"When he that day with th' waggon went, He little thought his gla.s.s was spent; But had he kept his Plough in Hand, He might have longer till'd the Land."

[Sidenote: _A Modern Phaethon._]

One could not expect that the moral inculcated here would find favor with our Americans. How could the Mighty Republic ever have been brought to its present height and embraced the majority of all English-speaking people in the world, if her sons had not been ambitious and changed from one occupation to another? "Stick to your last" is only fit for monarchical countries, where people believe in cla.s.ses. This young man was of the right sort and should have a verse of praise on his tombstone instead of this one which reflects upon him. One of the party declared that the man must have been the best workman on the place, and that in America he would soon have owned the acres he ploughed instead of ploughing here for some landlord who spent the resources of the land in London or on the continent. The poetess of the party was commissioned to provide a subst.i.tute for the obnoxious verse which should applaud the act of this modern Phaethon who _would_ try to drive the wagon, after he had learned all he could about ploughing. We were driving homeward, and as the discussion ended in the manner aforesaid, a sweet voice broke forth:

"I winna hae the laddie that drives the cart and ploo, Although he may be tender, although he may be true; But I'll hae the laddie that has my heart betrayed, The bonnie shepherd laddie that wears the crook and plaid."

The Charioteers gave it the swelling chorus:

"For he's aye true to his la.s.sie, Aye true to his la.s.sie.

Aye true to me."

Who knows but the refusal of some rural beauty like her of the song to have the laddie that "ca'd the ploo" may have stirred our unfortunate youth to a change of occupation? The "s.e.x" is at the bottom of most of man's misfortunes (and blessings too, let it be noted) and why not of this lamentable end of the would-be wagoner!

The day was so warm, and our next stage to Buxton being not very long (twenty-six miles), we decided to spend the day at Edensor and take an evening drive. We met here, enjoying their honeymoon, a bride and groom who were well known to our Wolverhampton delegation, and how do you suppose they were travelling? Not in the ordinary mode, I a.s.sure you. I mention this incident that some of my charming young lady friends, who give me so much pleasure riding with me, may make a note of it. They were doing beautiful Derbyshire on horseback! It was delightful to see them start off in this way. I became interested in the bride, who must be no ordinary woman to think of this plan; she told me it was proving a wonderful success; and the happy young fellow intimated to me, in a kind of confidential way, that her novel idea was the finest one he had ever been a party to. I asked him if he could honestly recommend it, and he boldly said he could. We must think over this.

The evening ride was one of our pleasantest experiences. How entrancing England is after a warm day, when everything seems to rejoice in the hours of peace, succeeding the sunshine which forces growth!

"When the heart-sick earth Turns her broad back upon the gaudy sun, And stoops her weary forehead to the night To struggle with her sorrow all alone, The moon, that patient sufferer, pale with pain, Presses her cold lips on her sister's brow Till she is calm."

[Sidenote: _Buxton._]

It is thus the earth appeared to me as we drove along; it was resting after its labors of the sunny day. The night was spent at Buxton, that famous spa, which has been the resort of health-seekers for more than a thousand years, for it was well known to the Romans and probably to their predecessors. We saw many invalids there drinking the waters, which are chiefly chalybeate; but I take it, as is usual with such places, the change of air and scene, of thought and effort, and, with most, change of diet and freedom from excess, count for ninety-nine points, and the waters, may be, for one. But it is of no consequence what does it, so it is done, therefore Buxton continues to flourish.

How wise a physician was he who cured the Great Mogul when all other remedies had failed! The miraculous Tree of Life was upon a mountain five miles from the palace, and had to be visited daily, in the early morning, by the sufferer, who was required to repeat an incantation under its boughs. The words literally translated were no doubt something like this: "Pray away, you old fool! but it's the walk that does it."

You need not laugh. This put into such Latin as the schools delight in might be made to sound frightful to the Mogul "and scare him good," as the negro exhorters deem to be essential for spiritual recovery.

Our hotel was a magnificent "limited company" affair. The start next morning was a sight, in the first real downpour in dead earnest we had experienced. The sky was dark--not one tiny ray of light to give us the slightest hope of change; the barometer low and still falling. Just such a morning as might have begun the flood. Clearly we were in for it; nevertheless, at the appointed hour the Gay Charioteers, arrayed in their waterproofs, with the good hats and bonnets all inside the coach, pa.s.sed through the crowds of guests who lined the hall, wondering at these mad Americans, and took their accustomed seats with an alacrity that showed they considered the weather "perfectly lovely."

