Class J&^t- 
 Book | V)7. 
 
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 CDHfRIGHT DKPOSID 
 
Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 in 2011 with funding from 
 The Library of Congress 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/seeingeuropebackOOmors 
 
Seeing 
 Europe Backwards 
 
 By 
 
 vv 
 m 
 
 Huston, I . S. A. 
 
 NATHAN SAWYER 6* SON, Inc., 
 
 1922. 
 

 COPTKIGHT 1922 
 
 By Wm INGLIS MORSE 
 
 ©CI.A659805 
 APR 27 1922 
 
 "HP / 
 
J- 
 
 To 
 
 Two 
 
 Who journeyed 
 
 WITH ME. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 Part I. 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 Foreword 9 
 
 I. Normandy 12 
 
 II. Paris — Chartres, Beauvais and Amiens . 22 
 
 Part II. 
 
 III. Dover to London 35 
 
 IV. London to the Scottish Border .... 44 
 
 V. Scotland and the Scotch 50 
 
 VI. The Upper Sources of the Tweed to Windermere 
 
 and Oxford 56 
 
 VII. London to Land 's End 62 
 
 VIII. Salisbury. Chichester and the Isle of Wight . 69 
 
PEEFACE. 
 
 The following sketch of a motor trip through Normandy, Picardie, 
 around Paris and environs and up and down the British Isles is 
 not intended as a guide book or fragment of history, but a floating 
 picture in motion as water passing under a bridge. 
 
 Our pilot at the wheel did service in the Balkans as a dispatch rider 
 during war days, and en route amused us with many tales — among 
 
 them the story of the famous Scotchman, Sir H L , who gave 
 
 his chauffeur "three hearty cheers" for a Christmas present. We 
 echo a similar sentiment with respect to our friend and offer — 
 "Three 'earty cheers for Driver Ball!" 
 
 Printed as special edition to 
 The Chronicle, number 162, and 
 limited to 200 copies. 
 
 No 
 
 "WIM" 
 
Regardant PEurope en arriere 
 
SEEING EUROPE BACKWARDS 
 
 FORKWORO 
 
 The Romance of the word "Europe" is based on a 
 civilisation much older than ours in America. Il is said 
 that the word is derived from the name "Europa" — 
 the t'aliled daughter of a king who once lived in southern 
 lauds. This dear lady had various adventures in Mythol- 
 ogy and her present namesake has gone through a series 
 of experiences, which render her an object of interest 
 for years ahead. 
 
 SEEING EUROPE BACKWARDS is at least sug- 
 gestive of some experiences beyond the herring pond. 
 FGC bas set forth his idea of what riding in Paris is 
 like. Journey from the Chemins de Fer du Nord to the 
 Place de l'Etoile and you are likely to get some inkling 
 of what's happening. Sitting with back to the perils of 
 transportation is easier on the nerves. A few broken 
 down "Flying Bedsteads" scattered up and down the 
 Champs-Elys ees are amusing testimony to the dangers 
 which lurk ever in the path of your trail. The police 
 with their sticks in a half-hearted way try to reduce the 
 dangers. Repeated rides around town at last give you 
 an idea of " Where's \\ here. " 
 
Getting "over there" necessitates crossing the wide 
 stretch of waters covering the Atlantic route. The 
 picture of the steamer moving away on the dim horizon, 
 the fish wondering at the empties left behind, is a theme 
 for imagination. Our artistic friend again throws us 
 an idea in pencil, which might well give us the desire to 
 start for the other side. 
 
 "Taking ship" now is far different from the days of 
 St. Paul. Every comfort is furnished the traveller. 
 His stateroom seems a little cramped, no matter what the 
 price, yet it furnishes a resting place for the weary at 
 night. Taxgatherers are behind. Your friends will 
 amuse themselves day by day, write you on occasion and 
 after your return things will progress in much the same 
 way as before you started, except that you have pleasing 
 memories of summer days, you recollect some "sights" 
 and most of all the things glanced at too hastily, not 
 knowing at the time that they were worth more than a 
 casual glance. Is it not thus with most of us as we skip 
 along? When you try to patch up your journey and 
 make it more complete, you see that many lights and 
 shades have been omitted, this, that and something 
 else. Perhaps next time you'll do better. But alas, 
 the next time never comes! 
 
 THE WATER FLOWS UNDER THE MILL AND 
 ON TO THE SEA. 
 
 The hurly-burly on ship keeps up until you arrive on 
 the other side and then it increases. The fog en route 
 makes you anxious, and every time you hear the Captain 
 step on the fog horn, you wonder what is coming next 
 as the huge leviathan swishes along, the fish wondering, 
 people exercising on deck, some asleep in their chairs 
 (the non-nervous kind) and so on. 
 
 10 
 
Your Scotch friend does not look you up, because he 
 says "it's uncannily hard to find anyone," and he does 
 not care much as to this, preferring to play his game 
 and sleep late into the morning. Besides this, he is a 
 Knight or something of that sort and is written down in 
 "Who's Who." 
 
 Attendants look well to your comfort and do all they 
 can for you, but if mal de mer comes you are likely to do 
 it yourself. The traditional Pan is not much use. 
 
 Fifty per cent of the travellers are of Semitic origin, 
 very well dressed and smart. "Vere do all des peoples 
 hail from?" someone asks. Out of 13,500,000 Jews in 
 the world, 6,000,000 abide in Russia, 1,250,000 in Aus- 
 tria, 1,000,000 in Hungary (many of them hungry), 
 600,000 in Germany, 300,000 in the British Isles, 5,000 in 
 Spain and Portugal, 500,000 in Asia and all the rest in 
 America (2,500,000). The hopes for resettlement of these 
 people in Palestine are not bright, because the sons of 
 Abraham prefer the busy centres of the world or this 
 ship, which has been dubbed "The Palestine Express." 
 
 The passengers have been described as "mundane and 
 demi-mundane. " Princess Vloe is travelling "incog." 
 with her black dog, black sheets and black pillow cases. 
 Mr. F. sits by the door of B 55 and sleeps most of the 
 time with his mouth open, and in waking hours complains 
 that he can't get in touch with the sea. The ship is 
 therefore to be condemned. The lady of the "snoot" 
 walks up and down deck, snoots in her chair, awake and 
 asleep, and when she turns the front deck end, the wind 
 catches her nymphlike form in its embrace and proceeds 
 to do with her what Barrias tried to do in his statue of 
 "Science unveiling Nature." 
 
 Here's good-bye to the Ship "Acq"! 
 
CHAPTER I 
 
 Normandy 
 
 Cherbourg circa June 21st, 3 a. m. Much noise and 
 rattling of chains, trunks. Whistles blowing. Mutter- 
 ings in French. A peek out of the porthole reveals the 
 coast of Normandy, one of the most ancient of French 
 Provinces, owing its name to the Normans who settled 
 here in 911. 
 
 The hour of debarkation arrives. A tender conveys 
 you tenderly shoreward, rocking like a cradle on the 
 swell. 
 
 Dogs, hatboxes, hampers and a medley of letters add 
 to the confusion and the jam — far worse than that on 
 Noah's ark. The Custom officials let us pass thro' the 
 bars, asking only for cigars and matches. French porters 
 pull the handles off of some of the bags before the pas- 
 sengers are landed, not maliciously but because they try 
 to carry too many at one time. One lady's hamper 
 flies open and out drop hairpins, powder boxes, feminine 
 articles of wear and a pocket book — the last a sort of 
 extra in case said lady lost her other one. 
 
 Later we interviewed Monsieur Hebrard of the Hotel 
 du Casino — seeking a motor to take us to Rouen, the 
 ancient city of Normandy. An American turns up at 
 the right moment, having just done the trip from Paris 
 in 5 hours (250). Essence costs circa $1.50 per gal. 
 A Panhard bus is hauled out of a shed, refurbished, 
 filled with "the necessary" and having made a verbal 
 agreement as to price ("Moan Doo! Never do that!") 
 we start for Rouen. Climbing the hill out of Cherbourg 
 was a long process, almost as slow as getting to the top 
 of Mt. Everest. The occupants of the car sit still, look 
 pleasant, view the pleasing landscape o'er, and keep 
 silent as to comments and possibilities. Fortunately 
 the day is fine. 
 
 12 
 
Later on we passed thro' a minor chateau country, 
 not far from the home of Millet. His pictures have no 
 doubt glued your attention to the beauties of art. The 
 originals cost more wherewith to decorate your walls, 
 but in most cases "copies" are easier to procure, and 
 cause you less tax worries. 
 
 Rene seemed to find it easy to go down hill. The 
 machine was alive, while the muffler roared like a steam 
 engine on the move. Never mind the rattles! He winds 
 his horn at the approaching cross roads, but does not 
 slacken speed, not even for hens or dogs or children. 
 
 At noon we hailed the ancient town of Bayeux, having 
 passed thro' the Cotentin country, famous for its cattle, 
 and recalling the Biblical Words — "There was much 
 cattle there also." The ten-year-old Panhard was not 
 quite up to snufT, but the best obtainable. 
 
 Rene, the driver, was a native of Cherbourg. His 
 knowledge of English was nil. When desiring to do a 
 little conversing, we pointed to some cattle in the field 
 or a passing two-wheeler and discoursed in Jew-fashion 
 with our hands. The chauffeur was handicapped in this 
 respect on account of the wheel. Now and again, when 
 the desire to say something welled up within, we consulted 
 a dictionary and then tried an experiment in some line 
 of comment. The information imparted was very scant 
 — mostly conjecture. 
 
 At Bayeux we stopped near the Cathedral close. Con- 
 sulting a French priest, we soon learned that he did not 
 speak English. The ladies came to our assistance and 
 acted as interpreters, which part they did with good 
 grace. 
 
 South of the Cathedral the Musee, where the Tapestry 
 is housed (the place was once the palace of the Bishop of 
 Bayeux) we were led by the keeper to an upper room. 
 Inside we saw for the first time the Historical Embroidery, 
 
 13 
 
which gives in detail the history of one of the five or six 
 great happenings which changed the face of Europe. 
 The preservation of this tapestry is a long story in itself. 
 It was hidden by the authorities many times during the 
 centuries since the Conquest. One time it used to hang 
 in the choir of the cathedral. At another crisis it was 
 hidden in a lead box. During the Revolution, when the 
 citizens of the town were fitting out some vans to carry 
 military supplies to Paris, some one suggested that the 
 tapestry be used to cover the tops of the waggons. To- 
 day this famous relic is preserved under glass in the room 
 of the Musee — the linen in good state of preservation 
 and the colors almost as bright as yesterday. 
 
 A word as to the history and description of this work 
 of the past. Some authorities associate this tapestry 
 with Matilda, wife of William the Conqueror (1066 or 
 not later than 1100). A few aver that it was not done 
 by Matilda, assisted by her ladies at court, but by some 
 unknown party. The name by which this relic is known 
 is not mentioned by William or his wife in their wills. 
 Inventories of 1369-1476 called it— "La Grand Telle du 
 Conquest d'Angleterre". Such names in the record as 
 Aelfgyva, Ceastra and Franci suggest a possible English 
 origin. The weight of evidence goes to show that this 
 tapestry was of French making and contemporary with 
 William the Conqueror and Matilda. Bishop Odo 
 (uterine brother of the Conqueror) is associated with it. 
 The worsted of Bessin district is clear. The wine bbls. 
 are peculiar to the locality. The length of the nave of 
 the cathedral of Bayeux, where it used to hang, confirms 
 our supposition and points to Norman origin. 
 
 The uniqueness of this work is based on following 
 reasons — 
 
 1. Because of its remote origin. 
 
 2. Because it is executed on such a detailed scale. 
 
 3. Because it relates to matters of such historical 
 moment. 
 
 The portrayal represents one of the half dozen acts 
 necessary to the remaking of Europe (cf. Freeman's 
 "Norman Conquest"). . . The Norman Adventures, the 
 
 14 
 
reforms of the Church under Gregory VII and the Cru- 
 sades. Following these (Belloc) "Europe awoke from 
 sleep and flowered into the Middle Ages." 
 
 Fame is won in various ways. 
 
 1. By the pen of great writers in various ages. Wace, 
 one of the contemporary writers of the Conquest, says — 
 "All things hasten to decay; all perish; all come to an 
 end. Short would be the fame of any after death, if 
 their history did not endure by being written in the book 
 of the clerk." 
 
 (Wace's poetical works were "Roman de Ron", a 
 poetical hist, of the Norman Dukes, and Brut, a hist, of 
 the British Kings.) 
 
 2. Fame is won by the use of the chisel. The sculptor 
 carves a Venus de Milo. 
 
 3. Fame is gained by the use of the pencil of the 
 artist (now being revived again) — e.g., sketches of Tur- 
 ner, Leonardo da Vinci. 
 
 4. Fame in this instance of the Tapestry came by 
 the use of the needle of the highborn dame — Matilda 
 assisted by her ladies at court. 
 
 A design was evidently prepared, outlining scenes in 
 the conquest of England by William in 1066. The exact 
 draftsman is unknown — perhaps some priest or priests 
 — for they were the principal artists of the time, the best 
 educated. The inscriptions in Latin, though somewhat 
 rude, show the hand of an educated person. 
 
 Inscriptions of to-day will be as difficult to interpret a 
 thousand years hence as these of the Bayeux relic — un- 
 less they are marked in some universal language. Paint- 
 ings do not tell much to a future age, but a bas-relief, a 
 "cop" holding up a Flying Bedstead, a man selling 
 newspapers to another or Dust-eaters in convocation — 
 if portrayed in pencil or even by needle would make such 
 scenes independent of alphabets or idioms. 
 
 The tapestry in detail is 230 feet long, 19 and two- 
 thirds inches wide — is divided into 72 compartments or 
 scenes — pictures 623 persons, 202 horses and mules, 
 55 dogs, 505 other animals, 37 buildings, 41 ships and 
 
 15 
 
boats, 49 trees (very queer looking). The horses in the 
 boats on the way to England evidently had an attack of 
 trial de mer. William's craft has a cross design from the 
 Pope nailed to his masthead. The Pope by the way sent 
 the Conqueror a signet ring with large stone and under- 
 neath the stone a hair of St. Peter. When the nobles 
 started for the boats and had to wade into the water, 
 they evidently removed their breeches. 
 
 We note one or two other features. Wace, with respect 
 to drinking, writes — 
 
 "This is their custom and their gest 
 When they are at the ale or fest; 
 Ilk man that loves, where him think 
 Sail say wassail, and to him drink. . . 
 He that bids sail say wassail; 
 The tother sail say again drinkhail. " 
 
 Another feature. In those days only Kings or great 
 men had beds or slept in them. King Edward is repre- 
 sented in bed, very sick indeed. The story in detail you'll 
 have to read for yourself. Common people had no beds. 
 In wooden boxes in the halls or kitchens were stored a 
 number of ticks, and before going to bed the peasant or 
 serf pulled one of these ticks out of the box, filled it with 
 packing and then proceeded "to hit the hay or straw". 
 As regards beds in those days, be it noted that it was the 
 custom of the times to "go into bed naked". "Nighties" 
 were evidently not in use, but clothes for covering must 
 have been furnished to keep away the night-chill. Prob- 
 ably the sleepers had taken a few night-caps to make 
 themselves more comfortable before retiring. Sweet was 
 their sleep! No worries, no nerves! Headaches (?). 
 Toothaches (??). 
 
