Part 11

"It was worse than futile, it was highly improper. I felt incensed! I should never dream of praying for the damned scoundrels--I should consider it almost blasphemous."

Another long silence, and then he continued: "Moreover, I resent any attempt on the part of a parson to dictate to me what I should or should not pray for. I consider such things entirely private between me and my Maker. His advice was an infringement of personal liberty, and I highly resent it."

As no one spoke for a little space, I had time to rejoice in this exhibition of sturdy Protestant independence, but finally the silent member of the party spoke:

"I am thankful to say," he remarked, as he knocked the ashes out of his pipe, "that I was not present. My wife told me about it, and I said to her: 'My dear, this only illustrates what I have said more than once, that the clergy never intrude into politics without making damn fools of themselves.'"

I fled and sought for Ruth! At length I found her sitting in the drawing-room with three ladies--probably the wives of the smokers. She did not see me, and this is what I heard:

_First Lady_: "Do you mean to say you _like_ to live in America?"

_Ruth_: "Yes, very much."

_First Lady_: "But do you not have a great deal of lynching there?"

_Ruth_ (_confusedly_): "I am sorry to say we do have a good deal."

_Second Lady_: "What is lynching?"

_First Lady_: "Why, if a man is unpopular in a community, the leading people drag him away to a convenient tree and hang him. Sometimes they burn him. Shocking, is it not?"

_Second Lady_: "It would be shocking as a regular thing, but I confess it seems to me a most admirable custom for certain occasions, and I should be glad if it were brought over with other American inventions that we have found so convenient. Think what it would mean to wake up to-morrow and learn that Lloyd George had been hanged in the night!"

_Third Lady_ (_vindictively_): "Yes, and better still, the whole Liberal cabinet."

_Second Lady_: "Oh, that would be more than one could hope for."

_First Lady_ (_whose humanitarianism seems to have been poisoned by party politics, but is trying to prevent a Reign of Terror in England_): "Surely you would except John Burns?"

_Third Lady_: "Perhaps I should. I sometimes think that he has really repented, and that now his face is set toward the light."

At that moment Ruth turned and caught my eye. She followed me out of the room and, though choking with laughter, said: "I would give a good deal if you had not overheard that conversation!"

"Wouldn't have missed it for worlds," I replied. "I have another picture to hang beside it, and I shall call them 'Church and State!'"

XXXII

THE CHAPLAIN TO THE QUEEN

Our journey led us now to Chester, whence we started on a little trip through Northern Wales. I was not very keen for it, for I feared it might prove too "post-cardy!" But it did not.

If your memory fails you, you may turn again to your "Baedeker," for I do not intend to bore you with descriptions of scenery.

At Betts-y-Coed we stopped at the "Waterloo," and took as many photos of the brawling brook as Mr. Pecksniff's pupils made elevations of Salisbury Cathedral.

But far more interesting to me than any landscape was the porter of the hotel--John. You recall Oliver Wendell Holmes's description of the "Two Voices"--if not look it up in your "Autocrat," mine is in the trunk at Chester. One of these voices, I remember, was that of a German chambermaid in a hotel at Buffalo, and the other--I have forgotten where! Well, John's voice is more beautiful than theirs, I am sure. Indeed, I think it the most beautiful speaking voice I have ever heard--as more musical than the English voice than that is more musical than the Philadelphian's--at which you never tire of girding! The _timbre_ is exquisite, and there is a caressing quality in it which belongs to the Celt alone. Motorists, dusty, tired, hungry, and cross drove up hour after hour, and John's greeting was as comfortable as a warm bath. And when I say bath, I mean a wallow in a tub and not a wash in a tin basin--but I forgot. Ruth asked me not to mention "baths" again until we passed Sandy Hook. I do not know why. Perhaps you do?