There are two miles of steep ascent as we leave the town, and a few of us decided to walk, two of the ladies among the number. Those who started upon the coach were all right; the pedestrians, however, found themselves far from dry when the top was reached--feet and knees were wet. By noon the rain had ceased, and we stopped at a little inn, where fires were made, our "reserve" clothing brought into use, and our wet clothes dried, and we were as happy as larks when we sat down to luncheon. Is not that a wise test which Thackeray puts into the mouth of one of his waiters: "Oh, I knew he was a gentleman, he was so easily pleased!" Well, our host and hostess at that little inn, who were taken so by surprise when a four-in-hand stopped at the door, said something like this about the American ladies and gentlemen as they left. Why not? Nothing comes amiss to the Gay Charioteers, and so on we go to Manchester, getting once more into the grim, smoky regions of manufacturing enterprise.

MANCHESTER, July 6.

[Sidenote: _Manchester._]

Mine host of The Queen's takes the prize for the one best "swell" dinner enjoyed by the party; but then the rain and the moderate luncheon at the little inn, so different from the picnics on flowery banks, may have given it a relish. The Queen's was evidently determined that its American guests should leave with a favorable impression, and so they did.

There was time to visit the Town Hall and walk the princ.i.p.al streets, but all felt an invincible repugnance to large towns. It was not these we had come to see. Let us get away as soon as possible, and out once more to the green fields; we have cotton-mills and warehouses and dirty, smoky manufactories enough and to spare at home. The morning was cloudy, but the rain held off, and we left the hotel amid a great crowd. The police had at last to step in front of the coach and clear the way. The newspapers had announced our arrival and intended departure, and this brought the crowd upon us. Getting into and out of large cities is the most difficult part of our driving, for the Ordnance map is useless there--frequent stoppages and inquiries must be made; but so far we have been fortunate, and our horn keeps opposing vehicles out of our way in narrow streets and in turning corners. We were bound for Anderton Hall, to spend the night with our friend Mr. B----. Luncheon was taken in a queer, old-fashioned inn, where we ate from bare deal tables, and drank home-brewed ale while we sang:

"Let gentlemen fine sit down to their wine, But we will stick to our beer, we will, For we will stick to our beer."

The number and variety of temperance drinks advertised in England is incredible. Non-alcoholic beverages meet us in flaming advertis.e.m.e.nts at every step--from nervous tonics, phosphated, down to the most startling of all, which, according to the London _Echo_ of June 2d, the Bishop of Exeter advertised when he opened a coffee-house, saying:

"It looks like beer, It smells like beer, It tastes like beer, Yet it is not beer."

Better if it had been, your reverence, for your new beverage was probably a villanous compound, certain to work more injury than genuine beer. In this country we also try to cheat the devil. I mean our unco good people try it; but we call it "bitters," and the worse the whiskey the better the bitters.

CHORLEY, July 7.

[Sidenote: _Anderton Hall._]

As we approached Anderton Hall the English and American flags were seen floating from the archway, earnest of cordial welcome. We were quite at home immediately. Mr. and Mrs. B---- had their family and friends ready to greet us. The dining-hall was decorated with the flags of the old and the new lands, gracefully intertwined, symbolizing the close and warm friendship which exists between them--never, we hope, to be again disturbed. We had a long walk about the place and on the banks of the famous Rivington Reservoir, which supplies Manchester with water. In the evening, after dinner, came speeches. The evening pa.s.sed delightfully.

Next day we were sorely tempted. Mr. M---- was to have the school-children at his house to be entertained, and an opportunity to see a novel celebration was afforded us. Our host and hostess were pressing in their invitation for us to stay, but one night of fourteen guests, two servants, and four horses, was surely enough; so we blew our horn, and, with three ringing cheers for Anderton Hall and all within it, drove out of its hospitable gates. We stopped and paid our respects to Mr. and Mrs. M---- as we pa.s.sed their place, and left them all with very sincere regret. How pleasant it would be to linger! but Inverness lies far in the north. We are scarcely one-third of our way thither and the time-table stares us in the face. We do not quite "fold our tents like the Arabs and silently steal away," but at the thrilling call of the horn we mount, and with cheers and G.o.d-speeds take our departure for other scenes, but many a long day shall it be ere the faces of the kind people we leave behind fade from our memory.