 Only three women are mentioned in the tapestry. 
 Aelfgyva and the Priest remain a mystery. The scarcity 
 of women indicates the modesty of Norman ladies and 
 retiring nature. We are evidently living in a different 
 age — only a thousand years distant. "Retiring habits" 
 is a good way to express it. 
 
 16 
 
Cathedral of Bayeux 
 
 £T hi CEP SCq5V>GBV;l 
 
 Bishop Odo blesses the F< 
 Bayevi tapestry.) 
 
A minute study of the Bayeux tapestry convinces us 
 that fashions raged in those days as well as the twentieth 
 century. We refer now to ways of doing the hair and 
 especially the matter of whiskers or hair on the upper 
 lip. The Saxons seem to have worn mustachios; the 
 Normans not so. Probably the colder climate of Eng- 
 land made it necessary, especially in winter. 
 
 In parting with this historical theme, which offers so 
 much of interest to the student, we must record the story 
 of William's courtship. For seven long years he tried 
 to woo Matilda of Flanders. She was not responsive to 
 his ardors. One day, mounting his steed, he started for 
 Bruges and arrived there just as Matilda was coming 
 home from Church. He reproached her with lack of 
 affection for him, and then removing her from the carriage, 
 coolly rolled her in the mud of Flanders. Mounting his 
 horse, he rode away. The bewildered lady, who had 
 been courted for a time by a Saxon noble, bedrabbled and 
 mauled, began to pull herself together and doubtless 
 felt much like the chicken run down by a car, expressing 
 its idea of the happening, by shaking the dust out of its 
 wings, and voicing the sentiment — "My, but that was 
 some bird!" 
 
 When Matilda had thought the matter over, she con- 
 cluded that William's action was due solely to his inten- 
 sity of affection for her. The outcome was that she 
 married him, but the Pope extracted a promise from both 
 of them (they were blood relations) that they would each 
 build an Abbey by way of letting down the bars — the 
 Abbaye-aux-Dames and the Abbaye-aux-Hommes. These 
 buildings express in stone the spirit of "the loving and 
 faithful Duchess" and the "imperial will of the conquer- 
 ing Duke". 
 
 Our first meal in France was served at a hotel in the 
 town of Caen, next to Rouen the most interesting place 
 in Normandy. Charlotte Corday set out from here to 
 assassinate Marat. The town is also famous for its stone 
 quarries. Some of the stone was brought to Annapolis 
 Royal, N. S., about the early 17th century, and served 
 to build a powder house for the fort. 
 
 17 
 
Ordering our luncheon, we began to look around. A 
 few French people were engaged in eating, talking, and 
 enlivening themselves with a little wine. One young 
 couple ordered cider. The Doc. asked if it was "pomme 
 de terre" juice but we judge he found out the mistake 
 later. 
 
 The waiter produced a chicken, placed it in a compressor 
 machine, extracted all the juice, cooked the bird on a 
 small stove and served up the sauce in a very pleasing way. 
 
 When the time came for settlement of the bill, Garcon 
 objected to the tip, shouting — "Non, non! It is not 
 enough!" We replied — "How much do you want?" . . . 
 This brought up the grievous question, which has caused 
 more or less discussion in various parts of the world — 
 THE QUESTION OF TIPS. 
 
 TIPS OR WAGES? Which shall it be? 
 
 The waiters of Paris call for abolition of the tipping 
 system. They say that for them the "pourboire" 
 equals the "pourmanger. " It is a question of CAPRICE 
 VS CUSTOM. Is it to be ten to twelve per cent on 
 your bill? It might prove a question of "amour propre". 
 Would removal of this tipping business result in a loss of 
 incentive to please? We are inclined to think that the 
 average man's sense of duty to his customer is so small 
 that he would be inclined to tell the customer to be 
 "damned." 
 
 The personnel of the hotel probably would object to 
 scrutiny of the books. If a charge is made extra for 
 service, it is included in the bill. This is about the same 
 as your storeman selling you goods, tacking on ten per 
 cent and then promising to deduct it if you pay it within 
 thirty days. 
 
 A fair rule seems to be — TIPS PROPORTIONED 
 TO SERVICES RENDERED. 
 
 If you are placed in position where tips are necessary, 
 for one thing, refuse to wear a hat or to check your hat. 
 It will save you many francs a year. It also will make 
 you hardy. Hats to oblivion! 
 
 Leaving Caen, early afternoon, we toured away thro' 
 the beautiful Norman country. Instead of going in 
 
 18 
 
direct line to Rouen via Lisieux (where Henry II of 
 England married Eleanor of Guienne, 1154) we headed 
 north toward Dives-sur-mer, starting place of William I 
 for England, 1066. Here is located a quaint hostel 
 called " Guillaume-le-Conquerant." Thence via IIoul- 
 gate. Two miles outside this town, our Panhard col- 
 lapsed. Its spine parted or pulled out a main socket, 
 and there we were dished on the road to Deauville. 
 Fortunately we were halted in front of an old Country 
 Chateau, where we had a chance to rest the soles of our 
 feet for about t hours. Rene at last started to telephone. 
 He returned 2 hours later. The phone was out of order. 
 Thence we shot him off towards Houlgate with orders 
 to get another machine or perish in the attempt. Two 
 hours more wait. The afternoon waned. A French 
 peasant came along in his two-wheeler, with a dead 
 calf miilrr the scat. We hailed him ami tried to do a 
 little talking. The wife of the lodge-keeper came to our 
 rescue and the man agreed to take us hack to Houlgate. 
 We piled oui- bags into his cart, and started after him 
 on the walk. 
 
 Our Chauffeur before leaving us the last time said — 
 " II faut que je marche." A mile outside Houlgate we 
 met him returning in a limousine driven by another 
 man, who proved very accommodating. There and then 
 we stopped and argued about settlement of terms for 
 I he trip lo date. 1 1 looked as if we were stung. "Moan 
 Doo!" Rene looked crestfallen when we said it was all 
 over, and In- could return to Cherbourg. 
 
 Then we hustled our hags into the new car, paid the 
 man with the two-wheeler, and started for Deauville, 
 where we finally landed ;il Hotel Normandie. The place 
 was rather cool. A good many sporting people gather 
 here in the summer and do a little "high" flying." 
 
 Dinner was served later. While in process, one of 
 the orchestra members a violinisl jazzed into the 
 room and asked us what selection we would like. Some- 
 thing was spoken, li cost an extra fee. Later, he tried 
 ihe same trick again, but wisdom comes after experience. . 
 
 Th« 
 
 v.n of oi li- 
 on ihe roa 
 
 second day in 
 
 .1 lo Rouen ii 
 
 France saw 
 a Daimler 
 
 us 
 
 ■ar. 
 
 ere 
 A 
 
three hours run and we were in sight of the ancient city, 
 so famous for its mediaeval remains and nestling so 
 peacefully in the valley of the Seine. One mile out of 
 the town we blew a tire, and the driver had difficulty in 
 removing the nut from the hub. He called on several 
 higher powers and grew very angry, until we suggested 
 how the cap could be removed. Half an hour passed 
 and we were at the door of the Hotel de la Poste, Rouen, 
 where we stayed for two or three days and were very 
 comfortable. 
 
 The keys at this hotel were the quaintest we have ever 
 seen in our mortal travels. We never expect to see 
 anything to match the door-openers here this side of the 
 golden gate. By mistake, we carried off the key to our 
 room. Tied to the handle was a piece of beaten lead 
 weighing about a pound. In Paris, a wire asked the 
 editor to return the same to the Hotel de la Poste. That 
 is the way the French value antiques. They cultivate 
 thrift and never spend a cent without good reason. We 
 advise some of our spendthrift friends to live in France 
 for a time and learn something about this most useful 
 habit. 
 
 The hotel furnished excellent food, luscious straw- 
 berries, cherries and other specimens of the field. The 
 environment was not excessively clean, but we managed 
 to get on. The bedrooms were conveniently located for 
 jumping the windows in case of fire. A baby opposite 
 cried during the night. A dog barked. The next thing 
 we knew it was morning, and the carts began to rattle, 
 girls hustled down the back street to work, venders of 
 wines and tapestries opened up their shops opposite 
 our window, and we had a fine chance to take notes. 
 
 French money issued by local banks began to mani- 
 fest itself. Silver was practically non-existent — hidden 
 away in the stocking. Our experience here was repeated 
 in Paris and other parts of northern France, Amiens, 
 Chartres and Beauvais. Thousand franc notes seemed 
 to be the largest in circulation. When you removed one 
 of these from your wallet, you simply kissed the note 
 goodbye. 
 
 Rouen boasts three fine churches — Notre Dame, 
 St. Maclou and St. Ouen — three of the best in France. 
 
The church at Bonsecours is modern and cheap as most 
 modern structures are apt to be. A curious clock — 
 Tour de la Grosse-Horloge — erected 1389, shows how 
 things were done in the 14th century. 
 
 Rouen is also associated with the personage known as 
 Jeanne d'Arc. In this town, King John of England 
 (exemplary gent.) murdered his nephew, Arthur of 
 Brittany. Here Joan was burned at the stake. Here 
 were born Corneille, La Salle, Flaubert and other lights 
 of the world. 
 
 We attended our first and last cinema show while in 
 Europe in this town. Very good of its kind, but not as 
 interesting as some of the other sights. 
 
 In staying at foreign hotels it is always well to make a 
 close acquaintance with the concierge. He's a mine of 
 information. A good sized tip is well spent on him if 
 you plan to stay in his vicinity for many days. You can 
 joke him, pull his whiskers, get him to translate English 
 into French for you and loads of other tricks. 
 
 We took our farewell of Rouen. When the train was 
 due to start for Paris, the guard came out of his box near 
 the tunnel and putting a French horn to his mouth blew 
 a long and clamorous blast. Our regret was that we were 
 not able to bring away a similar kind of horn. The sound 
 still lingers in our ears. Perhaps Childe Roland had a 
 similar kind of horn when he blew it outside the Dark 
 Tower. 
 
 So we sped on our way to the gay city of Paree. 
 
 21 
 
YOU 
 
 CHAPTER II 
 Paris 
 
 Paris, July 24th, St. Lazarre Station. We had con- 
 siderable fuss over trunks. Proceeded up town to our 
 hotel, but found the rooms all let. We shook the dust 
 off our feet and departed from this wicked inn-keeper. 
 No hand talk! Finally we were lodged at the Mercedes 
 near the Place de l'Etoile, where we were made comfort- 
 able at considerable expense for over two weeks. Our 
 friends in Paris came to call on us. We tried to recipro- 
 cate. The manager at the hotel talked about America, 
 the Boxing match, etc. The concierge discoursed on a 
 multitude of matters, and said that he knew five languages. 
 We exhausted his knowledge of these tongues in a few 
 days. His long whiskers were a marvel. We told him 
 he talked too much. He said his throat got dry from 
 too much speaking. 
 
 We tried to get him to translate the title of our rambles 
 into French. Here he was stumped and said that it 
 could not be done, adding to this a hand-flourish and a 
 long drawn sigh. The best we could get from him was 
 — "Seeing Europe a la machine'''' or "Seeing Europe 
 a la revers." In despair we gave it up. All things are 
 not possible with men. 
 
 Scarcity of soap in Paris was noticeable. The water 
 was hard. The dirt refused to come off. We used 
 Evian water and Vichy for inside purposes plus a little 
 Sauterne. The cooking was excellent. A full course 
 dinner would cost you considerable, so much so, that you 
 soon learned wisdom in ordering your food. Breakfast 
 consisted of black coffee, a roll, and after waiting a long 
 time for the chef perchance a little bacon and eggs. 
 Oranges were extra. As you sat at the table, you could 
 see the people moving to work. The flies were present 
 in full assemblage — all married and grandfathers many 
 times. 
 
 22 
 

 JfliiHt l9 
 
 
 11 
 
 iiiii 
 
 ttmiftm 
 
 Righl Centre Portal 
 Notre Dame, Paris 
 
Shopping engaged your attention till luncheon. Then 
 some more scurrying around to view the objects of interest. 
 Life is too short to see all of Paris in one visit. We ad- 
 vise several visits. The art works are famous. Paintings 
 abound. Perfumery shops are enticing. We dodged 
 into a motor shop, where the Delage machine was for 
 sale, and asked the price. The salesman replied — 
 "Seventy Sousand francs." Thank you! This was 
 the chassis only. 
 
 We visited the Notre Dame Cathedral; spent a half 
 hour at La Madeleine and narrowly escaped getting 
 caught in a wedding procession. Hymen & Co. were 
 there in full force. The Suisse came on leading the gay 
 party from the portal. The assistant verger grabbed 
 his baton, ran to the holy water font, dipped it into the 
 water, and then shook it around on the people to ward 
 off any sign of evil or the Devil himself. Seemed as if 
 we could hear his stick sizzle when he drew it out of the 
 font bowl, reminding us in his act of a blacksmith at his 
 forge, who betimes dips his hot tongs into a tub of water 
 next the anvil. Perhaps this seems like imagination, 
 but this performance over, up the aisle the wedding 
 party proceeded keeping time to most ravishing music. 
 A few moments later, we managed to get out through 
 those bronze doors on which are carved the Rulings of 
 the Decalogue. 
 
 A visit to the art galleries of Paris is one of the first 
 dreams to be realised. The Louvre is the most important 
 public building in the world, because it houses many of 
 the finest treasures. Par excellence the Museum of 
 Europe. Napoleon and others added to its treasures, 
 collected from various countries, many of which were 
 never restored. The rooms are so extensive that it 
 
 23 
 
takes two hours just to walk thro' them without stopping. 
 Hence the utility of doing the tour on a bicycle. You 
 may find the stairs a little bumpy and run over a few 
 pedestrians, but that is included in the day's work. 
 We had the pleasure of glimpsing Orpheus bringing back 
 his wife Eurydice from the "infernal" regions; also the 
 Venus of Milo, the most celebrated of the Louvre treas- 
 ures. This lady with "vague and divine smile," with 
 superhuman, sightless eyes, with "superb bust and noble 
 bosom" at once lures the visitor to worship the beautiful 
 in stone. The statue was found in 1820 in Melos by a 
 peasant, and sold to France for 6000 frcs. The work 
 dates from 2nd cent., B. C. 
 
 We returned another day to see the sculptures; thence 
 to view the Mona Lisa (No. 1601), the most celebrated 
 female portrait in the world. Leonardo da Vinci has 
 portrayed the sphinx-like smile on the lady's face which 
 has exercised the wits of poets, artists, observers from all 
 walks of life and still continues to fascinate. 
 
 Leonardo's religious conscience did not trouble him 
 very much because he used the same model for John 
 the Baptist and for Bacchus. 
 
 A journey to the Dome des Invalides — a church de- 
 signed by Hardouin-Mansart is worth while on account 
 of Napoleon's tomb. (Constr. 1843 f., a crypt 20 ft. 
 deep and 36 ft. diam — In centre is sarcophagus of the 
 emperor, b. Ajaccio, 1769 and died St. Helena, 1821. 
 Around the mosaic are inscribed names of battles, e. g., 
 Rivoli, Pyramids, Marengo, Austerlitz, Iena, Wagram, 
 Moscova. The name "Waterloo" is not there.) 
 
 The tomb is located behind the altar of the church 
 and is very impressive in its design (Finland porphyry). 
 A solemn, blue light admitted from above enhances the 
 grandeur of the scene. 
 