What is it makes the Celt so much more lovable than the Saxon? Some of their qualities are not sterling. Some of them are not quite honest in small matters, and their standard of truth is not ours. They used to tell us in the seminary that the elder brother in the parable stood for the Jew, and the prodigal for the Gentile. Why does not some man who does not wish to be a bishop or to go to the General Convention, say that they are types of the Saxon and the Celt? It has the advantage of a "modern instance," and is probably quite as true!

At any rate, it is the Celt who is lovable, though the Saxon may be admirable. Well, perhaps that means that the Saxon has arrived, and that the future belongs to the Celt. This, at any rate, is my feeling as I think of the Welsh. Perhaps my feelings may undergo a change when I cross to Ireland! In the meantime, I am sure the Welshman would object to be called a prodigal, as who would not!

The average American returns from England declaring that the climate is wretched, and I have often shared that opinion myself, but, after all, where can one enjoy the twilight as in the British Isles? We do not know what it means, at home. But here from eight to ten in the evening is the most enjoyable part of the day. We were sitting in the garden of the hotel in this pleasant time, I smoking and Ruth thinking--I wonder of what? There was a far-away look in her eyes--when a man came out of the dining-room and settled himself in one of the basket chairs on the lawn, not far from us and, drawing out a dainty case, lit a small cigar, whose aroma floated to us. I glanced at him indifferently, but when Ruth said, "That is an interesting face," looked at him more carefully. He was evidently a clergyman, but his dress was not that of the conventional parson, with the rigid "dog collar." He wore a waistcoat which buttoned to the throat, but was open enough to show a lawn cravat and a shirt of fine linen, which softened his somewhat formal costume. He looked not unlike the portrait of Dean Stanley which hangs in your study, and evidently belonged to the same period or a little later. His face showed breeding and was one that would attract attention. It lacked, however, the high intelligence of Stanley, being rather weak--indeed almost self-indulgent--in a refined way. Suddenly I recalled him. It was the Rev. Henry Waitland, rector of a fashionable West-end "Chapel of Ease." I had last seen him when I was in college, at one of John Ropes's Sunday dinners. I remembered that I had been told that he was a well-known man in London, a friend of Ellen Terry's and other celebrities. Indeed, he had the reputation of being more interested in the drama than in divinity! I thought it might please Ruth to meet him, so I strolled over and introduced myself, reminding him of our last meeting.

He was polite, but not enthusiastic. Indeed I was reminded of the remark of the "con man" on the steamer! However, when he caught a glimpse of Ruth, and learned she was my wife, he seemed to think better of us, and asked to be presented.

When we had talked a little about Boston and he found that Ruth knew the right people, he thawed out and began to talk about London and the distinguished people he had known. It was most interesting to hear about the people one knew from books and get the impressions of an eye-witness.

Ruth asked him what a "Queen's chaplain" was? He laughed and said it was a man who had to leave his own congregation and go to Windsor to preach before the Queen whenever "commanded." Ruth remarked that she should think that would be a bore. But he said it was an honor. This sounded like a snub, but was evidently intended only as a statement of fact.

"Still," he added, "I will not deny that it is sometimes inconvenient. For instance: A few years ago I was summoned to preach the Easter sermon before her Majesty, and would much have preferred to stop at home for that day. However, I went to Windsor, and found that my old friend Ponsonby was to take the service, but as I was to preach he suggested that I read the gospel. But imagine my surprise when, instead of saying the collect for Easter, he said a collect which for the life of me I could not recall, or rather could not tell to what Sunday it belonged! You may imagine my embarrassment! I said to myself: 'Whatever shall I do? Shall I read the Gospel for Easter, or shall I match Ponsonby?' It seemed the decent thing to stand by him, but then I said to myself, 'How can I match Ponsonby, when I don't know this minute what Epistle he is now reading?' And then I said to myself: 'You have nothing to do with Ponsonby. You have been commanded to preach before her Majesty on Easter Day, and your business is to read the service appointed for that day!' And that is what I did.

