



Produced by Chris Curnow, Emmy and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive)










BY THE SAME AUTHOR.


THREE GREEK TALES.

16mo, pp. 173. Price, $1.

THE GEO. M. ALLEN COMPANY.


PRESS COMMENTS.


REVIEW OF REVIEWS.

The three tales which compose this little volume have been previously
published in the _Hartford Post_. "The author frankly acknowledges
himself a disciple of the romantic school," and his stories have the
dreamy, remote atmosphere which he has aimed to produce. There is much
beauty in these pale, pathetic creations and they have doubtless a
certain affinity with the scenery of Greece, as Mr. Dodge suggests. It
is the present day Greece of a modern man's imagination, however, and
we must not take the title "Greek Tale," as at all applicable to the
stories in the classical sense. They might in some truth be compared in
style with Mr. Winter's poems.


NEW YORK COMMERCIAL ADVERTISER.

* * * They are, all three, quiet, unpretentious, gracefully told
stories that almost all classes of readers will enjoy.


NEW YORK RECORDER.

* * * In method and scene alike the book is a pleasing variation from
the conventional.


TOWN TOPICS.

There is a charm in Walter Phelps Dodge's "Three Greek Tales" wholly
in keeping with the classic scenery in which they are laid and the
classical associations it suggests. Of those fair isles, dear alike
to the artist and the _litterateur_, story and picture each take on
qualities borrowed from its rival, and these tales of modern Greek life
are enjoyable largely for their picturesque setting.


NEW YORK TELEGRAM.

* * * A young author could hardly have a more auspicious introduction
to the public than this small volume gives. If there is no realism
or pretence to analysis of character, there is something far better
and rarer, in these days of over-stuffed and over-seasoned "roast and
boiled"--there are characters that stand out and that live and breathe
by reason of a few fine outlines of suggestiveness.


NEW YORK WORLD.

* * * Love stories, all of them, well told in the main.




AS THE CROW FLIES


FROM CORSICA TO CHARING CROSS


    BY
    WALTER PHELPS DODGE
    AUTHOR OF "THREE GREEK TALES"

[Illustration]

    NEW YORK
    GEO. M. ALLEN COMPANY
    1893




    COPYRIGHT, 1893
    GEO. M. ALLEN COMPANY
    NEW YORK


    THE ALLEY-ALLEN PRESS, NEW YORK




     TO MY FATHER
    D. STUART DODGE


         _Acknowledgment is made
    to the Editors of the_ HARTFORD POST
       _and the_ HARTFORD COURANT;
    _in whose papers these letters first
                appeared_




INDEX


                                 PAGE
    INTRODUCTION                    7
    A GLIMPSE OF CORSICA            9
    ALONG THE RIVIERA              17
    SAN REMO                       29
    THE CITY OF PALACES            40
    THE NAPOLEONIC LEGEND          49
    A DEVONSHIRE MARKET TOWN       62
    OXFORD                         68
    THE ENGLISH LITTORAL           76
    A DAY AT WINDSOR               81
    SCARBOROUGH                    89
    CLIMBING IN LAKELAND           94
    WINDERMERE                    105
    SANDRINGHAM HOUSE             112
    THE LATTER-DAY JACOBITES      122




[Illustration]

INTRODUCTION


IN Summer, particularly in travelling, one is very apt to prefer a
simple glass of ice-cold lemonade--not too sweet,--to a bumper of
burgundy or a tankard of ale; and it has been the author's experience
that the mental processes are not unlikely to follow the example of
the physical, in this particular. For this reason he is encouraged
to submit these slight sketches of divers persons and places to an
indulgent public.

He may say that the sketch entitled "Sandringham House" has been
submitted to the highest authority, and that its substance is approved
by the Personage with whom it is chiefly concerned.

                                                      W. P. D.

        NEW YORK,
    April 1st, 1893.




[Illustration]

As the Crow Flies.




A GLIMPSE OF CORSICA.