 In the eastern quarter of the city, we visited the Pere- 
 Lachaise cemetery — the most interesting in Paris. It 
 takes its name from the Jesuit confessor of Louis XIV. 
 Some persons are interred here, whose names still live, 
 e. g., Abelard and Heloise, the story of whose ill-starred 
 lives is still worth reading. We passed by the tombs of 
 
 24 
 
Rosa Bonheur, Chopin and Cherubini, La Fontaine and 
 Moliere. The call of the custodian — "On ferme les 
 fortes", warned us that the time had come. You are 
 permitted to carry nothing out of the cemetery, without 
 a "laissez-passer", except your memories. On Jour de la 
 Toussaint and Jour des Moris the place is visited by 
 over 130,000 people. 
 
 In haste we made our way across the city to a place 
 called Asnieres, on the left bank of the Seine. This spot 
 is famous for its dog-cemetery on the He de la Recette. 
 A monument to Barry, a St. Bernard, stands in the centre; 
 the inscription reads that he saved the lives of 40 people 
 and was killed by the 41st Barry (du g d St. Bernard). 
 We also noted the words of Pascal — "Plus je vois les 
 homines, plus j'aime mon chien". How true! A num- 
 ber of inconsolable ladies have their favorite cats buried 
 here. 
 
 Other excursions had to do with the Place de l'Etoile, 
 the place east of this where a fine stone building was 
 damaged by a long-distance German shell. Between 
 Pere-Lachaise cem. and Asnieres we passed the one time 
 location of the Guillotine. (Incidentally the concierge at 
 our hotel offered to sell us a real sample, which he said 
 we could donate to an American Museum. Fancy 
 getting it thro' the Customs ! One might be tempted to 
 try it out then and there.) 
 
 The Sorbonne, famous as a university, is attractive to 
 seekers after knowledge. The Ecole de Medecine is part of 
 this centre of learning. In looking at a statue in the hall 
 of this medical school — "Science Unveiling Nature", we 
 noted the grim humor of the artist, Barrias, as he por- 
 trays Science removing the fair lady's clothes. For 
 Doctors of Medicine this is nothing new, but for Doctors 
 of the Church it is not orthodox. 
 
 25 
 
An afternoon stroll in any direction will bring new 
 sights, new surroundings. You see the sign — " Defense 
 d'afficher"! You note the brain-throb in surrounding 
 the bases of the trees on the edges of the sidewalks with 
 an iron grating to allow for moisture, nourishment and 
 chance to grow. A little boy passes you with a bottle 
 in his hand. It is empty, and he is taking it back to the 
 store to get credit for it. (A theatrical joke in London — 
 " League of Notions " — has it . ..." A hopeless case is 
 12 empties".) 
 
 We were curious to see a French Golf Club. A kind 
 friend and former member of La Boulie (Mon. Davey), 
 near Versailles, introduced us to the authorities — by 
 letter of course — and thither one fine afternoon we 
 went for a little excitement. The rules of the Club are 
 based on "extraits du code de St. Andrews". Space is 
 left at top of columns for trous de depart, distance en 
 metres, normale (bogey), coups requs, gagne +, perdu — , 
 portage 0, etc 
 
 The only excitement, apart from watching our balls 
 roll over the parched ground was furnished by a 
 Frenchman teeing up his "pill" on hole 2 and then 
 trying to hit it. He made a terrific swing but somehow 
 the ball only hopped a few feet into the air and fell into 
 a trap. Turning to us, he exclaimed — "C'est rotTON!" 
 
 Two trips to Versailles kept us occupied in observing 
 the beautiful palace and gardens, the latter the work of 
 Le Notre. The place reeks with historical associations. 
 Turning homeward, we rode through the Bois de Bou- 
 logne and there bumped another autoist so badly that 
 part of his side-gear, including an acetylene tank, was 
 badly shattered. One of our front tires went off during 
 the impact. The hairs in the driver's mustachio stood 
 up like quills. Excitement followed, talk, shaking of 
 hands and vituperative remarks. While waiting for 
 settlement of the brawl, we visited an inn nearby and 
 had dinner. 
 
 26 
 
Figures on Chartres Cathedr 
 
 Angel Sun-Dial 
 Chartres. 
 
Apart from a call on Monsieur Rupert Heys, Quai de 
 Valmy, next day we started for Beauvais and Amiens, 
 the last lap on our pleasure trip through Northern France. 
 Chartres is included in this — perhaps the most satis- 
 fying of all. We secured a second-hand Rolls-Royce 
 (not a Chinese i. 
 
 An early start was necessary and breakfast before 
 most of the natives were out of bed. At breakfast we 
 asked the waiter to hunt up the Chef and get him in 
 touch with the ham, which always took about a half 
 hour. The journey to Chartres is 200 kil. there and back, 
 allowing for some extras. The way led through Ram- 
 bouillet, noted for its park, gardens and hunting grounds. 
 Beyond here we passed through some of the most interest- 
 ing cornfields of France, famous now and famed long 
 ago. At high noon we saw the lowers of the Cathedral 
 of Notre Dame shining in the distance — one of the 
 grandest Gothic edifices in Europe — in sonic respects 
 the finest of all. Lowell spent a day here once and to 
 tin- inspiration of his visit, we owe that poem, known as 
 "The Cathedral". lie describes "A Day at Chartres", 
 how he "firsl ordered dinner at the pea-green inn", and 
 later near a public pleasure-ground, he .... 
 
 ....''blessed the Frenchman for his simple art 
 Of being domestic in the simple light of day. 
 His language has no word, we growl, for Home; 
 But he can find a fireside in the sun, 
 Play with his child, make love, and shriek his mind. 
 By throngs of strangers undisprivacied. 
 
 Looking up suddenly, I found mine eyes 
 Confronted with the minster's vast repose. 
 Silenl and gray as forest-leaguered cliff 
 Lefl inland by the ocean's slow retreat, 
 Thai hears afar the breeze-borne rote and longs, 
 Remembering -hock-, of >\i\-f that clomb and fell, 
 Spume sliding dou n I he baffled decuman, 
 1 1 rose before me, pat i<'ii! ly remote 
 From the great tides of life it breasted once, 
 I [earing I In- noise of men as in a dream. 
 
 27 
 
I stood before the triple northern port, 
 Where dedicated shapes of saints and kings, 
 Stern faces bleared with immemorial watch, 
 Looked down benignly grave and seemed to say, 
 Ye come and go incessant; we remain 
 Safe in the hallowed quiets of the past; 
 Be reverent, ye who flit and are forgot, 
 Of faith so nobly realised as this." 
 
 We crossed "the sliding Eure" and wended our tortu- 
 ous way up the hill to the Cathedral close, where we 
 alighted and tried to photograph some of the beauties of 
 this "venerable pile". The west front, richly decorated 
 with sculptures, is flanked by two lofty towers. The 
 rose window is filled with the oldest glass in Europe. 
 The interior of the church is lofty and dark, lighted 
 by magnificent 13th cent, glass. Religious thought 
 here is expressed in stone. The symbolism is most com- 
 plete, and represents "the very thought of the Middle 
 Ages made visible." 
 
 Lunch at Hotel Du Grande Monarque afforded a brief 
 rest before going back to the Cathedral. The dining- 
 room was full of flies, and the flies and ourselves seemed 
 to be most of the customers. When the time came for 
 the fruit, we dipped our cherries in the sauterne to kill 
 the germs, and then sallied forth again for an hour of 
 pleasure and contemplation, ere we turned toward 
 Paris. (A most illuminating and beautiful book on "The 
 Sculptures of Chartres Cathedral," by Margaret and 
 Ernest Marriage, text in English and French, Camb. 
 Univ. Press, 1909, with a wonderful lot of pictures, 
 will give you a good idea of the artistic beauties of 
 this noble structure.) 
 
 The waning afternoon increased the shadows which 
 fell and lengthened. The quiet scene seemed to lift us 
 into another world, another age of faith, when men were 
 urged to build even better than they knew. Our last 
 view of Chartres Cathedral towers in the light of the 
 westering sun still lingers. Well pleased and uplifted, 
 we journeyed back to Paris, the noise and bustle, the 
 blowing of horns, the innumerable cabbies scurrying 
 for their fares. 
 
 28 
 
Nave of A 
 
 y*v d% ^ ,>V 
 
 W -£ 
 
There is a saying — "The choir of Beauvais, the nave 
 at Amiens, the portals at Rheims and the towers of 
 Charlie- would together make the finest church in the 
 world." Our assent is uiven with respect to Beauvais, 
 where we arrived from Paris. The choir is upwards of 
 120 feet long. Ruskin claims that — "There are few 
 rocks, even among the Alps, that have a clear vertical 
 fall as high as the choir of Beauvais." The name of 
 this church is St. Pierre, started in the 13th cent, but 
 never completed. Only choir and transepts exist at 
 present. 
 
 Entering the Cathedral we found a military mass in 
 process for someone deceased — perhaps some notable. 
 While viewing the glorious interior, the vaulting, the 
 tapestries on the wesl wall, a solemn music charmed the 
 listeners and worthy of the pen of Browning or Tennyson 
 or Swinburne. Cardinals and church officials, clad in 
 gorgeous robes, boys and men as singers, added to the 
 beauty of the scene. An hour's inspection and meditation 
 and we passed outside, where a Hotchkiss motor awaited 
 to take us to Amiens. 
 
 The driver was tall and very French looking. He was 
 duck-footed, not webs but feet long and flat, so much so 
 that we queried how he was going to manage the pedals 
 of his machine, lb- was quite able to do that. Our 
 start out of town was at rate of GO kil. per hour. We 
 pulled our hats down, held on tight, while the wind made 
 our eyes run tears of water. Verily this man rode 
 furiously like Jehu in his chariot! We hoped to see 
 something of the country of Picardie, but spent most of 
 the time rubbing the dust out of our oyo^, and brushing or 
 mopping up I he tears. We managed to get him to slow 
 < ! - M to K) and so we at lasl appeared at Amicus. This 
 town fdi the effects of the war. One obus hit the S. E. 
 comer of the Cathedral. Many building-, were destroyed, 
 the ruins -till remaining as evidence of the struggle. 
 
 The Cathedral is called "The Bible of A miens" because 
 of it- many wonderful carvings in stone, Apostles, Proph- 
 ets and Martyrs and hundred-, of other themes. The 
 death of St. Firmin is pictured as you see. A clown is 
 shown in Cloture du Choeur (16th C). Abo the figure of 
 UAnge pleureur {Blasser). Cunning little boy! The 
 
 59 
 
Beau Dieu d' 'Amiens is an admirable figure of the Sav- 
 iour, His right hand raised in Blessing. The Virtues and 
 the Vices on the lower fringes of the front portals are 
 worthy of study, and show the imagination of the artists 
 of another age. 
 
 Later we went to lunch at the Hotel du Rhin, where we 
 were "refreshed" and watched with a good deal of 
 amusement a sort of duel between a waiter and a French 
 Dame, who objected to paying for the fish on the bill, 
 because she did not eat it. The waiter ran to the desk 
 and asked questions and the noble Dame replied that she 
 would not acquiesce. The headwaiter came to the 
 waiter's rescue but no avail. The amount was deducted 
 and then the lady told the waiter what she thought of 
 him — trying to rob a poor widow. . We admired her 
 pluck. If Americans dealt that way with the French, 
 both nationalities would soon be on non-speaking terms 
 — in fact nothing doing. 
 
 One "longing, lingering look behind" at the mystical 
 treasures of the "Bible of Amiens", and we were com- 
 pelled to turn our backs on the lure of things Mediaeval. 
 We can still hear the priest chanting his daily Mass in the 
 Cathedral; we can see the people passing the Holy Font 
 and seeking protection from the Evil one, and going out 
 again into the world perhaps stronger in the Faith, which 
 makes possible so many of the deepest realities of our 
 existence. 
 
 The morning of July 8th dawned clear and propitious 
 for our journey to England. Bags packed, minus a few 
 articles of underwear, nightshirts, pajamas and slippers, 
 we were hustled into a large sized bus, too big to be 
 smashed by a Flying Bedstead or other evil fiend. The 
 waiters, porters and many maids were assembled to 
 wish us good-bye. 
 
 The ride through the shining fields of Picardie and 
 Artois was all too quickly over, and Calais was announced. 
 Our embarking was done in quick fashion. The sea was 
 calm and visibility good. Regrets assailed us and the 
 wish that we might again turn back to the city of our 
 summer dreams. 
 
 30 
 
Forward we move. Underneath us "the never silent 
 strait"; behind us "Calais glittering in the sun"; over- 
 head the whirring Handley-Page Express on its swift 
 flight to London, and before us — 
 
 " the cliffs of England, 
 
 Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay." 
 
 31 
 
'Trees may bud, and birds may sing, 
 Flow'rs may bloom, and verdure spring. 
 Joy to me they canna bring, 
 Unless wi' thee, my dearie, O." 
 
 From R. Tannahill (1774-1810). 
 
PART IL 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Dover to London. 
 
 What we see in travel depends a good deal on what 
 we carry with us. It is similar to what we find in the 
 other great experiences of life — love, making friends 
 and the allurements of beauty. Enchantments come 
 and go, but they are peculiar to no one age, past or 
 present. Fears, ignorant people and other disagreeable 
 things may greet us on the journey, but the joy of 
 romantic things shows that our instincts are sound. 
 
 The day of our farewell to France was fine — one in a 
 thousand for crossing the narrow sea. The other shore 
 was lost in a haze at the start, although the channel 
 was smooth as an inland lake. Behind us was the 
 "City of Light," and the fast receding shores of that 
 land, which boasts so many famous worshippers. To 
 our recollection came those words of Browning: — 
 
 "Queen Mary's saying serves for me 
 (When fortune's malice 
 Lost her Calais . . .) " 
 
 and Arnold's reminders of the shining fields whereon 
 the Middle Ages seemed again gorgeous in their splen- 
 dour of the past. 
 
 Afternoon tea served to brighten the passage. 
 While thus engaged we heard the whirring of the 
 Handley-Page Express moving rapidly toward the white 
 chalk cliffs of England. The brief glimpse, the rattle 
 of the "tin", lasted only for a moment. A half hour 
 later we were landed at Dover, and to our right first 
 viewed the Shakespeare Cliff, which takes its nomen- 
 clature from the passage in King Lear — 
 
 35 
 
"The crows and choughs that wing the midway air 
 Show scarce so gross as beetles: . . . 
 Half way down . . . 
 The fishermen that walk upon the beach 
 Appear like mice . . . the murmuring surge 
 That on the unnumber'd idle pebbles chafes 
 Cannot be heard so high. . . . I'll look no more, 
 Lest my brain turn and the deficient sight 
 Topple down headlong. " 
 
 On debarking, the passengers are lined up in pens 
 according to nationality — aliens or citizens, sheep or 
 goats. Once through you come out into a larger 
 place, where you deposit your bags and await your 
 turn for examination. The matter of perfume is the 
 most serious. While waiting for the critical moment, 
 we noted a weary looking man at the other end of the 
 shed removing a quart bottle of cologne from his 
 satchel. A discussion was on. Sopping his handker- 
 chief with a bit of the contents and bathing his fevered 
 brow, we next witnessed the removal of the treasure 
 by the officer. Our examiner gave us the wink, and 
 by way of parting said — "Well, there's one thing I 
 know that you haven't got, and that's whiskey, be- 
 cause you're all Pussyfoots." 
 