"After service the Queen sent for me, and after saying a few pleasant things, added: 'I was both astonished and annoyed that Mr. Ponsonby should not have read the Collect for Easter.' I didn't want to be unfair to Ponsonby, but I said: 'You may imagine my feeling, ma'am, when I heard a collect for I did not know what day, and though I said to myself "Shall I match Ponsonby?" I did think it best to read the collect appointed for the day.'

"'You were quite right,' said the Queen, 'and I shal1 tell Mr. Ponsonby how much I dislike any deviation from the appointed service.'

"So you see," he added, "that honors have their burdens."

Now I ask you, has Trollope any clerical story to equal this?

XXXIII

THE RETIRED COLONEL

We took many lovely drives, using Betts-y-Coed as a centre, but as you have done it all on foot you will not want to listen to my raptures, so I will again tell you about the people I met.

I had not cared to go to Llandidno, for it is the paradise of trippers, but John the porter told me we ought not to miss it, so thither we went. The sands were a sight never to be forgotten. Hundreds of children were on the beach, the little ones laboriously building houses, forts, and even towns--all of which the lapping sea soon licked up. "Vanity of vanities," saith the preacher. But the preacher knew nothing of children, else he would have said they were the only wise ones. Their play is not "vanity," it is when men lose the sense of proportion, and act as if things "seen" are eternal, that vanity eats out the heart. These children were wise. They knew their labor was but for a moment, and therefore did not weep, but rather laughed, when the tongue of the sea touched their work and it was gone. However you do not care to hear me moralize!

Surely no more beautiful children can be found in the world than these English children. They may lack the vivacity of French and American children, but, on the other hand, they are free from the self-consciousness of the one and the febrile nervousness of the other. They are superb little animals, which is what a child ought to be. Those that I saw on the sands--and I suppose it is generally true--had the supreme animal virtue, which is obedience. The babies obeyed the nurses, the "middle-sized bears" obeyed the "big bears," and all obeyed--not as with us--the mother, but the father. For it is the man who is the supreme court in England. One never hears the familiar "Well, ask your mother!" And the result is a well-organized feudal society, in which there is far more happiness than in many of the so-called democratic, but really anarchistic, families that you and I could name. In short, the family is a microcosm of that larger life in which, some day, the children are to take their places.

When I imparted these reflections to Ruth, she said: "You have missed the best."

"And what might that be, Madame Philosopher?" said I.

"If you had not set up to be a philosopher, yourself," she pertly remarked, "you would have seen the obvious, which so many philosophers overlook. It is the hair and the eyes of these children that makes them so beautiful. Did you ever see such hair as these girls have? It floats in the air like the corn-silk on an Indiana farm! And look at the eyes of the boys; they are not blue as we count blueness, but real blue, like the delphinium. I wonder if the English reputation for truthfulness above other nations is not in part due to the prevailing blue eyes? Who could doubt anything that angel were to say?"

I looked at the "angel" in question, and laughed heartily at this attempt to imitate Taine!

The people on the sands were not trippers. Those hung round the shops and the booths, where, for a penny, one might take a shy at "Aunt Sally." Or, if they came to the sands at all, gathered in shrieking groups about the "niggers," men blacked up, indeed, but whose yellow hair and blue eyes made disguise as impossible as did their cockney accent. Why is it, I wonder, that all people think they can imitate negroes? I once saw a minstrel show given by Chinamen, and, I assure you, it was scarcely more grotesque than these "niggers" on the sands.

No, my friends were not such as these. They were what Matthew Arnold, in his supercilious way, called "Philistines." But I miss my guess if, should a great crisis arise, the "culture" of England will not be saved, if saved it is, by these same Philistines, even as David of old was saved by the bearers of the name from the tyranny of Saul! "The submerged tenth," in England, as elsewhere, is green or rotten; the upper classes are over-ripe; it is the great middle class, without charm or culture, which will show what England's heart is, when the great struggle comes.

"But," you will say, "what struggle? Only a little while ago you were writing that you thought all this talk about war was nothing but what you elegantly called 'fluff,' and now you write as if an ultimatum from one of the great powers was imminent. What has happened to change your tune?"