BASTIA.--Nice is too attractive to leave without regret at any time,
and we felt particularly sorry for ourselves one evening towards six
o'clock when we saw the disreputable little tub of a steamer that was
to take us over to Corsica; and as we penetrated the odourous mysteries
of the cabin we devoutly hoped that we might see Bastia in the morning
without foundering, for the berths were suspiciously like the long,
narrow coffin shelves in family vaults and had been built apparently
for children, so cribbed, cabined and confined were their proportions.
We said little as we put away our portmanteaux and cameras and took our
rugs from the strap, but our looks spoke volumes and we were careful to
sprinkle plenty of Keating's powder about the place.

A fine, drizzling rain soon began and we were compelled, much to our
disgust, to leave the comparatively unobjectionable deck where sturdy,
bare-legged sailor boys were shouting and singing and throwing ropes
and chains about to no apparent end. As soon as we had reached the
depths of the noisome little cabin, dinner was served, and oh, the
mockery of that dinner! Everything was scented with garlic, and when
the flavour of that questionable delicacy was absent it was replaced
by the taste of rancid oil. We did not sit the meal out, and although
it was barely nine o'clock, threw ourselves on our shelves to try
and forget the too perceptible motion as the little boat quitted the
sheltering harbour of Nice. Although the sea was calm enough, the small
size of the boat unconsciously suggested the idea of a rough sea.

Our sleep was more or less broken--generally more, and at six we were
awakened by a fiendish blast of the whistle which was near our berths,
to an overpowering sense of certain strange and gruesome odours. The
cabin had been hermetically closed on account of the rain, and on the
floor about the tables were stretched in various attitudes of _abandon_
several human forms, who proceeded to rise and shake themselves. It is
needless to say we had thrown ourselves down fully dressed, and we made
a sudden rush for the companion way, for if ever there was an odour
that could be cut it was the one in the tightly closed little cabin of
that dirty little steamer off Bastia in the rainy, chill darkness of
that December morning.

A hasty fee to the steward--and the next moment saw us on the quay at
Bastia, holding fast to our valises, threatened by a ragged mob of
urchins who would have had but little respect for the doctrine of meum
and tuum. We scrambled into a musty, damp hotel 'bus and, half asleep
still, were rattled over the badly-paved streets to our hotel. And what
a hotel! We were received in a mouldy courtyard by an antiquated porter
in undress uniform, with a farthing tallow dip, who gruffly informed
us that we could get no coffee for two hours and who then ushered us
upstairs to the grimy little room reserved for us. I don't know yet
how high the hotel was, but it seemed as if we were never to reach the
top as we struggled after that wavering candle. No wonder tourists who
think nothing of a run to Colombo or Aden or a trip to New Zealand
shudder at the thought of doing Corsica or Sardinia, for anything more
uncivilized than the ways of getting there I have never seen.

The time passed drearily on as we waited in the cold, stone-floored
room, but eight o'clock finally came and we hurried down eager for
coffee and eggs. The dining room was _sui generis_ and the cloth and
napkins were not above reproach, but we managed to make out a fair meal
with the exception of the bread, which was hard and sour; and then
sallied out to do the town.

Bastia is rather a decent town to the view and the architecture is
solid and not altogether in the flimsy stucco of Italy. There are no
handsome public buildings, except the theatre, which is built on the
lines of an old Greek temple. In the square on the water front, where
the raw recruits are drilled, is a huge statue of the first Napoleon
in the toga and laurel wreath of a Roman Consul. It is of heroic size
and dazzlingly white and seems to dominate everything in its immediate
neighbourhood. Of course the Corsicans are inordinately proud of
Napoleon, and one cannot converse for five minutes with an ordinary
inhabitant without his remarking nonchalantly that Corsica has produced
the greatest military genius of the world.