 A smile does wonders, even in parting. A motor 
 awaited us outside. The London train moved out 
 and in some sort of a second-hand Italian car, we started 
 for Canterbury, where we arrived at dinner-time and 
 found rooms at the County Hotel, which still boasts 
 some kind of English service. The war has produced 
 many changes in this respect. 
 
 The Cathedral, yellowish in tint in the late afternoon, 
 looked deserted. The dryness of the close seemed to 
 harmonise with the rest of the environment. The 
 iron gates leading into the edifice were closed, but 
 hearing sounds of choir-boy music inside, we listened 
 for a few moments. Here was a kind of enchant- 
 ment — the master drilling his boys for the services on 
 the morrow. A strange man stood near us and seemed 
 lost in meditation. Later he remarked that he used 
 
Choir-boys at study-hour, 
 
 Canterbury Cathedral. 
 
 (p. 38) 
 
 S;irn i uarj door i aorl Ii side 1, 
 
 \< 
 
 ar the Liz 
 
 Durham Cathedral 
 
 
 ( Cornwall 
 
 (p. W 
 
 
 (p. 07) 
 
to sing in the choir — a testimonial to the influence 
 for good which this kind of training exerts on those who 
 number themselves among that sacred guild. 
 
 Canterbury is a sleepy old town, set apart from the 
 roar and bustle of the busy world, yet haunted by 
 precious associations and the memories of many great 
 names — Augustine, Lanfranc, Anselm, Langton, The 
 Black Prince, Cranmer, Laud, Becket, Henry II, Tait, 
 Benson, Temple and Davidson. 
 
 An American judge in company with his friends 
 once refused to enter this shrine and sat down outside, 
 while his companions went inside to view the monu- 
 ments. Cathedrals were evidently not his strong 
 point. Perhaps lack of association had bred other 
 tastes which had overcome his unworldly propensities. 
 One needs practice, even in things ecclesiastical, in 
 order to preserve enthusiasm; otherwise the fascination 
 is lost and the inner music fades. 
 
 "Home and to bed" as Samuel Pepys would say — 
 the bed old fashioned. Rest to the traveller is always 
 sweet, and with the new day come visions of splendour, 
 a tour of the sacred pile, a ramble around the cloisters, 
 a glimpse of the Archbishop's palace, the roomy 
 quarters of the Deans and Canons, and, coupled with 
 this, the desire that one might have so fair a place to 
 worship God, to walk the shadowy aisles in the dim, 
 religious light, and meditate on values which pertain 
 not to food and drink and raiment. 
 
 Morning service at ten was sung. The choir filed in, 
 followed by some of the dignitaries of the Cathedral. 
 The clergy took their places in appropriate stalls at 
 the west end of the choir facing the high altar, and 
 stood attention during the service or leaned on the 
 cushions. The organist up loft rendered some beauti- 
 ful music, the boys and men joining in perfect unison. 
 When the music ceased and the procession moved 
 away, one felt that part of "the palace of music", 
 just reared, had vanished according to the sentiments 
 of Abt Vogler. 
 
 Later we succeeded in taking some exposures of the 
 interior of the Cathedral — the enthronement chair and 
 the spot where Becket's shrine was once located. Our 
 
 37 
 
verger was considerate, especially after the gratuity, 
 and gave us permission to do much as we pleased, and 
 a few days hence sent us a couple of colored slides of 
 the Becket windows. 
 
 A visit to the choir-school is worthwhile, showing 
 the methods in boy-training, the rough benches in the 
 school room and their manly attitude, good manners 
 and attentiveness to their studies. 
 
 We gathered from the remarks offered by the man in 
 charge that this kind of a school bears good results. 
 It means training and discipline exercised in the right 
 way. The choir paper mentioned the fact that Canon 
 Robinson had gone to Dublin to conduct a quiet day(?). 
 Canons, Bishops, Archbishops and Doctrines of the 
 Church come and go, but choir-boys remain, and still 
 chant melodies hundreds of years old. So it is that 
 music links the present with the past. 
 
 Canterbury boasts many old cottages, buildings of 
 one sort or another, schools and reminders of the 
 Middle Ages. St. Augustine's College for colonial 
 missions was only one-third full. The war was blamed. 
 Many other curious reminders of past days caused the 
 passerby to pause and wonder. Mr. Dernbard Jaw 
 one time suggested that every building be knocked 
 down at the end of twenty years and a new one erected. 
 This would get the old cottages. But think of the 
 loss! St. Martin's church is worth a visit — its old 
 font dating back to Norman days. Thence to the 
 train and a long, hot ride to London, broken only by 
 glimpses of Kentish fields withered and parched, a 
 short stop at Chatham, a glimpse of Rochester Cathe- 
 dral and Castle and reminders of Dickens' home nearby. 
 
 The slow transit to the metropolis was due in part 
 to the recent strike, which had just been called off. 
 Traffic was not normal. It seemed strange to be back 
 again after ten years. The interim had seen many 
 changes. A taxi whirled us to our hotel on Brooke 
 Street — a very fine hostel, but worse than Paris in 
 respect to prices. One cause for rejoicing came with 
 the thought that Seeing Europe Backwards was not 
 such a trial here. One felt that somehow the taxi 
 
 38 
 
Enthronement Chair, Canterbury Catb 
 Former locatioD of Becket's Shrine 
 in the Foreground. 
 
man would "worry through". Yet even here many 
 rides backwards were necessary and we were still 
 committed to "Regardant l'Europe en arriere". 
 
 Sunday in London is well spent in visiting the 
 churches. Our morning choice fell on Westminster 
 Congregational Church, Dr. Jowett, pastor. The 
 sermon was the real reason. His text — "Ye are the 
 salt of the earth " . . . touched the right chords, and 
 made it clear that we are the salt of the community. 
 Following the service, we were invited to meet those 
 who came from the far parts of earth. The social 
 half-hour was well spent. One Scotchman in the 
 group reminded the Doctor that a good illustration 
 for his text would be porridge without salt. 
 
 The afternoon service at St. Paul's Cathedral gave 
 us a cool spot in which to rest (the day was very hot). 
 "The gloomy Dean" was the preacher. We sat near 
 the south transept, which was in process of repair. 
 The draughts were rather trying. Colds were in 
 evidence. A distemper was prevalent, called "droughty 
 catarrh", very English in name and judging by the 
 number of wheezes emanating from afflicted mortals, 
 the description was fairly accurate. The singing was 
 not as good as that at Canterbury. The chants were 
 pointed differently and the acoustics were not as good. 
 The hymn sung, Dean Inge mounted the pulpit — a 
 dark eyed, intellectual giant of the Church, who would 
 attract the thoughtful mind anywhere. His text — 
 "These having no law are a law unto themselves" 
 (St. Paul) . . . pointed to conditions to-day, the 
 tendency to cast off all restrictions, to disregard the 
 Sabbath, to loosen the marriage laws, to seek pleasure 
 and live one's own life. The novels of the age fall 
 into accord with this general tendency. Continental 
 fashions were evidently not in fashion with the Dean. 
 He further pointed out that Christian Liberty is the 
 only true kind and that all others are licentiousness. 
 If the people of the early Church were subject to dis- 
 cipline, if the soldiers felt this same hand during the 
 war, why not modern christians in the line of duty? 
 
 St. Martin-in-the-Fields is doing a noble work. The 
 present rector has started a great campaign in the very 
 
heart of London. His parish magazine, or review as it 
 is called, is the best sample of a religious review that 
 we have seen, in that it is up to date, deals with con- 
 temporaneous issues, and its contributors represent the 
 highest type of thinkers in England. 
 
 Blue Monday dawned (not very blue but hot). At 
 breakfast time we met some sort of a Sinn Feiner, who 
 was prowling around the hotel, and noticed him later 
 on. His business seemed to be rather mysterious. 
 Letters were overdue from home and our first raid was 
 on Messrs. . . . , 22 Old Broad Street, a hard place to 
 reach and consuming an hour of our precious time. 
 The Bank authorities seemed to have the idea that all 
 the riches of the world reposed in America, and that 
 the rate of exchange might possibly be explained by 
 some of the magnates in Wall Street, N. Y. 
 
 Theatres always attract the moths, who desire a 
 little light thrown on the humorous canvas of existence. 
 To that end we attended at least four of the popular 
 performances — "The League of Notions", "The Wrong 
 Number", "Bull-dog Drummond" and another play, 
 which we have forgotten. We recommend these shows 
 as at least interesting, and liable to keep you awake. 
 At one performance, a couple of young girls sat behind 
 us and the humor of the situation was such, that they 
 giggled and wheezed so much and lost their breath so 
 many times, that some of the staid English people one 
 time by their looks threatened a sort of excommunica- 
 tion for these folk. One of the young ladies, possibly a 
 flapper, sounded much like the squeak of a mouse. 
 Only Mr. Punch could do justice to the occasion. 
 
 The repartee on the stage was rather laughable. One 
 of the comedians remarked — "A hopeless case is 
 twelve empties." 
 
 Another dialogue in front of the curtain with tele- 
 phones — 
 
 "What is a 'igh-brow?" 
 
 "A 'igh-brow is one who has more intelligence above 
 his brow than he can carry." 
 
 "What is a low-brow?" 
 
 "A low-brow is one who 'ates a 'igh-brow." 
 
 "Will you 'ave some beer?" 
 
 "No thanks. I've just been sick." 
 
 40 
 
The mention of a trip to Scotland set our imagination 
 in motion, and we immediately began to study routes 
 and ways and means. Almost anything seemed feas- 
 ible in view of the 'igh cost of living. Pounds repre- 
 sented only small pieces of "piper", on which according 
 to the custom in vogue, when cashing, one was supposed 
 to write his name for purposes of identification. Lon- 
 doners were evidently out for crooks. Knowing that 
 Scotland was a frugal place, occupied by a people 
 far-famed for thrift, we judged it better to take refuge 
 there for a few days to bring down the general average 
 of daily expense. The canny Scotchman after a week's 
 stay in London, wrote home that he had been there 
 only a brief time, "when bang went a saxpence". 
 
 We were anxious to find a place where reputable 
 golf shoes could be purchased. The desired haven was 
 located near Trafalgar Square, just around the corner 
 from the spot where "Morley's Refrigerator" used to 
 stand (now gone and the building devoted to some 
 sort of a club from the far ends of the Empire). The 
 square still seemed much as usual. Flappers pass down 
 to work each morning and lift their eyes to the amusing 
 aspects of the monuments nearby. 
 
 Our store was inconspicuously situated on the 
 Strand — the proprietors, Messrs Dowie & Marshall, 
 Ltd. They were able to furnish the shoes on order. 
 Posted on the wall, we saw a copy of a letter from 
 Thomas Carlyle, the Sage of Chelsea, which read 
 something like this — 
 
 Dear Sir, — Not for your sake alone, but for that 
 of a Public, suffering much in its feet, I am willing to 
 testify that you have yielded me complete and un- 
 expected relief in that particular, and in short, on trial 
 after trial, that you seem to me to possess, in signal 
 contrast to so many of your brethren, the actual art 
 of making shoes which are easy to the wearer. My 
 thanks to you are emphatic and sincere. 
 
 T. Carlyle. 
 5 Cheyne Row, Chelsea, 
 10 July 1868. 
 
 41 
 
While waiting for measurements for the shoes, one 
 of the firm showed us a shoe in making for a lady, 
 whose ankle measured twenty-six inches in diameter. 
 A snow-boot would have been cheaper. Presumably 
 Messrs Dowie & Marshall, Ltd., are capable of minis- 
 tering to all, who are troubled with hammer toes, flat 
 feet and other malformations. 
 
 One or two more journeys around town and our first 
 stay is over. The Tower of London is mentioned by 
 one of the party. The crown jewels we found well 
 protected. Where they were stored during the war 
 remains a mystery. Badges of various Orders of 
 Empire occupy one corner of the round room. Bestowal 
 of one of these insignia on a member of your family will 
 add prestige to your name, and your family will talk 
 about it ever afterwards. In that case you have to be 
 on your best behaviour, when in public, and given to 
 good works of every kind. 
 
 In 1911, we saw the Kaiser and two members of his 
 family ride forth from the Tower in very jolly style. 
 We wondered at the time, and if we had known what 
 was to come a few years later would have wondered 
 still more about his thoughts on that morn. 
 
 A visit to the Habbey is perfectly orthodox and 
 proper. The services this time seemed unusually well 
 attended — in fact there was a rush for seats. We found 
 the place jammed at vesper service and at length left 
 for more commodious quarters. A peep at the wax 
 effigies in the little upper room occupied our attention 
 on Monday following. 
 
 Bookshops are always enchanting — new wares, new 
 ideals, old editions bound in leather and other amenities. 
 We were compelled to relinquish our purchase of a 
 two-volume copy of George Moore's "Abelard and 
 Heloise", owing to some Customs' notice forbidding 
 entrance into New York. The S. P. C. K. still conducts 
 business and furnishes the clergy with their necessary 
 provender, all of which keeps the wheels of the homi- 
 letical grist-mill turning from week to week. 
 
ip.U) 
 
A few last things, some hours spent over "the dear, 
 old trunks", and one day later we were all packed away 
 in our motor vehicle, ready for our journey to Scotland. 
 Driver Ball seemed glad to see us again. Gladly we 
 resigned ourselves to his care, and later in conference 
 on the front seat he related en route many of his 
 experiences during the war. 
 
 4:5 
 
CHAPTER IV. 
 
 London to the Scottish Border. 
 
 Our route from London to Edinburgh (425 miles) 
 lay through Peterborough, York, Durham, Newcastle 
 and Cheviot Hills to the northern metropolis. Two 
 days at least would be required to complete the jour- 
 ney. Favoring weather and good roads would help. 
 Travel imposes its limitations as well as confers pleas- 
 ures. A journey once started usually means, if your 
 time is limited, that a schedule must be followed. Up 
 to date of leaving London, we usually accounted a 
 journey of one hundred miles "a quiet day", but to 
 reach our northern destination in forty-eight hours 
 meant hard work for the driver and endurance for the 
 members of the party. A two - hundred - mile trip 
 signified the "tearing off" or completion of that part 
 of our total mileage for the summer. Time, the great 
 thief, was removing from our control so much of dis- 
 tance each day. Ours to improve the opportunity. 
 
 A view of Hampstead Heath, once the resort of 
 robbers, and in modern times of some famous artists, 
 spread itself before our gaze. On Spaniards Road we 
 passed Jack Straw's Castle, an old inn, famous in 
 bygone days. This region also boasts its literary 
 associations connected with such names as Keats, 
 Dr. Johnson, George Romney, Bishop Butler and other 
 noted men. 
 
 We came in sight of Stilton, famous for its cheese, 
 about noon and arrived at Peterborough a few minutes 
 later. This ancient town boasts a cathedral — one of 
 the most important of the Norman churches yet re- 
 maining in England. The structure in present out- 
 line dates from the twelfth century. The lightness 
 of the interior as shown in the illustration, does not 
 detract from the general impression. The solid Nor- 
 man piers on more minute inspection show that the 
 early builders "scamped" their work, a not uncommon 
 
 44 
 
happening then as now. This defective work is clear 
 from the piers, which are made of a sort of concrete 
 shell filled with rubble; moreover, the former builders 
 neglected to get down to the solid rock which has been 
 found only three or four feet below the existing 
 foundations. 
 
