie row And lichten a' our care."

[Sidenote: _Advantages of Poverty._]

Heavy is the load of care that the Scotch father and mother take upon themselves and struggle with all the years of their prime that the bairns "may get their lair." To the credit of the bairns let it be said that the hope expressed in the verse just quoted is not often disappointed. They do grow up to be a comfort to their parents in old age when worn out with sacrifices made for them. Our great men come from the cradles of poverty. I think he was a very wise man who found out that the advantage of poverty was a great prize which a rich man could never give his son. But we should not condemn the Marquises of Huntley, the Dukes of Hamilton, and the rest of them; they never had a fair chance to become useful men. It is the system that is at fault, and for that we the people are responsible. The privileged classes might turn out quite respectably if they had justice done them and were permitted to start in life as other men are. For my part, I wonder that they generally turn out as well as they do. The kite mounts only against the wind.

Coaching brings us close to Nature's sweetest charms, and the good universal mother is always so gracious to her children; the cawing of the rook or the crowing of the cock awakens us; the green things and the pretty flowers about the inn, which greet the eyes as we pull up the blinds, and the sniff of fresh morning air which a short stroll before breakfast gives us, make a splendid start for the day, so different from the usual beginning of city life. The whole day is spent in the open air, walking or driving, or lolling upon sunny braes at luncheon, amid brooks and wild flowers, and the hum of bees, the songs of birds, and the grateful scent of new-mown hay. And when night comes we fall asleep, with the sense of dropping softly upon banks of flowers without a thorn. Tell me if such a life for a few weeks now and then is not the best cure for most of the serious ills of this high-pressure age! Every man who can afford it should give it a trial. If overworked, he should go to find the cure--if well, he should certainly go in order to keep so.

We all need to learn what the poet says:

"Better that man and nature were familiar friends; That part of man is worst which touches this base life; For though the ocean in its inmost depths be pure, Yet the salt fringe which daily licks the shore Is foul with sand."

I think the last line worthy of Shakespeare, even if it be the product of a poor young Glasgow poet. In this coaching life we touch the base every-day life of care and struggle at very few points indeed and hence our joy. We are deep in love with Nature, and true worshippers at her shrine have few sorrows.

[Sidenote: _Scotland's School Houses._]

While revelling in the exquisite beauty of England--such quiet and peaceful beauty as we had never seen before--the thought often came to me that I should be compelled to assume the apologetic strain for my beloved Scotland. It could not possibly have such attractions to show as the more genial South, but so far from this being so, as I have already said, there was scarcely a morning or afternoon during which the triumphant inquiry was not made, "What do you think of Scotland noo?" Of all that earned for Scotland the first place in our hearts I mention the pretty stone school-houses, with teacher's residence and garden attached, which were seen in almost every village; and if I had no other foundation than this upon which to predict the continued intellectual ascendency of Scotland and an uninterrupted growth of its people in every department of human achievement, I should unhesitatingly rest it upon these school-houses. A people which passes through the parish school in its youth cannot lose its grasp, or fall far behind in the race. Indeed, compared with the thorough education of the masses, the lives and quarrels of politicians seem petty in the extreme. It is with education as with righteousness, seek it first and all political blessings must be added unto you. It is the only sure foundation upon which to rear the superstructure of a great State, and how happy I am to boast that Scotland is not going to yield the palm in this most important of all work! No, not even to the Republic. From what I saw of the new schools, I'll back their scholars against any lot of American children to-day; but I admit one great lack: the former would strike you as somewhat too deferential, disposed to bow too much to their superiors in station, while American boys are said to be born repeating the Declaration of Independence. No more valuable lesson can be taught a lad than this: that he is born the equal of the prince, and what privileges the prince has are unjustly denied him. It would do Scotch boys good to hear my young American nephews upon the doctrine that one man "is as good as another and a good deal better." Of the sights which cause me to lose temper, one is to see a splendid young Briton, a real manly fellow, standing mum like a duffer when he is asked why the son of a Guelph or of any other family should have a privilege denied to him. Are you less a man? Have not you had as honest parents and a better grandfather? Why do you stand this injustice? And then he has nothing to say. Well, I have sometimes thought I have noticed the cheek a little redder. That is always a consolation. Thank God! we have nothing like this in America. Our young men carry in their knapsacks a President's seal, and no one is born to any rank or position above them. Under the starry flag there are equal rights for all. It will be so in Scotland perhaps ere I die (D. V.). If I had the schooling of young Scotland I would make every class repeat in the morning before lessons:

"If thou hast said I am not peer To any lord in Scotland here, Highland or lowland, far or near, Lord Angus, thou hast lied."

I would teach them the new meaning of that stirring verse, and tell them that the lad who did not believe himself the peer of any man born and entitled to every privilege "might do for an Austrian, a Russian, a Prussian, or an Italian," but never would be much of a Scotchman--never.

