Our luncheon was beside the pretty brook at Youlgreaves, on the estate of the Duke of Rutland, and a beautiful trout-stream it is. We could see the speckled beauties darting about, and were quite prepared to believe the wonderful stories told us of the basketfuls taken there sometimes.

There is something infectious in a running stream. It is the prettiest thing in nature. Nothing adds so much to our midday enjoyment as one of these babbling brooks,

"Making music o'er the enamelled stones, And giving a gentle kiss to every sedge It overtaketh in its pilgrimage."

If there be "sermons in stones," I think it must be when the pure water sings as it rushes over them.

[Sidenote: _The Burnie._]

The Charioteers demanded that I should repeat "The Burnie," a gem by a true poet, Ballantyne. Would you, my gentle reader, like also to know it? I think you would, for such as have followed me so far must have something akin to me and surely will sometimes like what I like, and I like this much:

"It drappit frae a gray rock upon a mossy stane, An doon amang the green gra.s.s it wandered lang alane.

It pa.s.sed the broomie knowe beyond the hunter's hill; It pleased the miller's bairns an it ca'd their faether's mill.

"But soon anither bed it had, where the rocks met aboon, And for a time the burnie saw neither sun nor moon.

But the licht o' heaven cam' again, its banks grew green and fair, And many a bonnie flower in its season blossomed there;

"And ither burnies joined till its rippling song was o'er, For the burn became a river ere it reached the ocean's sh.o.r.e.

And the wild waves rose to greet it wi' their ain eerie croon.

Working their appointed wark and never, never done.

"Nae sad repinings at the hardness o' their lot, Nae heart-burnings at what anither got; The good or ill, the licht or shade, they took as it might be, Sae onward ran the burnie frae the gray rock to the sea."

There's a moral for us! There is always peace at the end if we do our appointed work and leave the result with the Unknown. Let us, then, follow Mrs. Browning,

"And like a cheerful traveller, take the road, Singing beside the hedge. What if the bread Be bitter in thine inn, and thou unshod To meet the flints?--At least it may be said, 'Because the way is short, I thank thee, G.o.d!'"

And so at the sea the burnie's race was run and it found peace.

Immensity gives peace always. It is so vain to strive in the presence of the ocean, for it tells of forces irresistible. It obeys its own laws, caring for nought:

"Libel the ocean on its tawny sands, write verses In its praise; the unmoved sea erases both alike.

Alas for man! unless his fellows can behold his deeds, He cares not to be great."

Not so. O poet, when man stands on the sh.o.r.e and _thinks_, for then he feels his nothingness, and the applause of his fellows is valued as so much noise merely, except as it serves as proof that he has stirred them for the right. This state lasts unless he lifts his eyes to the skies above the waste, and renews his vows to the G.o.ddess of Duty. He learns, not in the depths nor on the level of ocean's surface, but from higher and beyond--that life is worth living, then he takes up his task and goes on, saying

"And whether crowned or crownless when I fall It matters not, so as G.o.d's work is done.

I've learned to prize the quiet lightning deed-- Not the applauding thunder at its heels Which men call fame."

[Sidenote: _Daft Callants._]

The Queen Dowager and Aggie were off to paidle in the burn after luncheon, and as a fitting close they kilted their petticoats and danced a highland reel on the greensward, in sight of the company, but at some distance from us. They were just wee la.s.sies again, and to be a wee la.s.sie at seventy-one is a triumph indeed; but, as the Queen Dowager says, that is nothing. She intends to be as daft for many years to come, for my grandfather was far older when he alarmed the auld wives of the village on Halloween night, sticking his false face through the windows.

"Oh!" said one, recovering from her fright, "it is just that daft callant, Andrew Carnegie!" I remember one day, in Dunfermline, an old man in the nineties--a picture of withered eld, a few straight, glistening white hairs on each side of his head, and his nose and chin threatening each other--tottered across the room to where I was sitting, and laying his long, skinny hand upon my head, murmured:

"An' ye're a gran'son o' Andrew Carnegie's! Aye, maan, I've seen the day when your grandfaether an' me could have hallooed ony reasonable maan oot o' his judgment."

I hope to be a daft callant at seventy-one--as daft as we all were that day. Indeed, we were all daft enough while coaching, but the Queen Dowager really ought to have been restrained a little. She went beyond all bounds, but life is an undoubted success if you can laugh till the end of it.

Let me try to give an idea how this blessed England is crowded. Here is a signboard we stopped at to-day, to make sure we were taking the right way; for, even with the Ordnance map upon one's knee, strict attention is required or you will be liable to take the wrong turn.