 Affixed to the wall to the north of the west door is an 
 old portrait of Scarlett, the man who participated in 
 the burial of Queen Catherine of Aragon and also 
 Mary, Queen of Scots. The Puritans of a later age 
 gave some of the monuments harsh treatment. Inspec- 
 tion of the roof of the nave shows some fine Norman 
 remains. A half hour's walk served to give one an 
 idea of this edifice, and to remind us that we must 
 continue our journey. 
 
 Outside the town, we were held up by a couple of 
 policemen, who desired to know if we were Sinn Feiners 
 bent on destruction of the communications leading 
 north. Some of the Irish had visited this locality a 
 few days before and succeeded in cutting the wires. 
 We were able to furnish guarantees of our peaceful 
 errand and allowed to proceed. 
 
 Selby is famous for its Abbey, said to be the tradi- 
 tional birthplace of Henry I. At Newark-on-Trent we 
 noticed an old castle on the south side of the river. 
 Our guide book indicated that an exemplary gentleman 
 by the name of King John died here about 1216. North 
 of this region we passed near the home of William 
 Brewster and were reminded that at Bawtry there 
 once lived a character by the name of William Brad- 
 ford, second governor of Plymouth Colony. At Ret- 
 ford, beyond Doncaster, we blew a tire, the first and 
 only one on our journey and, while waiting for repairs, 
 examined the country nearby. The land was baked 
 almost as hard as macadam road, filled with cracks, and 
 not very profitable as grazing for the horses and cattle. 
 
 A few unemployed miners were visible, one or two 
 near the bridge, and in conversation with them we 
 learned something of conditions existing, and how 
 during the war many of them were sent to the front 
 and the first to be returned to aid in the production of 
 the much needed coal. 
 
 45 
 
Tea at the Barnby Moor Inn gave us a short breath- 
 ing spell. This little hostel is situated in the centre 
 of one of the hunting districts of the Kingdom. Quaint 
 pictures of the chase adorned the walls, and old 
 furniture and bric-a-brac lined the halls and living 
 quarters. 
 
 En route to York, our camping place for the night, 
 we passed the time pleasantly by listening to some of 
 the tales of Driver Ball. He spent two or three years 
 in the Balkans as a dispatch rider at daily expense to 
 the government of two shillings, six pence. Later his 
 wages were raised to three shillings, ten pence. Three 
 quarters of this was returned to his wife and two chil- 
 dren near London. Misfortunes attended his family 
 as so many others. During one of the German raids 
 on London, his father and rest of the family took refuge 
 in the cellar of a garage near Victoria Station. The 
 third night, the family went back to their home nearby 
 with the result that when a bomb dropped near the 
 front of the house, his parent was literally blown 
 through the back side of the house. 
 
 John was fond of telling the story of "The Flying 
 Bedstead", which originated in France during the war. 
 One of the boys had an old bedstead, which his com- 
 rades suggested that he smash as badly as possible 
 and then ship it to the dealer in popular cars (the most 
 popular in America) and ask him to fix it up and return 
 within a week. The dealer near Paris wired back — 
 "Your car received, but too badly damaged to repair, 
 so am sending you a new one." Hence this amusing 
 legend of war-days. Whenever you see one of these 
 cars on the road, just recall the episode of the Flying 
 Bedstead and your ennui will be relieved. Many a 
 smile has passed at the remembrance of this tale. 
 
 A night's rest at York prepared us for another day's 
 strenuous journey to The Athens of the North. The 
 Cathedral to the north-east of the hotel loomed up on 
 the hill. The church bells were ringing worshippers to 
 prayer, but for once in twenty years at least, we were 
 compelled to play the part of backsliders, and make 
 resolves that such a sin should not be again attributed 
 to us. 
 
 46 
 
An interesting and charming country greets the 
 pilgrim beyond York. A Scotchman presides over the 
 fortunes of this great Diocese. His official title in 
 signature is Cosmo Ebor. Some trace of the canny 
 Scot is found wherever you go, even to the far ends of 
 the earth, and his success everywhere is probably due 
 to the fact that Scotchmen "take their good where 
 they can get it". This observation applies not merely 
 to the use of language but a number of other things. 
 
 A short distance beyond Eboracum (York) we spied 
 the outline of "The White Horse" carved on the 
 southern exposure of the Hambleton Hills. Sixty 
 miles ahead we came to a small mining town called 
 Coxhoe, the birthplace of Elizabeth Barrett, who once 
 lived at Coxhoe Hall. The great people of the world 
 spring up in the least suspected places. Her marriage 
 later to Robert Browning threw an added glamour of 
 romance over the lives of these two delectable persons, 
 and gave the world one of the sweetest love stories 
 known to the race. 
 
 "Where was he born?" we often ask of such and such 
 a person. This suggests many theories as to lives of 
 those who have manifested some sparks of genius. The 
 thunder cloud stores up its energy and then one day, 
 according to Nietzsche discharges its power in the 
 lightning flash. So with the great ones of the wide 
 world. Just where the cloud will float and how far 
 and where the discharge will take place, who can tell? 
 
 We jotted down the following names of those who 
 have made their mark on the long and faded scroll of 
 time. We glimpsed the spot where they first saw the 
 light or lived for many years. Among these we may 
 mention — Collins (poet), Chichester, 1719-59; Charles 
 Dickens (Portsmouth), 1812-70; Swinburne (London), 
 1837-1909; Watts & Millais (Southampton), 1674-1748 
 & 1829-96; Robert Browning (Camberwell), 1812-89; 
 Shelley (Sussex), 1731-1815; Mrs. Browning (Coxhoe), 
 1806-61; Massinger (Salisbury), 1583; Sir Humphry 
 Davy (Penzance), 1778-1829; Matthew Arnol'd 
 (Staines), 1822-88; Shakespeare (Stratford), 1564- 
 1616; George Eliot (Nuneaton), 1819-80; William 
 
 47 
 
Paley (Peterborough), 1743-1805; William & Robert 
 Chambers (Peebles), 1800 & 1802; Carlyle (Ecclefe- 
 chan), 1795-1881; Allan Ramsay (Leadhills), 1685- 
 1758; R. L. Stevenson (Edinburgh), 1818-87; Sir 
 Walter Scott (Edinburgh) 1771-1832. 
 
 This list indicates a few of those mortals, whose 
 imagination bodied forth "the forms of things un- 
 known" and gave "to airy nothingness a local habita- 
 tion and a name". It is difficult to estimate the 
 influence of environment on even the above names, 
 or exactly how much the city or country plays in the 
 production of genius. 
 
 Durham and its Cathedral on the hilltop seem to be 
 the resultant of the monks, who once searched for a 
 proper burial place for the bones of St. Cuthbert. 
 The purpose of these churchmen was somehow mixed 
 up with an old lady, who lost her cow and found its 
 whereabouts through another observant friend, who 
 said the animal was in the vicinity of Dun-holm (hill- 
 valley). Here, in a distant age, the monks reared a 
 lofty temple, "half castle and half house of God", 
 partly for worship and partly for defence against the 
 Scots. The sculpture of the Dun cow (which we 
 photographed from a recumbent tombstone) is located 
 on the northwest corner of the north transept (18th 
 century). The sanctuary knocker is an object of 
 interest. Modern "knockers" are not as useful or 
 ornamental. Malefactors, who were able to sound 
 this relic, were allowed refuge from their persecutors — 
 a privilege which accords with a somewhat lawless 
 age. 
 
 A little fun with the maid at the hotel provoked some 
 slight mirth. 
 
 Traveller — "Are you English?" 
 Maid— "No, thank God, I'm Scotch!" 
 Meeting one of the guests in the hallway, she turned 
 the same way as the Doctor. A few moments later as 
 they were about to pass, she said — "Are you going to 
 do that again?" The job of getting by our friends or 
 enemies on the other side seemed to be difficult on many 
 an occasion, and all due to a custom. 
 
 48 
 
We neared the Scottish border mid-afternoon, and 
 as we gradually moved up the incline, an inspiring 
 view was spread out before us — hills covered with 
 heather, sheep feeding on the gentle slopes, misty- 
 clouds hanging on the distant summits of the Cheviots. 
 Behind us lay the land so full of history and before us 
 the abode of the canny Scot, the country where no 
 Jews are able to survive the financial strain, and as 
 report has it at present time only one remains, and he 
 can't get out because he isn't able to raise the money. 
 
CHAPTER V. 
 
 Scotland and the Scotch. 
 
 The story of the hills and mountains of our planet 
 must ever continue to interest our curiosity. The 
 Israelite well knew the fascination, when he uttered 
 the sentiment — "I will lift up mine eyes unto the 
 hills." These upper regions of life keep us from 
 going stale and spur us on in hours of depression and 
 indifference, reminding us of our priceless heritage. 
 A skip from hill-top to hill-top might well prove an 
 exciting existence, but the valleys and lowlands must 
 also be explored, the harvestage of an earthly round be 
 gathered in before we journey to search out the higher 
 elevations. 
 
 Forming a thirty-five mile border between England 
 and Scotland, the Cheviots have their own tale to tell. 
 Beautiful in a scenic way, sung in the ballad of the 
 Chevy Chase and the haunt of a hardy race of sheep — 
 these hills bring an unending inspiration to those who 
 would see for themselves. A scientific writer indicates 
 that these mountains, in fact all in Scotland, England 
 and Wales, are not genuine in the sense that we think 
 of the Himalayas. What a blow to natives of this 
 north land! 
 
 For the first time in weeks, we noticed cloudy mists 
 gathering on the far away summits. The sun at 
 times shot through some less dense shading and re- 
 minded us of an April day in Canada. The loneliness 
 grew more impressive. The plaintive bleating of the 
 young lambs calling their mothers, the wide expanses 
 of heather, a stray cottage in some sheltered recess on 
 the bleak slope seemed but a parable of humanity's 
 journey. We heard no skylarks, but our primal 
 instincts were aroused by the sense of spaciousness 
 and immensity much akin to the star-strewn sky on a 
 summer night. This region is par excellence the happy 
 
 50 
 
hunting ground of the scientist. He is at liberty to 
 examine the cuckoo-spit on the thistles, to listen to 
 the humming of bees as they hover above the new- 
 blown bells of heather, to interpret the signs of lower 
 kinds of life and to watch the cud-chewing of the sheep 
 in some sequestered glen. If we see not these signs 
 with the lenses of the trained observer, it is because we 
 are "mole-eyed". The questions — "When is a moun- 
 tain not a mountain?" "Why does heather (ling or 
 bell variety) grow so well in exposed places?" may well 
 arouse our curiosity. 
 
 Such musings must cease as we descend the northern 
 slopes and enter the town of Jedburgh, noted for its 
 Abbey, for former visits made by Mary, Queen of 
 Scots, Burns, Scott and other literary lights. A 
 religious fanatic was busy giving some sort of a harangue 
 to his townsmen. Supper at the "Spread Eagle 
 Hotel" reminded us of America, but only in name. 
 Ere the darkness descended we were in Edinburgh, 
 one of the most romantically beautiful cities in Europe. 
 
 The Castle on the summit is well known. To the 
 eastward, Arthur's Seat rears its craggy head and by 
 its topography indicates that it would be a hard task 
 to pinch this particular locality. Scott lived in Edin- 
 burgh for over twenty years. Burns is still remem- 
 bered. Allan Ramsay's statue stands in the corner of 
 the public garden. John Knox, the only man who was 
 not afraid of the wiles of the Scottish Queen, is more 
 than a memory. 
 
 The amusing lines of Ramsay's "Gentle Shepherd" 
 are worth recalling: 
 
 "A snug thack-house, before the door a green; 
 Hens on the midden, ducks in drab are seen. 
 On this side stands a barn, on that a byre; 
 A peat-stack joins an' forms a rural square. 
 The house is Glaud's — there you may see him lean, 
 An' to his divot-seat invites his frien'." 
 
 There's many a man, whose work is not commem- 
 orated in the land of his birth, and perhaps no monu- 
 ment stands in the public square. Alexander Anderson 
 (1845-1909) has written some verse, which appeals to 
 
 51 
 
those who love the home, the scenes at bed-time and 
 bairns playing tricks before the sandman appears and 
 sends them off to slumberland: 
 
 "The bairnies cuddle doon at nicht 
 Wi' mirth that's dear to me; 
 But sune the big warl's cark an' care 
 Will quaten doon their glee. 
 Yet, come what will to ilka ane, 
 May He who rules aboon 
 Aye whisper, though their pows be bald, 
 'O, bairnies, cuddle doon.'" 
 
 Breakfast sets the pace for the day. We remember 
 our first morning meal at the North British Station 
 Hotel at the early hour 9.30. Parritch or pudding was 
 one item on our menu. In "Old Mortality", Mrs. 
 Wilson exclaims — "They're gude parritch eneuch, if 
 ye wad but take time to sup them. " Lacking a spoon, 
 we hailed the waiter, clad in blue vestments and gold 
 buttons, and asked him for the necessary implement 
 to convey the product to its destination. Pulling a 
 spoon out of his vest pocket and wiping it on a napkin 
 to remove the germs, he handed it to us. We queried 
 him as to the size of his supply and if he did that all 
 the time. Any man in America seen carrying spoons 
 in his waistcoat would be accused of some grave crime 
 and conveyed to prison. Asked whether he was a 
 Scotchman, he replied — "God help us, no!" The 
 girls on our right, who kept watch of the change as it 
 was turned in, evidently had their ears attuned to some 
 of our remarks and one said to the other — "Did ye no 
 understan' what he said"? The day of our departure 
 from the hotel, we informed the book-keeper, who 
 seemed a little "dour", when pressed for news, that 
 we were about to say "good-bye", and the bill having 
 already been settled, we wondered whether anything 
 more was due. To this she replied — "Sorry, but we 
 forgot to charge you for an orange!" Do you wonder 
 that the wandering Jew still remains in Scotland? 
 
 Red noses are prevalent in Edinburgh. The wet 
 climate is doubtless hard on the powders and paints. 
 
 52 
 
The Tweed near Al 
 II. me of Sir Walt( 
 
 Kirkstone Pass, 
 Lake Region. 
 
We suppose that a wee bit nippie is sometimes the 
 cause of this ruddy glow. D. B. informed us that 
 these people follow their whuskey with a glass of beer 
 in order to get the proper result, all of which reminds 
 us of those lines of Burns: 
 
 "When chapman billies leave the street, 
 And drouthy neebors, neebors meet. ..." 
 
 The keeper of the Castle at Linlithgow seemed 
 afflicted with a bluish blossom on his "smeller", but 
 perhaps it was due to a "touch o' heart". 
 
 A day later we journeyed to Abbotsford, the pic- 
 turesque home of Sir Walter Scott. The immortal 
 writer bought this place — a farm called Clarty's 
 hole — and changed its name to the one designated. 
 Several rooms are open to public inspection on payment 
 of a fee — the study, lined with books of the former 
 owner, the drawing room, the armoury and entrance 
 hall. The house boasts a fine collection of relics and 
 presents given to Scott by his many friends. The 
 death mask in the hall reveals a very high dome above 
 the ears, and proves that Scott was a real 'igh-brow, a 
 man among men. 
 
 The Tweed, nearby, flows peacefully on to the sea — 
 rather shrivelled in volume at the time owing to the 
 drought, but still the Tweed, the home of salmon and 
 dear to the hearts of so many Scotchmen. William 
 A. Foster expresses his sentiments in the lines: 
 
 "But of a' the sports I ken, that can stir the heart 
 
 wi' glee, 
 The troutin' stream, the fishin' gad, the bonny 
 Tweed for me." 
 