The islanders are a curious cross between the French and Italian types,
perhaps inclining more to the latter. The language is a _patois_
of French and Italian, with a few Spanish words, and is hard to
comprehend, but anyone understanding good Italian can easily manage.
It is really yet a question to what country Corsica should strictly
belong, for it has tasted the rule of many nations. It knew the yoke
of both the Roman and Byzantine Empires, and belonged in turn to the
Republics of Genoa and Pisa in the middle ages; when the short-lived
King Theodore raised the standard of revolt, too soon lowered. Then
the patriot, Pasquale Paoli, ruled the island from 1755 to 1769, when
the Genoese transferred their claim to the island to France, which has
since annexed it.

It is absurd to say that Vendetta has died out, for it is still popular
in the island to an almost incredible extent, and anyone refusing
to continue a blood feud when his plain duty would be to avenge his
ancestor would soon have the Rimbecco sung under his windows. A thirst
for blood seems ingrained in the Corsican nature, and few families
in either the upper or lower classes of the island are without their
hereditary feud. This custom is said to be worse now than under the
Second Empire, and is particularly prevalent round about Corte. It
originated when the Genoese ruled the island and male members were
obliged to take the honour of their family into their own keeping.
There are several strict laws in existence enacted against this
barbarous practice, but they have fallen into disuse and are unregarded.

I have several times been asked what the principal industry of Bastia
was. The only answer that occurs to me is to say stilettoes, for
really all the shops seem to have inexhaustible supplies of this keen,
murderous little blade. Not only are they sold in the guise of weapons,
but as charms, as brooches, as sleeve buttons, as scarf pins--in coral,
lava, gold, silver and brass. Even the pawnbrokers display second-hand
stilettoes in their windows, several of them covered with a rust that
has been blood. To a stranger, all this gives Bastia a savage air,
and when he thinks of the hotels and the food he is apt to start for
the station or the dock. But Vendetta is confined strictly to local
affairs, and it is very rare to find a case where strangers have been
brought into family feuds. The literature of Vendetta is rich. The
famous "Corsican Brothers," "Mr. Barnes of New York," Marie Corelli's
"Vendetta," and Prosper Merrimee's delightful "Colomba" all dwell on
the subject.

But besides Vendetta, which exists only in this island; Corsica shares
with Sardinia the honour of being the only place in Europe where the
moufflon is now found, and so attracts numbers of English sportsmen,
who, however, land usually at Ajaccio. Few tourists reach Bastia.
Ajaccio is a sort of health resort, modeled after the places on the
Riviera and is only a second-rate imitation at best; but Bastia is a
quiet, semi-commercial little town, on the sea, with huge mountains at
its back, and content to dream away its time in ignorant obscurity.
All traces of the old island costumes have disappeared and one does
not know whether to be amused or sad at the pathetic attempt to
imitate French fashions. The older streets in Bastia are curious.
They differ from those of most old Italian towns in being paved with
large, flat stones and are kept scrupulously clean, showing their
French origin. The old citadel, built in 1383, is worth a visit for
the sake of its curious walls. In poking about among the old curiosity
shops I unearthed a valuable souvenir. It was an old bronze medal,
bearing on one side "Louis Napoleon Bonaparte," with his portrait,
and on the other "Pour Valeur." It had evidently been given as a
reward of valor by Napoleon III. in the eventful two years when he
was Prince-President, before the _coup d'etat_, and I have since
ascertained its rarity. A drive in the country about Bastia shows a
landscape rich in hills and pines, but in nothing else.

A diligent search among the grocers' shops finally unearthed a tin of
"picnic tongue," and we feasted on that and on some Albert biscuits to
save ourselves a return to the too odourous hotel dining room. We did
not regret sailing for Sardinia that night, as we hoped to find there
what we had missed in Corsica--clean beds and decent food.

[Illustration]




[Illustration]

ALONG THE RIVIERA.