In reply, I can only say "Nothing tangible." But there is a tension which one comes gradually to feel. For instance, the German contempt and hatred of England is too well known to call for comment. It is like what my father told me our Southern friends felt about the North in the days before the outbreak of war, and which he felt had as much to do with secession as did slavery. But few people with us appreciate the feeling in England toward the Germans. Business men are exasperated by Germany's expanding trade--especially in regard to trade-marks--the statesmen, even of the Liberal school, are anxious about the naval activities across the North Sea. But more significant still is the fact that some of the "best-selling" novels and most popular plays are picturing the invasion of England by Germany. This, of course, appeals most strongly to the Jingoes, but even such a respectable--if semi-chauvinistic--paper as the _Spectator_ is solemnly discussing an "amicable" division of the "backward" world--including Brazil, to which, said the writer--it was a leading article--"we should have no objection." Shades of Monroe! And yet, while they do not seem to think we should have any voice in the partition of the world, they are apparently convinced that we must feel about the mother country as Canada does. The truth is, the people of England have never recognized the independence of the United States! That is to say, they cannot believe that we do not regret the Revolution as sincerely as they now do, and that, were it possible, we should be glad to enter into a closer political association with them. In other words, while the fact of our independence must be assumed by the two governments, our sentiments must be colonial!

A few days ago I was talking with a retired colonel, who is convinced that war may break out any day, and he said to me: "I suppose if the old country had her back to the wall you would come to her help?"

I answered: "I do not think you could count on it. It would depend a good deal on the cause of the quarrel. There was a strong feeling against England during the Boer War, and there are thousands of Americans of pure British stock who do not think that Ireland has had a fair deal."

He looked at me for a moment as if he could not credit his ears, and then simply said: "My G--d!"

Had I known how deeply it would wound him, I would not have spoken. Certainly the thought of war between us and England is too horrible to put into words, and I dare say if there were a possibility of England's being crushed by a world power the superficial differences would be swept away like the sand-forts of the children, and deep would call to deep as it was recognized that the two peoples share a common ideal, and that it must be defended for the good of mankind. You know how I feel about war, yet I confess that should there be a righteous war in which England and America fought side by side it might not only remove the petty misunderstandings of the past but also lead to an abiding peace in the future. If only England could see that the Irish question is an American question!

Meanwhile, I wish the _Times_ would let Germany alone, and English travellers let us alone for a while!

Dr. Weir Mitchell once told me that he had a patient--a policeman from somewhere in the Jerseys--Newark, I think--who was a victim of an _idée fixe_. He asked him if he had ever been bitten by a mosquito? The man, with a wan smile, said: "What do you think?"

"Very good," said Dr. Mitchell. "When you let it alone it soon ceased to trouble you, but if you scratched it it festered, and you had a hard time. _You must quit scratching this thought!_"

But what was the poor fellow to do if every passer-by scratched it?

XXXIV

A PROBLEM IN CASUISTRY

Well, we now have the Celt with a vengeance! Cork is the most detestable place I ever saw. Such drunkenness, filth, and squalor I never dreamed possible outside of China! Ardent Home Ruler as I am, I can now understand the Ulsterman's fear and hatred of a rule that might turn Belfast into such a dunghill! You will say, and no doubt you are right, that this shows a lack of faith, and that thrift drives out filth. But sometimes it works the other way. At any rate, one cannot wonder that the Ulsterman should think that not faith like a mustard-seed, but like a mountain, would be needed to enable a man to believe that Protestant Ulster can be benefited by an alliance with Dublin and Cork. However, this is supposed to be the chronicle of a car and not a new treatise on the Irish Question.

When we were at Chester I bought a "slicker," which the salesman called a "shirt," and by that name it has gone between us ever since. As you may fancy, it has proved a useful article when I tell you that here, "The rain it raineth every day," not all the time, of course, but when one least expects it. The very sun is wet! But when it shines the landscape has the same sweet expression that one sees on the face of a dear little girl who has shed a few tears and is again smiling.