A voice from the General Manager: "Perry, stop at the post and let us be sure."

"Right, sir."

The post points four ways, east, west, north, and south.

First arm reads as follows: Tissington, 3; Matlock Bath, 10; Chesterfield, 21.

Second arm: Ashbourne, 3; Derby, 16; Kissington, 19.

Third arm: Dovedale, Okedon, Ilam.

Fourth arm: New Haven, 6; Buxton, 17; Bakewell, 13; Chatsworth, 16.

All this the guide-post said at one turn, and fortunate it was that Chatsworth, our destination, happened to be upon the fourth arm, for had the worthy road-surveyors not deemed it necessary to extend their information beyond Bakewell, you see we might as well have consulted the Book of Days.

[Sidenote: _Tissington Hall._]

The entrance to Tissington estate was near the post, and we were very kindly permitted to drive through, which it was said would save several miles and give us a view of another English hall. We managed, however, to take a wrong turn somewhere, and added some eight miles to our journey; so much the better--the longer the route the happier we were.

Every English hall seems to have some special features in which it surpa.s.ses all others. This is as it should be, for it permits every fortunate owner to love his home for acknowledged merits of its own. If one has the n.o.bler terrace, another boasts a finer lawn; and if one has woods and a rookery, has not the other the winding Nith through its borders? One cannot have the best of everything, even upon an English estate; neither can one life have the best possible of everything,

"For every blade o' gra.s.s keps its ain drap o' dew."

Let us, then, be thankful for our special mercies, and may all our ducks be swans, as friend Edward says mine are.

Have you never had your friend praise his wife to you in moments of confidence, when you have been fishing for a week together? You wonder for a few moments, as you recall the Betsey or Susan he extols; for, if the truth is to be spoken, you have, as it were, shed tears for him when you thought of his yoke. Well, that is the true way: let him make her a swan, even if she is not much of a duck.

We stopped at Rowsley for Miss F., who was to come there by rail from Elmhurst Hall. She brought the London _Times_, which gave us the first news of the terrible catastrophe in Washington. We would not believe that the shot was to prove fatal. It did not seem possible that President Garfield's career was to end in such a way; but, do what we could, the great fear would not down, and we reached Chatsworth much depressed. Our Fourth of July was a sad one, and the intended celebration was given up. Fortunately, the news became more encouraging day after day, so much so that the coaching party ventured to telegraph its congratulations through Secretary Blaine, and it was not until we reached New York that we knew that a relapse had occurred. The cloud which came over us, therefore, had its silver lining in the promise of recovery and a return to greater usefulness than ever.

We stopped to visit Haddon Hall upon our way to Chatsworth, but here we come upon tourists' ground. Every one does the sights of the neighborhood, and readers are therefore respectfully referred to the guide-books. We had our first dusty ride to-day, for we are upon limestone roads, but the discomfort was only trifling; the weather, however, was really warm, and our umbrellas were brought into use as sunshades.

Haddon Hall is a fine specimen of the old hall, and Chatsworth of the new, except that the latter partakes far too much of the show feature.

It is no doubt amazing to the crowds of Manchester and Birmingham workers who flock here for a holiday and who have seen nothing finer, but to us who have seen the older gems of England, Chatsworth seems much too modern, for our fastidious tastes. I speak only of the interior, of course, for the house itself and its surroundings are grand; so is the statuary in the n.o.ble hall set apart for it--really the best feature in the house.

EDENSOR, July 4.

[Sidenote: _Edensor._]

Edensor is the model village which the Duke of Devonshire has built adjoining the park--a very appropriate and pretty name, for it is perhaps the finest made-to-order village in England. Every cottage is surrounded by pretty grounds and is built with an eye to picturesqueness. It is entered by a handsome lodge from the park, and the road at its upper end is also closed by gates. The church, erected in 1870 from designs of Gilbert Scott, occupies the site of an older one. Opening from the south side of the chancel is a mortuary chapel containing monuments of the Cavendish family. In the churchyard is the monument of Sir Joseph Paxton, builder of the Crystal Palace, who was formerly head gardener at Chatsworth.

One or two epitaphs in the churchyard are worth noting. The following is dated 1787:

"I was like gra.s.s, cut down in haste, For fear too long should grow; I hope made fit in heaven to sit, So why should I not go!"

To be sure, why not? But is there not a little ambiguity in the "too long should grow?"

The next one, dated 1818, seems to commemorate the decease of a plough-boy who was rash enough to leave his proper vocation for another--a sad ill.u.s.tration of _ne sutor ultra crepidam_.