[Sidenote: _Popular Amusements._]

I do not think I have spoken of the announcements of amusements seen everywhere during the trip throughout the rural districts: band competitions, cricket matches, flower shows, wrestling matches, concerts, theatricals, holiday excursions, races, games, rowing matches, football contests, and sports of all kinds. We are surprised at their number, which gives incontestable evidence of the fact that the British people work far less and play far more than their American cousins do. No toilers, rich or poor, like the Americans! The band competitions are unknown here, but no doubt we shall soon follow so good an example and try them. The bands of a district meet and compete for prizes, which stirs up wholesome rivalry and leads to excellence. We saw eight gathered for competition in one little town which we passed, and the interest excited by the meet was so great as to put the town _en fête_. I do not know any feature of British life which would strike an American more forcibly than these contests. We should try one here, and, by and by, why not an international contest--the Dunfermline band playing the "Star-Spangled Banner," and the Pittsburgh performers "Rule Britannia." Yes, that's right; I insist upon "Rule Britannia"--that is the nation's song; I am growing tired of "God Save the Queen"--even such a model as the present one--for the strain is only personal, after all. I wish Her Majesty well, but I love my country more. "Rule Britannia" is the national song.

I hope Americans will find some day more time for play, like their wiser brethren upon the other side.

We came to the crossing of the Spey to-day to find that the long high bridge was undergoing extensive repairs and closed to travel. In America it would never have occurred to us that a bridge could be closed while being rebuilt, but in the science of bridge-building British engineers are a generation behind us, because they have not had to build so many. However, there was nothing for it but to follow down the stream until another bridge was found. When we did find it, we saw a notice prohibiting loads beyond two tons from crossing. It was a light iron structure (perhaps a Tay blunder upon a small scale). The wind was whistling like a fiend about our ears as it came roaring down the glen; all pleasant while we were in the woods skirting the river with our backs to it, but when we turned to cross it seemed as if we should be blown bodily from the top of the coach. Everything was taken off the top, and we all dismounted. Perry and Joe drove over, while we all walked, some of us on the lee side of the coach for shelter, and in a few minutes we were so sheltered in the glen again as scarcely to know there was a breath of air stirring; but these "Highland homes where tempests blow" know what gales are. We have had great blows now and then at some high points crossing the moors, for the hills you rarely cross; these you have to avoid, but to-day was the only time we were compelled to dismount.

[Sidenote: _The Last Luncheon._]

We had not far to drive before we reached the pretty little burn which falls into the Findhorn, the spot selected for the last luncheon.

This spot seemed made to order; the burn, the fire, the mossy grass, the wild river, the moor and glen, all here. Down sat the Charioteers for the last happy luncheon together. We were all so dangerously near the brink of sad regret that a bold effort was necessary to steer clear of thoughts which pressed upon us. We had to laugh for fear we might cry, the smile ever lies so near the tear. It _had_ to be a lively luncheon, that was all there was about it; and when duty calls it doesn't take much to start our boys to frolic. A few empty bags which we had used for horse-feed in emergencies suggested a sack-race. Such roars of laughter when one or the other of the too ambitious contestants went to grass! This was a capital diversion. Any one looking down upon us (but in these lonely glens no eye is there to see) would never have imagined that this sport was started only as a means to prevent the travellers becoming mournful enough for a funeral. A little management is a great thing; it pulled us through the last luncheon with only tears of laughter.

"In, Joe! Right, Perry! Sound the horn! All aboard for Inverness!" There was something in the thought, "We have done it," which kept us from regret, although the rebuke came sharply from the ladies, as one pointed out another milestone, "Oh, don't, please!" With every white stone passed there was a mile less of Arcadia to enjoy. Over moor and dale lies the way, a beautiful drive, gradually descending for many miles, from about twelve hundred and fifty feet above the sea level at Dalwhinnie to a few hundred only near Inverness.

At last the call is made, "Stop, Perry! Capital of the Highlands, all hail! Three rousing cheers for bonnie Inverness!" There she lies so prettily upon the Moray Frith, surrounded by fields of emerald green, an unusually grand situation and a remarkably beautiful town. We stopped long upon the hill-top to enjoy the picture spread out below. The Charioteers will forget much ere their entrance into Inverness fades from the memory. A telegram from friend G., conveyed to us the congratulations of our Wolverhampton connection upon the triumphant success of our expedition, to which something like this was sent: "Thanks! We arrived at the end of this earthly paradise at six o'clock this evening. When shall we look upon its like again?"

* * * * *

INVERNESS, August 3.

[Sidenote: _Inverness._]

It was Saturday, 6 P.M., August 3d, exactly seven weeks and a day after leaving Brighton, when we entered Inverness and sat down in our parlor at the Caledonian Hotel. Up went the flags as usual; dinner was ordered; then came mutual congratulations upon the success of the journey just finished. Not one of the thirty-two persons who had at various times travelled with us ever missed a meal, or had been indisposed from fatigue or exposure. Even Ben had been improved by the journey. Nor had the coach ever to wait five minutes for any one; we had breakfasted, lunched, and dined together, and not one had ever inconvenienced the company by failing to be in time.

How shall I render the unanimous verdict of the company upon the life we had led?