The morning we left Killarney it was not raining like that, but coming down in torrents. Indeed we were the only travellers who faced the storm. A good part of the company assembled on the porch to see us start. The hood was up, so that Ruth could not see me as I went to the rear of the motor to see if the chains were tight, but, ever solicitous of my welfare, she called out in an agonized tone: "John, have you got your shirt on?"

To which I replied: "I am not sure. I slept in it, but whether I put it on again after my bath, I can't remember!"

You never saw a crowd melt away so suddenly! One lady ejaculated "Fancy!" and one man laughed and waited to wave us farewell. He, I had been told, was a duke. I do not know if it were true. In Ireland one is never quite sure what is true. And, what is worse, or better, if you feel that way, I am unable to tell a duke from the commonalty!

Ruth says there is nothing funny in this story, and that I acted as if I lived on Second Avenue! Well, I can't tell. It made a duke laugh--if he were a duke--and that is no small feat!

The atmosphere soon showed the Celtic temperament. Or is it the other way about, and is temperament a natural reaction to atmosphere? At any rate the sun soon shone fair and warm, and the conditions for motoring would have been perfect had the roads been better. Unfortunately not only is the surface bad, but the roads are very narrow--a new danger--of which we were soon to have experience.

We were running along at a fair gait--Ruth says racing!--when suddenly, at a turn in the road I found myself under the feet of a team of horses, which loomed up like elephants. It was too late to turn, so I acted automatically, certainly without conscious volition, and threw the car into a hedge. It was a stout one, and the car rose like a hunter and came to rest on the top, which held it! No, this is not an "Irish" story, only a story of Ireland.

A gentleman was walking across the field and ran to our assistance. Gallant Irishman that he was he asked no questions, but assisted Ruth to descend. She was deathly pale, but, I am proud to say, neither screamed nor indeed spoke. Some laborers gathered and helped to drag the car back onto the road, none the worse, so far as I could see, for its strange adventure, save for a few scratches.

I now turned my attention to the driver of the cart, who all this time had remained upon his high perch, gazing at our efforts like a god upon Olympus, "careless of mankind."

"My friend," I began, in as quiet a voice as I could control, "that came near being a nasty accident."

"It did that, your honor."

"You came near having both those horses killed."

"That would have cost your honor a pretty penny, for the likes of them can't be found in the county. Sure the gentleman standin' there will tell you they took the first prize at Dublin not a year ago."

"Well, you are pretty cool about it. The lady might have been killed, too."

"That would have been a pity, for it's a sweet face she has. I was wondering she'd risk her life with you."

"Risk her life with me! Why, you impudent fellow," I cried, being by this time thoroughly angry, "the fault was all yours. You were on the wrong side of the road."

"Well, as for that, your honor," replied this incorrigible fellow, "this road's that narrer, _it ain't properly got two sides_!"

I could think of nothing better to say than that I would report him to the police in the next town, and took the name of the owner of the cart, which was painted in large letters on the side. I did stop and report the matter to a policeman who was directing the traffic in a town near by. He was sympathetic, and said:

"I know that man well, and the next time he comes to market, I will _represent him to himself_!" This was all the satisfaction I got. Indeed, I suspect it is as much as could be expected in Ireland. After all, it was worth something to increase one's stock of phrases. To represent a man to himself is no small feat!

A little later I got from Ruth a new light on Irish veracity--or rather, lack of it. She says it arises from no evil motive, but, on the contrary, from kindness of heart! This, she added, makes it different from any other lying in the world. This moral, or immoral, dictum was called forth by the following: I had lost my way--no uncommon experience--and stopped at a hovel to inquire the way. In answer to my call a veritable giant appeared. I asked if the road we were on would bring us to Blarney Castle? After a moment's hesitation he said it would. Not feeling sure he knew, I asked again if there was any turning I must take? But he said: "No, keep straight on this road and it will bring you there."