 Andrew Lang in his recent verse is not forgetful of 
 this river and the one so dear to him: 
 
 "Wan water from the border hills, 
 Dear voice from the old years, 
 Thy distant music lulls and stills, 
 And moves to quiet tears. 
 
 53 
 
A mist of memory broods and floats, 
 The Border waters flow, 
 The air is full of ballad notes, 
 Borne out of long ago. 
 
 Twilight, and Tweed, and Eildon Hill, 
 Fair and too fair you be; 
 You tell me that the voice is still 
 That should have welcomed me. " 
 
 Melrose Abbey is not far from here and still as 
 beautiful in its ruined decay and shrouding the heart 
 of Bruce. The tracery of the east window doubtless 
 serves as a place where the transient birds may rest or 
 sing one brief moment ere they flit away. 
 
 Industrial life in Scotland is best seen in a city like 
 Glasgow, whither we motored near the end of our stay. 
 The docks and shipyards are very extensive. We were 
 glad to visit the art gallery, which has a fine collection 
 of pictures by many of the famous masters. Whistler's 
 picture of Carlyle hangs here. The companion to it 
 (his mother) is in the Palais du Luxembourg, Paris. 
 Many little children romped through the building, and 
 by their actions indicated that they were not all 
 interested in art, but had escaped from home and were 
 having a bit of a lark. On leaving, one of the attend- 
 ants conveyed a stray cat to the street. Kittie had 
 evidently sought a place of refuge. Every gallery 
 should boast itself the possessor of one cat. 
 
 The old palace at Linlithgow midway on the return 
 to Edinburgh is picturesquely situated on a small loch, 
 the only one we saw while in the North. 
 
 Our last journey was to St. Andrews on the east 
 coast and well known as the home of the royal and 
 ancient game of golf. Andra Kirkkaldy records his 
 memories in a book of recent publication. He suggests 
 heaps of humour in the game. St. Andrews is called 
 "The City of Golf and Gospel". The membership 
 
numbers one thousand and of course is very select. 
 One of the caddies reported that he was a close ac- 
 quaintance of Mr. Balfour. Asked as to what he 
 meant, he said — "I am wearing a pair of Mr. Balfour's 
 pants." Amlra suggests that the "nineteenth hole" 
 at St. Andrews is never done in less than "two", 
 and there is no Bogey for it. A few pictures of the 
 course, a couple of sample golf clubs and some other 
 curios served as a reminder that we once visited this 
 place, where good golfers are made as well as born. 
 A golfer's tombstone in St. Andrews Cathedral church- 
 yard in memory of Tom Morris is probably unique in 
 its line. Hell Bunker on the old course has provoked 
 many arguments ami made many scores look a bit 
 "dourer". 
 
 '"I [ome and to bed " as Mr. Pepys says. The morrow 
 means our journey forth again across I he Lowther 
 Hills and thence to new fields and pastures and associa- 
 tions of ;i different character. As one can hit the ba' 
 be.it when it's no there, so we can now best appreciate 
 those days in the land of the Scot. 
 
 There every native "takes pride in being bilingual", 
 sees double and "refuses to merge his individuality 
 with the Englishman" — although first and last a 
 cit i/en of t he Empire. 
 
 55 
 
CHAPTER VI. 
 
 The Upper Sources of the Tweed to Windermere 
 and Oxford 
 
 The "scrutinising" of nature adds to rather than 
 detracts from the appreciation of beauty. Wonder 
 increases with knowledge. It is so in trailing a river to 
 its source in the hills. Our journey from Edinburgh 
 southward led us to the heart of this mystery. "Struggle, 
 Endeavor and Struggle" is the motto of the Stream's 
 life as well as man's. Nearing the upper sources we 
 note that the character of the country changes. More 
 of hurry is manifested in the case of the waters as if 
 they desired to mingle with the river on the meadow- 
 land, and once there a growing reluctance to lose 
 themselves in the sea. 
 
 Beyond Galashiels we wound our way up to the 
 source in the Lowther Hills. Whether these hills take 
 their names from a man of the same name, who toured 
 Scotland in 1629, is another question. The bed of the 
 stream becomes more broken, and here and there 
 rough "stanes" appear and an occasional waterfall. 
 Peat is noticeable, bog moss and heather, and above 
 all the towering hills. A signboard has marked on it 
 "The Source of the Tweed". Inspection reveals a 
 number of small wells from which tiny streamlets 
 bubble out of the cool earth. 
 
 Many observations we must "slipit over with 
 silence". Our way south lay over the rising hills to 
 Broughton and Moffat. To the west of us the infant 
 Clyde takes its rise; the Annan flows toward Carlyle. 
 The highest elevation approaches three thousand feet 
 in the case of one or two loftier summits — one to the 
 east of us lost in a mist. 
 
 Allan Ramsay was born in Leadhills not far away, 
 and this spot is reputed to be the highest inhabited 
 village in Scotland. His parents were of humble 
 
 56 
 
origin — the father a manager of a mine. Later this 
 youth settled in Edinburgh, commenced business as a 
 bookseller and then began to do some writing. Maidens 
 engaged the attention of the male sex then as now. In 
 his poem to a couple of young ladies, he exclaims: 
 
 "Dear Bessie Bell an' Mary Gray, 
 Ye unco sair oppress us, 
 Our fancies jee between ye twa, 
 Ye are sic bonny lasses: 
 Waes me, for baith I canna get, 
 To ane by law we're stented; 
 Then I'll draw cuts, an' take my fate, 
 An' be wi' ane contented." 
 
 From the top of the watershed we noted thousands 
 of sheep grazing peacefully. Once we alighted to pick 
 some heather. In some cases we noted that the 
 flower-bells were dried and sere, although still retaining 
 their shape. Deception such as this does not confuse 
 the bee. 
 
 Crooks' Inn, a little down the slope, accommodates 
 many a passing pilgrim. We noticed a small group 
 sitting outside the front door, perusing a map of the 
 district and trying to locate the most scenic spots. A 
 hasty inspection of the premises revealed no crooks. 
 
 Moffat boasts a fine golf club. A picture of "Sunset 
 on the Links" looked rather awesome, much as a golfer 
 looks and feels when he returns home after topping a 
 hundred. 
 
 Ats Lockerbie we recalled a short stay twenty years 
 past, the comfortable inn, the exhibition and sale of 
 sheep, and the desperate time we had in getting our 
 bicycle fixed after hitting a dog "abaft the scuppers". 
 
 A half hour later we rode into Ecclefechan, the 
 birthplace of Thomas Carlyle. The burn outside the 
 door was almost dry. A few "clam'rous ducks" were 
 amusing themselves in the bed of the stream. The 
 cottage is marked with a cross outside the door, signi- 
 fying the birthplace of this somewhat "dour" character. 
 A reading of Sartor Resartus gives some of the early 
 impressions of the writer, his aspirations and many 
 
 57 
 
suggestions which would benefit the world to-day if 
 literally adopted. Carlyle lies at rest in the church- 
 yard nearby. 
 
 One moment at Gretna Green, a border town, famed 
 for its smithy and many runaway marriages. In 
 1754, when clandestine marriages were abolished in 
 England, amorous couples were compelled to seek 
 hospitality elsewhere. Many came to this place and 
 declared their wish in the presence of witnesses, which 
 sufficed. The fee was rather high, ranging from half a 
 guinea to sums as large as impudence dared to extort. 
 In 1856, the law required one of the contracting parties 
 to reside in Scotland at least three weeks previous to 
 the event. This reminds us of Reno and the "light- 
 ning" shows portraying the humorous side of the 
 situation. The grooms were probably in such a hurry 
 to get away from the blacksmith after the ceremony 
 that they probably did not have time to borrow any- 
 thing from him on the fee. A runaway place for 
 divorces would prove a very popular place in the wide 
 world to-day. How conditions have changed! As 
 Susan Ferrier once said — 
 
 "Fowk are neither born, nor kirsened, nor do they 
 wad or dee as they used to dae — aw thing's changed." 
 
 Late afternoon ushered us into the romantic Lake 
 Lands. The road through Penrith and Patterdale 
 increased in picturesqueness and near Ullswater the 
 mountains, the expanse of lake and surroundings were 
 very gran'. In an attempt to climb Kirkstone Pass 
 we came near meeting our Waterloo. Two hundred 
 yards from the top of the three and one-half mile climb 
 we came to a stop. Horse-power was lacking. You 
 will note the situation in the illustration. 
 
 Owing to a high tax on horse-power on any kind of 
 motor vehicle in England (our driver suggested a pound 
 per but this seems high in comparison to our rates in 
 America), the motor manufacturers have reduced the 
 rating of the machine as low as possible. This means 
 reduced pulling power. Hence you get stuck on very 
 steep and long climbs. We noted many cycle "bathtubs" 
 limping along on one and a half horse-power. 
 
 58 
 
In our case we alighted and with the aid of some 
 stalwart Australians, who were doing a walking tour 
 through England, we managed to push the bus over 
 the top. Our predicament had its humorous side and 
 so compensated for the vexation and humble feeling 
 that our new limousine could not negotiate the pass. 
 It is only fair to say that we had a very heavy load of 
 baggage parked on the top of the machine and five 
 passengers to boot. 
 
 A steep descent and we were at last at our journey's 
 end for the day. The hotel at Windermere had not 
 improved in looks. The hostel was built in 1847, two 
 years after the railroad first came to the town. The 
 nightwind howled through the keyhole of our bedroom, 
 and one wondered that such a solemn place was once 
 the haunt of the Lake Poets. The crowing of roosters 
 warned us of the approach of morning, and coupled 
 with this the weird strains of something, which sounded 
 like a flute, but which turned out to be "a harmless 
 old man" playing on his violin. An inspection of the 
 antique shops showed that most of the brass work was 
 made in Birmingham. Dealers buy old furniture here, 
 tear it apart and ship to America, where it is reassem- 
 bled and sold at fabulous prices. 
 
 The journey to Oxford via train next day meant a 
 saving of physical resources and avoidance of some of 
 the flat country in the course of over two hundred 
 miles. At threepence a mile by rail, the result in 
 expenditure works out favorably for the motor, provided 
 your party is large enough. 
 
 At Rugby we changed trains and had a short wait. 
 Then on again through pleasant fields, past flocks 
 feeding or standing at ease under the shady hedges, 
 cattle drinking from murky streams, slow moving 
 barges sweeping along the surface of some inland 
 canal. At Litchfield we saw the three towers of the 
 Cathedral in the distance; then Bister (Bicester) and a 
 few more weary miles to the City of Learning. 
 
 Matthew Arnold expresses the idea of this place in 
 those significant words — "Beautiful city! so venerable, 
 so lovely, so unravished by the fierce intellectual life 
 
 59 
 
of our century, so serene! . . . Steeped in senti- 
 ment as she lies, spreading her gardens to the moon- 
 light, and whispering from her towers the last enchant- 
 ments of the Middle Age, who will deny that Oxford, 
 by her ineffable charm, keeps ever calling us nearer to 
 the true goal of all of us — to the ideal, to perfection, — 
 to beauty, in a word, which is only truth seen from 
 another side?" 
 
 If you desire further praises concerning this place, 
 you will find them in the writings of Lyly, Camden, 
 Wordsworth, Dryden, Hazlitt, Hawthorne and many 
 others. 
 
 Visits, even twenty years apart, seem to make no 
 appreciable difference in the outward appearance of 
 the University. Restorations here and there, an 
 occasional new building or addition to the working 
 forces of this "Queen of Romance" in her war against 
 Philistinism — these do not mar the harmony of the 
 whole. 
 
 A cabby conveyed us next morning to Christ Church, 
 New College and Magdalen. He was very chummy 
 and seemed bent on telling us about everything. At 
 Magdalen he reminded us of the young man of Royal 
 Blood, who once studied here and was constantly 
 pursued by his four attendants. One day having 
 escaped from his guardians, he hailed our cabby and 
 said to him in breathless haste — "Buzz me around 
 the corner. " 
 
 An old bookshop in one part of the town seemed 
 very attractive on account of its shape and its treasures 
 displayed in the windows. What a place to purchase 
 rare copies of venerable memoirs of the past, prints 
 and all kinds of literary amenities. Space and the 
 long trip ahead forbade us increasing our stock. 
 
 The hotel register indicated names from various 
 parts of America, Boston included. One or two 
 acquaintances antedated us by only a week. One 
 nuisance we encountered in most of the larger towns 
 was the request to fill in a paper giving all our past, 
 present and future ramblings, our business, our sex 
 and age and Christian names. The same applied to 
 all registrations in France. A few of the smaller 
 
 60 
 
hotels had forgotten the habit for the time being, or 
 did not scare you on first coming, but before leaving 
 asked your signature. 
 
 Passing through Eton, we were amused at the 
 "sleevers" worn by the boys. The Trilby type of hat 
 was evidently not in use. Perhaps "toppers" might 
 apply. Lunch at the Windsor Inn kept us waiting, 
 owing to the week-end crowd. A V. C. greeted us as 
 we alighted. Poor chap, he seemed worthy of a better 
 job, but as Browning once said — "All service ranks 
 the same with God. " London motor drivers can tell 
 you much of the social side of life, their journeys to 
 outlying posts, bouts at various inns and how they 
 sometimes wait for their passengers until the "wee 
 sma' " hours of the morning. The Dumb Bell Inn 
 seemed rather original in its nomenclature. We always 
 associate this title with the remark of the actor on the 
 stage, who was accused of some defect, and seeing the 
 futility of argument, replied — "Alright, dumb bell!" 
 
 At Slough we were attracted by a large enclosure, 
 with a high board fence extending for a long distance, 
 which we were informed contained as many as ten 
 thousand "crocks" — remnants of the ravages in France 
 in the motor line. Here were grouped all kinds of 
 automobiles, flying bedsteads, and every sort of 
 conceivable conveyance, which had been "bumped off" 
 while on duty. What a chance for some Jew or dealer 
 in such second-hand commodities! 
 
 Thus ended our journey to the metropolis, where we 
 were housed for the Sabbath, still on the alert and ready 
 for further adventures. 
 
 <;i 
 
CHAPTER VII. 
 
 London to Land's End. 
 
 "Seeing London Backwards" enables one to spy 
 out the country, where plenty of mysteries remain 
 hidden from the eye of the passerby. Near Trafalgar 
 Square we caught sight of a couple of friends from The 
 
 Hub — Bishop and Mrs. , strolling along with 
 
 never a care. Extending ourselves out of the window, 
 we yelled — "Hello, Bish!" but the salute was unheard, 
 owing to the din and confusion. A second shout 
 seemed to remind them that something was happening, 
 just what they could not tell. His reverence looked 
 up at the sky, but no voice gave answer to his query. 
 A moment later they were swallowed up in the roar 
 and bustle of the ancient city, and we were left to 
 wonder where they were domiciled. 
 
 The Bishop, as we found out later, was taking a 
 summer's rest abroad, and planning to attend the 
 Cambridge Conference of Modernists at Girton College. 
 Rumblings were already beginning to be heard, and 
 the outcome at that time could hardly be gauged. 
 Since then we have heard and read a good deal of what 
 transpired, and the threats of heresy trials just to 
 promote the unity of the church and make ecclesias- 
 tical life more exciting. 
 