Chorley has been one of the seats of the cotton manufacture in England for more than two hundred years, the business having been begun there about the time of the Restoration. During the American Revolution it was visited, like other places in Lancashire, by mobs who broke up the spinning machines because they feared that they would deprive the poor of labor. Similar mobs once destroyed sewing-machines in France. What a commentary upon such short-sightedness has been the success of the spinning-jenny and the sewing-machine, and the revolution they have made in the manufacturing industry of the world!

PRESTON, July 8.

[Sidenote: _Strolling Players._]

Preston, sixteen miles away, is our destination, permitting a late start to be made. Our route is still through a manufacturing district; for Manchester reaches her arms far out in every direction. We pa.s.s now and then a company of show-people with their vans. Sometimes we find the caravan at rest, the old, weary-looking horses nibbling the road-side gra.s.s, for the irregularity of the hedges in England gives fine little plots of gra.s.s along the hedge-rows, and nice offsets, as it were, in the road, where these strolling players, and gypsies, pedlers, and itinerant venders of all sorts of queer things, can call a halt and enjoy themselves. Every van appears to be invested with an air of mystery, for was not our Shakespeare,

"Th' applause, delight, the wonder of our stage,"

a strolling player, playing his part in barns and outhouses to wondering rustics? There are such possibilities in every van that I greet the sweet little child as if she were a princess in disguise, and the dark-eyed, foreign-looking boy as if he might have within him the soul of Buddha. I do not believe that any other form of life has the attractions of this nomadic existence. To make it perfect one should put away enough in the funds as a reserve to be drawn upon when he could not make the pittance necessary to feed and clothe him and buy a few old copies of good books as he pa.s.sed through a village. The rule might be, only when hungry shall this pocket-book be opened. I should have one other contingency in order to be perfectly happy--when I wanted to help a companion in distress. Elia was truly not very far from it when he said that if he were not the independent gentleman he was he would be a beggar. So, if I were not the independent gentleman I am, I would be a member of a strolling band, such as we often pa.s.s in this crowded land, and boast that Shakespeare was of our profession. What are the Charioteers, after all, in their happiest dream, but aristocratic gypsies? That is the reason we are so enraptured with the life.

But in Preston there is no scope for idealism. It is a city where cotton is king. No town can be much less attractive; but, mark you, a few steps toward the river and you overlook one of the prettiest parks in the world. The Ribble runs at the foot of the sloping hill upon which the city stands, and its banks have been converted into the pleasure-ground I speak of, in which the toilers sport in thousands and gaze upon the sweet fields of living green beyond far into the country. It is not so bad when the entire district is not given over to manufactures, as in Birmingham and Manchester. There is the cloud, but there is the silver lining also.

If ever the people of England and America are estranged in some future day, which G.o.d forbid, I could wish that every American were duly informed of the conduct of the people of Lancashire during the rebellion, and, indeed, of England, Ireland, and Scotland as well, but more particularly of such as were directly dependent upon the supply of cotton for work, as was the case here. The troops of Pennsylvania did not more truly fight the battle of the Union at Gettysburg, than did the thousands of men and women here under the lead of Bright and Cobden, Potter, Forster, Storey, and others, who held the enemies of Republicanism in check. The sacrifices they bore could never have been borne except for a cause which they felt to be their own and held as sacred. The ruling cla.s.ses of the land were naturally against the Republic. This we must always expect till the day comes in Britain (and it is coming) when all forms of hereditary privilege are swept away and the people are equal politically one with another. Nothing could possibly please the aristocracy of Britain, or any aristocracy, more than the failure of a nation which ignores aristocracy altogether. That is obvious. Human nature would not be what it is were this not so, and they are not blamable for it, but, resisting every temptation, the working men of Britain--those to whom a Republic promises so much, for it gives all men political equality--these stood firm from first to last, the staunch and unflinching friends of the Republic. Some day, perhaps, it may be in the power of America to show that where the interests of the ma.s.ses of Britain are concerned, she has not forgotten the deep debt she owes to them; no matter what the provocation, the people of America must remember it is their turn to forbear for the sake, not of the ruling cla.s.ses, but for the sake of the ma.s.ses of Britain who were and are her devoted friends.

[Sidenote: _Preston._]

Preston, that is, Priest's Town, for it received its name from the many ecclesiastics resident there as early as the eighth century, was once the princ.i.p.al port of Lancashire; and when Charles I. collected ship-money it was a.s.sessed for nearly twice the amount of Liverpool.

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 _Emanc.i.p.ation_ 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_--"