 One more sermon on "Heat" proved appropriate 
 for the season. "Getting hot under the collar" was 
 the real theme in work-a-day terms. Our theatre 
 choice was not worthwhile, and next morning we were 
 glad to quit the scene. While in the vicinity, we 
 learned that a theatre manager or someone connected 
 with a music hall remarked that henceforth the num- 
 bers on the program would be announced, because 
 "we think it only fair that the two Scotchmen, who 
 just came in should have the benefit of this information 
 as well as those who bought programs." 
 
WW 
 
 me s tomb, Bonchurcl 
 Isle of Wight, 
 p. 76 
 
 Medlar tree at Bemerton, near Salisbury. 
 
 planted by George Herbert, 1630f. 
 
 (P- 72) 
 
 Devonshire. 
 
 p G6 
 
 mar aausburj 
 (p. 70) 
 
Salisbury marked our first pause on the way to 
 Cornwall, the land of "Tre", "Pol" and "Pen". The 
 ancient see, located near Old Sarum, is set apart from 
 the busy stir of life. From a hilltop we saw the tall 
 spire of the noble edifice, located near three rivers — 
 the Wiley, Avon and Bourne. One time the Cathedral 
 was at Sarum. Later it was moved to the present 
 town. History in these parts moves on in a sort of 
 uneventful style. Constable employed some of his 
 time in painting the Cathedral from a point south of 
 the city, and not far from a village called Nunton. 
 
 One of the soldiers in the Canadian Army told one 
 of the residents of Salisbury that the Cathedral close 
 was the most beautiful thing in Europe. We agreed 
 with this decision, but not this year, owing to the 
 excessive drought. The beauty will return again. 
 
 Tea at "Byways" prepared us for our last 30 miles 
 to Bournemouth. "Three 'earty cheers for the host 
 and hostess ! " The roses were in bloom, the sweet peas 
 a little past prime, the apples still growing, and the 
 wasps in abundance. We noted that our host put his 
 spade to good use, even during our short stay, by 
 exterminating several thousand of these insects. Deep, 
 deep, deep, were they buried in mother earth. 
 
 At "Barksome" Towers we were welcomed by 
 "Tanks", a handsome spaniel, and kindly disposed 
 toward all guests. The manager, when taking dinner 
 was always accompanied by his Al dog-friend. 
 
 The man, who laid out the town of Bournemouth, 
 must have been three sheets in the wind, or have taken 
 something which gave him a turn, because the streets 
 are in circles, and when you try to find your way to 
 some particular spot, you inevitably land somewhere 
 else. It took us half an hour to locate our hotel on 
 return from the Golf Course, and we only played 
 eighteen holes. 
 
 This course is up to the usual standard. It has many 
 hazards, which try the patience of strangers as well as 
 the natives. Heather abounds on the downy hills, 
 and the novice is seen searching for his ball in the 
 
 63 
 
scrubby growth. The large supply tank sometimes 
 catches the ball. "Hell" at St. Andrews is not to be 
 feared after scurrying around these parts. Blessings 
 upon the 'ead of Lady , who helped to outline the 
 
 The bathing near the hotel proved excellent. One 
 day we were caught in a huge wave, were bowled over 
 several times, pushed back and forth, and then like a 
 conquering hero we sat down on a pile of rather hard 
 stones, which cured us of the desire for bathing the 
 remainder of that afternoon. A few charming ladies 
 disported themselves after bath in the sun-houses along 
 the beach, enjoyed the prospects, wondered at the 
 distant beauties of the Isle of Wight, and on occasion 
 showed some interest in the people who were making a 
 display of their fairy forms on the sandy beach. 
 
 Our hours spent in the dining room were pleasant 
 enough. One had a fine eastern view from the window. 
 Outside on the piazza a bowl of marmalade was expe- 
 riencing a crush of wasps, busy trying to get at the sweet 
 at the same moment. Failing in that, some of the 
 less fortunate visited the dining room, and made the 
 guests a little uncomfortable. One ray of the humorous 
 served to brighten a certain lunch, when we asked our 
 Garcon to bring us a couple of extra glasses. He 
 returned later with two bottles of Bass's. The waitress 
 at Torquay repeated the same trick on a Sunday 
 morning before breakfast — and all because of the 
 pronunciation of a certain word. 
 
 The pines are deserving of mention. The air of 
 Bournemouth is supposed to be a curative agent for 
 those who have weak chests. Perhaps the pine trees 
 add to the salubrity of the atmosphere. In fact, we 
 inferred that everything in the town was salubrious, 
 even religion, but taken in small doses does not pro- 
 duce dangerous symptoms. Summer resorts are likely 
 to put religion in a corner, in spite of the Scotch 
 revivalist's cry, that "God winna be put in any sic 
 place. . ". 
 
 64 
 
Next day we hied ourselves away to the west, and 
 took our first sample of Devonshire cream in the ancient 
 town of Exeter. Popple Inn or New London Hotel 
 was the exact spot. How that first cognomen is 
 pronounced, whether "pope" or "pop" (we prefer 
 pop) is a question. People in the west of England 
 act differently and talk differently from those in the 
 east. So there you 'ave it. How is one to tell what is 
 the correct usage, when travelling in a foreign country? 
 One thing we found for a certainty and that was that 
 cream cost 4 shillings the pint, and you had to order it 
 ahead of time. How have the good old days passed 
 away! We managed to corral a half pint, and when 
 we were cleaning up, a black cat helped us to wash the 
 dishes in the lounge of the hotel. 
 
 A jolly old place! Sort of inside courtyard of long 
 ago, where bus parties arrived and drove in a la style. 
 The pavement was stone tile. The design of the walls 
 as ancient as Noah's Ark. In case of rain, you stand a 
 chance of getting soused, provided you are in direct 
 line of the drop. One of the dignitaries of the Cathe- 
 dral favoured us for a half hour with his presence, 
 leggings, shovel hat and all the other accoutrements. 
 He seemed to fill the bill exactly. How wonderful 
 to be a Dean in a real cathedral and not a bogus speci- 
 men from Oshkosh or Timbuktu — only in these latter 
 places the Dean is forced by native custom to wear the 
 extra girdle! A number of jolly Englishmen were 
 seated in one corner, imbibing tea, looking very reticent, 
 very wise and very red. 
 
 Torquay, famous again, and good for weak chests; 
 also good for reducing the size of your purse. Situa- 
 tion somewhere about Tor Bay. The lawns are said 
 to be "elastic" — at least according to one writer. 
 Just where this "stretchability" comes in we are not 
 able to determine, but for once we fancy that these 
 bits of greensward were anything but "elastic". The 
 only elasticity we were able to decipher in that locality 
 was the extra foot which the hare got on the hillside 
 when the village cat was after him. 
 
 65 
 
The village of Cockington is one of the most charming 
 bits of Devonshire scenery. The thatched roof of the 
 old smithy at the crossroads is one of the novelties of 
 England. A picturesque, country church on the 
 Mallock estate dates back to Norman days. Roger de 
 Cockington seems to have been around these parts 
 somewhere about the year 1297 ff. It is said that 
 three families have held this estate for over 800 years. 
 The Master of the estate was killed during the Great 
 War. Whether he has a successor we are not aware, 
 but for his sake we hope so. 
 
 The journey south of Dartmoor, across the Dart, is 
 charming country — a very fine region for those inter- 
 ested in art and blessed with artistic talents. Here it 
 is said Sir Walter Raleigh learned the art of smoking on 
 some rock or island located near the Dart. He must 
 have smoked "Anchor Brand". Just now any kind of 
 brand will serve the purpose. Sir Walter was certainly 
 a wicked boy. Think of his example on the present 
 day and generation! 
 
 Plymouth, somehow associated with the Pilgrim 
 Fathers, looked a little dreary to us on that morn of 
 our arrival. Mists were in plenty, and we were glad 
 to reach the ferry, just in time for passage. While en 
 route to the other shore, we made the acquaintance of 
 a very gracious gentleman (God rest his soul!) and a 
 young gentleman, who was conveying said aged party 
 to his destination somewhere near Cornwall. The 
 conveyance was what we might style a Flying Bathtub. 
 We were looking for a spot called Looe. The party in 
 question said they were going thither and would be glad 
 to pilot us. Somehow we stumbled on that ancient, 
 Cornish password — "Two to Looe ..." and when our 
 young friend chimed back — "Pip, pip . . ."we knew 
 that we were on the right track. In due time we were 
 welcomed by our friends, who lived on a very high spot 
 overlooking the sea, were lunched and made happy, 
 and so sent on our way to a place called Trevarno. 
 
 A few pleasant days in a quiet English home in- 
 creased our vitamines, and surrounded by a dark wood, 
 
spacious lawns, and a half million rooks, we were in a 
 position to gain a new viewpoint of life. When those 
 rooks acclaimed their home coming, the clamour was 
 deafening. After bedtime, the sleeper was aroused by 
 the occasional croak of some disgruntled party in the 
 tree-top. 
 
 Before the invention of guns, tree-top life must have 
 been enchanting. Being only a rook, the creature 
 could sit up top and caw-caw-caw all he pleased. 
 Many people regard these birds as "miscreants steeped 
 in crime". The Scottish Parliament ordained their 
 destruction, seeing that "ruks brigande in kirke yards, 
 orchards, or treis". . . Strange in the process of that 
 disease called Civilisation that rooks should have taken 
 to city life, but so the fact is attested. A rook seen 
 sitting upon a house-top years ago was considered a 
 sure sign or omen of ill-happening amongst the inmates. 
 You get an idea of the rook-habit in Wells about 4 a. m. 
 each day. The coming to town of these varmints is all 
 in line with the modern exodus of country people to 
 the cities. Why then condemn rooks any more than 
 
 At the Lizard, one day, we sipped the sweets of 
 existence by having a run with the swine and later a 
 little exercise on the Mullion golf course. A very 
 tricky place! W T ell do we remember the hole located 
 near the sea-cliff, the drive across the inlet from the 
 sea, and the green just by the old church, nestling 
 under the shadow of the sand-dune. The ladies, who 
 gave money to build this house of God, were a bit put 
 out with each other for the reason that one seems to 
 have donated her money for the nave and the other for 
 the tower and there the structure abides, church and 
 tower, although separated. The donors must have 
 had Chichester in mind. 
 
 Stories of the days of war kept us amused o' nights, 
 
 especially the one concerning Gen. A , who was 
 
 supposed to get things done in Palestine. One of his 
 men appeared a certain morning and reported his I ask 
 
 67 
 
completed. "Very well, " said the General. " Tomorrow 
 morning at eleven I want you to have such and such 
 completed." "Very good, Sir!" said the attendant. 
 
 "I don't want your d d approbation", said the 
 
 General. "Go and do it!" 
 
 A pleasant visit to Treliske helped us to renew our 
 
 acquaintance with Sir George and Lady . 
 
 The master has ere this departed, leaving a great gap 
 in the home life, rich in honors and fulfilling by his 
 active life the motto — "After work, rest." 
 
 We can still recall the vision of the dark wood, misty 
 in the evening light at the House in the Vale— the 
 rooks there in their tree-top fastnesses. The morrow 
 meant good-bye to our kind friends — not forgetful of 
 the one apart who, at even, still views with interest the 
 passing of time and tide — and the bourne to which 
 each one in his destiny must gang awa'. 
 
Binstead Church. Isle of Wight. 
 
 Saxon idol over doorway. 
 
 (p. 77) 
 
CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 Salisbury, Chichester and the Isle of Wight. 
 
 The pronunciation of various foreign names is often 
 a mystery to the traveller, who finds it inconvenient to 
 carry an encyclopaedia with him. Place-names are 
 hard to negotiate, Cornish, Welsh and Scotch. Family 
 names are also difficult. The solution to this latter 
 difficulty was offered in the words — "Go to the man in 
 question and ask him how he pronounces his name." 
 
 Our return to Salisbury carried us north of Dartmoor, 
 where "trixies" abound. The moors looked lonely in 
 the afternoon light, and at night must be positively 
 disturbing to the nerves. The Devil seems to have 
 been present in Cornwall since early times and has not 
 yet departed. Holy water is plentiful — though not so 
 much so as in France. His majesty's presence is 
 recognised in connection with symbols such as pies 
 and other human activities. The threat to incorporate 
 him in one of these pasties, acted as a deterrent in the 
 west, and in all probability drove him to Ireland and 
 other wild islands of the Seven Seas. 
 
 Exeter again, and Popple's Inn, the courtyard, where 
 the guests are gathered. The Dean in his chair, 
 pouring over some guide book for information does not 
 look up. Owing to the poor light we are compelled to 
 desist from taking our usual picture and lay aside the 
 camera with an air of resignation. 
 
 R. L. Stevenson one time visited here and his letter 
 (a copy) is framed and hung on the stairway wall. It 
 reads — "If you happen to be ill, I pray that you may 
 have as good a place as Popple's Inn to rest. ..." 
 The hostel is undoubtedly restful, but the beds remind 
 one of antiquarian days. The four-poster refused to 
 stay on the level, and the feathers always seemed to be 
 in the wrong place. Morning found us able to continue 
 
our researches. The Guild Hall was pointed out to us 
 as memorable for the case of Bickford vs. Skewes, which 
 was decided on a technicality. 
 
 High noon found us at Yeovil, where we alighted in 
 front of an old inn called "The Three Choughs". These 
 creatures were evidently held in detestation by the 
 early farmers of Britain. The chough was formerly 
 known as "The Cornish Crow". To-day it is rather 
 scarce, and but scattered traces of its existence may be 
 found in the Hebrides. Why such a name happened to 
 be chosen for an inn is another question. The luncheon 
 was a little below par. A few moments after our 
 meal, we examined one or two of the curiosities of the 
 town, and while doing so a Reverend Kite appeared, 
 introduced himself and said he had just heard that an 
 American parson was in town. It seemed rather 
 strange that Mr. Kite should come kiting after us so 
 suddenly, decked in his shovel hat, customary gray 
 whiskers, long black coat and to cap all a cordiality, 
 which seemed strange in a foreign land. We learned 
 that one time he had spent a few years in missionary 
 work in the American West, and his training there had 
 opened his eyes to a new kind of mortal. 
 
 We found the military camps at Salisbury deserted — 
 the men gone, the shacks in a ruined condition. On 
 the hillsides here and there we noted the military 
 crests made by the soldiers while in training. The 
 wind seemed just as biting as of yore. One of our 
 friends nearby said that while the war was on, some of 
 the "ambitious Samsons" of the plain came one night 
 and carted off her gates. 
 
 "Byways", our temple of peace for a few days, was 
 really glad to welcome us again. In the quiet neighbor- 
 hood, we reviewed our experiences of the summer, and 
 found that Seeing Europe Backwards was a commenda- 
 ble scheme. At least the method represented one 
 point of view of the long procession of happenings. 
 
 Sunday evening service at the village church im- 
 pressed us as different from things in America. The 
 
 70 
 
Driver Ball at Torquay. 
 
worshippers sauntered churchward one by one, the few 
 unsurpliced choir-boys took their places in the stalls, 
 and the minister began the evensong. When the time 
 came for the Rev'd MacGlaud to read his sermon, 
 which contained many useful thoughts, we found that 
 the peaceful effect was somehow broken by the leaves 
 sticking, and his difficulty in making page 25 harmonise 
 with page 27. 
 
 Our host reviewed the happenings at the seven 
 hundredth centennial of the cathedral at Salisbury. 
 Part of his role had to do with getting some of the 
 American Bishops from the station to the place of 
 service. His question propounded to one personage at 
 the depot — "Are you a Bishop?" brought out the firm 
 reply— "Sure I am!" This official probably hailed from 
 Arizona. 
 
 The silence of this village impressed us. No un- 
 couth sounds marred the harmony of the surroundings. 
 In one instance, we believe that an owl deigned to come 
 one night and do a little musical act on the window- 
 ledge of the lady's boudoir. The disturbance was such 
 that the master was compelled to stone the bird of 
 night, and although the aim was uncertain, yet resulted 
 in the retreat of the enemy. We were thankful for 
 the quiet, the peace and refreshment before going hence. 
 Fortunately no deaf people lived in the vicinity, and 
 no loud holloaing was necessary. "Making a cheerful 
 noise unto the God of Zion" is permissible in proper 
 place, but noise in the country should be forbidden. A 
 writer in the Spectator remarked not long ago that the 
 people in London like the place because there is plenty 
 of noise, but it is not intermittent. The story of the 
 woman on top of the bus talking to another friend re 
 outlying heaths is to the point. She expressed herself 
 in the words — "I feel so thankful I don't live anywhere 
 outlandish. It must be so quiet at night." 
 
 The castle not far away is beautifully situated in 
 the midst of a magnificent park. The building, dating 
 back several centuries, has about it an air of the past. 
 Our afternoon visit to see the interior found us in the 
 
 71 
 
care of a maid with at least six different kinds of teeth 
 (we mean size). The pictures represent a choice 
 selection of masterpieces, chief of which was a painting 
 of Erasmus by Holbein. An old iron chair, delicately 
 made, presented by Augsburg to Rudolph, Emperor of 
 Germany in the 15th century, was most interesting. 
 The carving on the back represented old Bel in bed 
 with the figure of a statue at the foot. On the other 
 side was Daniel explaining the dream. Bel's staff 
 seemed to rest on the top of Daniel's brain-box. Hav- 
 ing signed up and paid our fee, we made a quiet exodus 
 from the place, which once required seven hundred 
 lamps to light it, and three men to do the daily snuffing 
 of wicks and cleaning. Now the lamps and men have 
 disappeared and given place to electric lights. Such 
 are the ways of progress. 
 
 All members of the Anglican Communion, and some 
 others, when in the vicinity of Salisbury, pay a visit to 
 Bemerton parish, where George Herbert once resided. 
 His charge was short lived, owing to his death in 1633. 
 Drawn towards the religious life, opportunity offered 
 him this rectorship, whither he came shortly after his 
 marriage. His early decease left the world poorer, yet 
 in his short life he wrote that delightful book called 
 "The Country Parson" and also "The Temple" or 
 "Sacred Poems", which represent some of the purest 
 religious lyrics in our language. 
 
 The present incumbent, Reverend A , Mus. Bac, 
 
 Oxon., received us graciously on the afternoon of our 
 arrival, and pointed out some of the interesting features 
 of the rectory — the study, where Herbert no doubt 
 composed his sermons, and wrote many of his literary 
 works. The floor of the present room was raised about 
 three feet by a previous incumbent to provide more 
 space for his "grape juice", which renders the present 
 spacing a little cramped. A couple of the old windows 
 remain. A spacious lawn stretches away to the Nadder 
 on the east side. One feature we must mention, and 
 that refers to the medlar tree planted by George 
 Herbert somewhere about 1630-1633. A few years 
 ago this treasured memorial began to show signs of 
 decay and the last stages of decrepitude. A Kew 
 
 n 
 
Entrance to Carisbrooke Castle, 
 
 Isle of Wight. 
 
 (p. 70, 
 
authority in London was consulted, and he recom- 
 mended its grafting to a thorn tree to be planted 
 within a foot or two of the original medlar. The 
 grafting process was a great success, and to-day a new 
 tree gives evidence of perpetuating the memory of the 
 sainted George Herbert. We noted little apples in 
 growth and a few thorns, which developed as a resultant 
 of the cross. The rector reminded us of the example 
 before us as marking a Continuity, and mentioned 
 that book of Dr. Allen's, called — "Continuity of 
 Christian Thought". 
 
 Many times we tried to photograph the medlar tree 
 and the grafting process, with what success you may 
 note on careful scrutiny of the picture. The history 
 of the tree and later developments render it one of the 
 rare things of its kind. 
 
 A couple of swans flitted like white fairy forms across 
 the dark of the mirrored pools. An angler nearby was 
 busy swishing his line up and down the stream, trying 
 to lure some unsuspecting grayling. 
 
 Chichester suggested itself as good ground for 
 exploration. A little out of the line of public travel, 
 it escapes the raids perpetrated by a curious populace. 
 On our way thither we caught a distant glimpse of 
 Portsmouth, the home at one time of Charles Dickens. 
 The reader of his books will do well to remember the 
 author's apt descriptions of mental diseases. Evidently 
 he was more interested in medicine and doctors than 
 lawyers and clergymen. Only one clergyman of any 
 importance is considered in the whole category of his 
 works. The Church then was evidently in the back- 
 ground — an excellent setting for the scene of life, 
 provided its existence can be made a reality to the 
 actors. 
 
 Chichester is built on the criss-cross plan with the 
 old market cross standing at the centre of the ways. 
 Roman influence is evidenced in the plan. Our Inn 
 was situated only a stone's throw from the centre of 
 the town. 
 
 William Collins, one of the minor poets of England, 
 was born in this town. His father was a hatter by 
 
 73 
 
trade. The phrase — "mad as a hatter" may or may 
 not have originated here, but in any case William lost 
 his reason ere he reached the middle period of life. 
 His school training took place at Winchester and later 
 at Oxford, where he won his B. A. in 1743. The records 
 indicate that he was "too indolent for the army", was 
 dissuaded from entering the Church, and as a last 
 resort tried to make a livelihood in London through 
 his literary efforts. This sort of a career has reduced 
 many a man to a state of penury and desperation. In 
 some cases fame has at last deigned to recognise their 
 efforts. Collins is a man of "one poem" — the "Ode 
 to Evening" — and best known by this perfect produc- 
 tion. When he wrote it he somehow managed to get 
 all the elements working in his favor — a very rare 
 combination in this transitory world. Gray is known 
 to the general public as the author of the "Elegy". We 
 suppose it is better in the end to be known for one 
 thing, which stands out above all others, than to try 
 and do a great many things. The exalted Genius of 
 course must be left out of this combination — Shakes- 
 peare, Beethoven, Dante and a few others. To be 
 known as a person of one cure, one parish, one wife, 
 one automobile, one golfing passion is commendable. 
 We give Collins the glory, when we say that his "Ode 
 to Evening" is as fine as anything of its kind in the 
 language. How long it took him in composition is 
 probably unknown, but in it he rose to high-water- 
 mark. These descriptive lines are incomparable in 
 their way — 
 
 "Now air is hushed, save where the weak-eyed bat 
 With short shrill shriek flits by on leathern wing, 
 Or where the beetle winds 
 His small but sullen horn. . . ." 
 
 See also his hymn of patriotism — 
 
 "How sleep the brave, who sink to rest 
 By all their country's wishes blest, 
 When Spring with dewy fingers cold, 
 Returns to deck their hallowed mould. 
 
 74 
 
The Cathedral at Chichester, begun about 1085, 
 burned in 1114 and 1186 (fires rather close together, 
 but insurance in those days was unknown) has passed 
 through many vicissitudes. The spire collapsed in 
 1861 in a sort of telescopic fashion or sort of dropped in 
 its tracks. Fortunately the men at work had just 
 retired at the ringing of the lunch-bell. The spire is 
 said to be the only one in England which can be seen 
 from the sea. We haven't been able to verify that, but 
 presume there is authority for the statement, which at 
 least is mentioned in Baedeker. We saw a very 
 curious drawing or carving on one of the choir stalls — 
 rather strange for a miserere — a man playing a violin 
 and kissing a lady at the same time, music set to 
 voluptuousness. Naughty monks! The pictures of the 
 former kings of England on the wall of the south 
 transept are curious specimens. The door below 
 dated back for some centuries. The Bell Tower 
 "stands alone" like a certain brand of coffee, but the 
 former is probably destined to last longer. The 
 sculptured panels of our Lord and Mary and Martha 
 and Lazarus are worth inspection. "Paradise" close 
 is near by — a very commendable spot, where "angels 
 with their silver wings o'ershade the ground. ..." 
 
 Once at Chichester, it is easy to return home via 
 Haslemere and Hindhead, and, moreover, this region 
 is famous as the resort of many literary people — in 
 some instances very curious people. But then, you 
 know, these "Literary" are in a class by themselves, 
 and their brain-throbs operate according to a law 
 differing from the throbs, which seem to jar ordinary 
 souls . . . "dull sullen pris'ners . . . dim lights of 
 life, that burn a length of years useless, as lamps in 
 sepulchres. ..." Haslemere was once the home or 
 residing place of Tennyson; Tyndall, whose temper 
 seemed to correspond to his name or suggest a hot wire ; 
 Geikie, Doyle, MacDonald, Allen, Eliot, Shaw and 
 a few others. Prof. Tyndall was often exasperated by 
 the curious people, who persisted in coming near to 
 inspect his premises. In consequence, he raised a 
 high wall and thus dwelt secure from vulgar gazing. 
 
 75 
 
George Eliot dwelt at Shottermill cottage and there 
 conspired in the writing of "Middlemarch". She and 
 her father seem to have had an occasional falling out, 
 but George fell back again. It was all due to going to 
 church. The writer of so many good books undoubt- 
 edly drew more than she cared to acknowledge from 
 the influence of her father and the church — a heritage 
 of the blood. 
 
 Our efforts at Seeing Europe Backwards must close 
 with a brief resume of our trip to the Isle of Wight. 
 The day was perfect, very like the ones we spent at 
 St. Andrews, Scotland, and Mullion Golf Links, 
 Cornwall. Lunch at the Gloster Hotel gave us op- 
 portunity to glimpse the Terpsichore off shore. The 
 afternoon we spent in a motor trip to Newport, Caris- 
 brooke Castle, Godshill, Ventnor, Bonchurch, Shanklin, 
 Brading, Ryde, Binstead and East Cowes, the former 
 residence of Queen Victoria. 
 
 The Castle is beautifully situated on a hill, is noted 
 in history, and still attracts large numbers of pilgrims, 
 who desire to view its ancient walls and listen to the 
 legends of past days. Charles I. was imprisoned here. 
 Here his daughter died some months later and was 
 buried at Newport Church, where note monument 
 given by Queen Victoria. The donkey at the well on 
 the inside of the castle grounds receives his due share 
 of attention like a lot of other donkeys, who are at 
 loose heels and not half so useful. 
 
 Our object in visiting the southern part of the island 
 was to get a glimpse of Swinburne's grave. Reader, 
 do not think that our preference is for " hallo w'd dirges 
 muttered over tombs", but the beauty of the spot 
 seemed alluring, at least from accounts, and then, 
 Swinburne, although not a didactic writer, yet somehow 
 had a command of language, which was truly amazing. 
 His combinations of vowels and consonants go to the 
 production of the greatest number of phone-tones 
 imaginable, though not necessarily possible. During 
 early youth, he spent some years at East Dene. The 
 view as we found is "the best possible" and the church- 
 
 76 
 
yard is so beautiful that according to Shelley — "It 
 might make one in love with death to think one would 
 be buried in so sweet a place. ..." The brothers and 
 sisters lie here — his grave a little apart. We recalled 
 his words — 
 
 "Let come what will, there is one thing worth, 
 To have had fair love in the life upon earth. " 
 
 Whisking ourselves hence, we came to a halt in 
 front of Binstead Church, and viewed, but did not 
 bow down to, an old Saxon idol over the doorway. It 
 looks something like a man sitting on a ram's head . . . 
 possibly some relative of Thor. In trying to photograph 
 it we got badly scratched by the brambles, but interest- 
 ing pictures are worthwhile, and idols such as this are 
 not easily accessible. The town of Binstead is men- 
 tioned in the Domesday Book as "Benestite". Quarr 
 Abbey not far away and founded in 1132 was later 
 demolished by some commercial soul. At present the 
 Benedictine monks from France (1911) have con- 
 structed what looks like new quarters. 
 
 The evening sail to the mainland gave us a fine view 
 of the surrounding country. At the dock in Southamp- 
 ton we recognised the Mauretania laid up for repairs. 
 The good ship "Acq. " was already at her dock, waiting 
 to convey us to our final destination. 
 
 So home. The night was calm. The moon cast her 
 silvery light on the southern hilltop, and a subdued 
 quiet reigned in the vicinity of "Byways", broken now 
 and again by the rattling of char-a-bancs on their 
 route to Bournemouth. A few moments later we heard 
 the sound of the bell at the Major's striking the hour, 
 which called to sleep. 
 
 Our departure from Southampton next day was 
 delayed owing to difficulty in turning the ship, but 
 once moving seaward, we made our way down the Water 
 towards the Isle of Wight. An airplane above us was 
 busy photographing "The Quest", Sir Ernest Shackle- 
 ton's ship, bound for the Antarctic. Near the island we 
 did a wiggle-waggle turn, but once over the dangerous 
 shallows were off on the long journey. As darkness 
 
 77 
 
descended, we were able to catch the flashing of lights 
 on the French coast, which gleamed intermittently 
 during the night, and guided us into the harbour at 
 Cherbourg. "The breath of the night wind" though 
 gentle at first, became more turbulent and threatening; 
 the swell increased; the "moon blanch'd" sea grew 
 livid and then dark as we turned toward the vasty 
 edge of the Atlantic. 
 
 "Where lies the land to which the ship would go? 
 Far, far ahead, is all her seamen know. 
 And where the land she travels from? Away, 
 Far, far behind, is all that they can say. " 
 
 78 
 
ADDENDA. 
 
 The line drawings in the aforesaid sketch were 
 drawn at the writer's suggestion by Mr. F. G. Cooper, 
 425 Tremont Avenue, Westfield, New Jersey, otherwise 
 known as "FGC", who maintains his own copyright 
 on final execution. 
 
 The half-tones represent reproductions from personal 
 pictures taken en route. 
 
 Reference Books: — 
 
 Baedeker's "Great Britain", "Northern France" 
 and "Paris", 1909 ff. 
 
 Bayeux Tapestry — 
 
 Belloc, J. H. P. N. Y. Putnam, 1914. 
 Bruce, John Collingwood. London. Smith, 1856. 
 Fowke, Franke Rede. London. Bell, 1898. 
 Freeman's "Norman Conquest". Oxford Univ. 
 Press. 
 
 Chartres Cathedral, The Sculptures of. M. & E. 
 Marriage, Cambridge Univ. Press, 1909. 
 
 Manual of Modern Scots . Grant & Main Dixon, 
 Cambridge Univ. Press, 1921. 
 
 Animal Life in Scotland. James Ritchie, Cam- 
 bridge Univ. Press, 1920. 
 
 The Home Book of Verse . B. E. Stevenson, Henry 
 Holt & Co., N. Y., 1912. 
 
 The Edinburgh Book of Scottish Verse. W. 
 Macneile Dixon, Meiklejohn & Son, London, 1911. 
 
 Fifty Years of Golf. Andra Kirkaldy, T. Fisher 
 Unwin Ltd., London, 1921. 
 
 Mountain and Moorland. J. Arthur Thomson, 
 Prof. Univ. of Aberdeen., London, S. P. C. K. 1921. 
 
 79