CANNES.--Any one with a liking for titles, that is, English titles,
which are the only ones worth having, is sure to be gratified at
Cannes. For Cannes is like Bournemouth, select and expensive. At the
_Prince de Galles_ Hotel in Cannes the other day, when the register was
brought to me to sign, I noticed that for five pages mine was the only
name of a commoner. Earls were as thick as blackberries and there were
Viscounts galore. This explains why so few, comparatively, are met with
at the other Riviera resorts. Cannes is _par excellence_ an English
resort, and woe betide the _bourgeois_ Frenchman or spectacled German
who innocently happens upon one of its mammoth hotels; and many are
the shivers that shake his _Jaeger_-clothed frame at the numerous open
windows and delightful draughts of fresh air that are so home-like to
an Englishman or a civilized American.

Like Bournemouth, Cannes is rich in pines and poor in shops and cabs.
But here every one brings their own turn-out, and few teams are to
be seen without both footman and coachman in some well-known London
livery. For amusements Cannes is a poor place, that is, for theatres;
but there is plenty of tennis, which one may, if properly introduced,
play with Russian Grand-Duchesses or Austrian Archdukes; and the Grand
Duke Michael is working up some excitement over golf links. He did me
the honour to ask for my subscription, but as I am not in Cannes _en
permanence_ I was not obliged to subscribe. One can go to twenty teas
in an afternoon, if one is so disposed, and "_pique-niques_," dances
and dinners are almost too numerous to count. At Rumpelmayer's the
"_Hig-lif_" of Cannes, as the French call it, is to be met between five
and six o'clock, when most of the _habitues_ of Rotten Row happen in
for a cup of the delicious chocolate tempered with whipped cream of
which Rumpelmayer makes a specialty. All the villa owners at Cannes
(for there are very few villas rented here; if one wants a house in
Cannes one must build it) send to Regent Street for whatever they want,
consequently no shops at Cannes but those making a specialty of kitchen
necessaries or provisions have any _raison d'etre_ and they are not
missed. Most of the hotels have good libraries, and one can lounge away
days in the palm-shaded garden, watching the sunshine dance and sparkle
upon the rich blue sea. There is a restful feeling about Cannes, an
aristocratic repose and seclusion not shared by any of the other
resorts on the coast, except, perhaps, in a modified degree, by San
Remo; and physicians say the air here is not so stimulating as at Nice
and Mentone. Of course, it is not so stimulating as at Monte Carlo,
either, but that is for a different reason!

No one can get a footing at Cannes unless their social record is
unassailable, and as it costs a small fortune to live here for even
a week, objectionable people are kept away, and one does not meet
the cockney Londoner who drops his h's promiscuously or the shoddy
American who speaks with a twang and is always looking for a spittoon.
Even the cooking is English at Cannes, and cold "ros-bif" and pickles
with a tankard of ale and a bit of apple tart (than which there is no
more palatable luncheon) often forms the meal of some hearty party
of Britons. One leaves Cannes with regret; and a sigh for its quiet
pleasures as one is whirled into the noisy, huge station at Nice.

One finds here a very different atmosphere. All is gaiety, noise and
bustle. Splendid shops thrust their wonderfully arranged windows upon
one's notice. Redfern's name appears in gilt with the Prince of Wales'
plumes above it, and many names familiar to frequenters of the Paris
jewellers' shops are met with. Strolling along the Quai Massena one
could spend hours simply looking in the shop windows at pearl pins
marked at L1,000, or at some little pink emerald worth a fortune simply
because it does not happen to be green. And the famous Galignani
library is not to be ignored, with its fascinating display of all the
latest London books and the Christmas numbers of the English papers
with their half-hidden pictures of Santa Claus; nor the huge Casino
and Winter Garden where one pays two francs for a ticket of admission,
good for the whole day, where reading-rooms and the latest telegrams of
Reuter's Agency tempt one to settle down for several hours. There, in
the domed central garden, among hundreds of palms and tropical plants,
one can listen to a capital band while having an ice from the Nice
Bignon's.

There, too, one may see a good exhibition of marionettes, a sort of
glorified Punch and Judy show, where all the gilded infancy of Nice
congregates to enjoy the fun. And one can waste hours over the _petits
chevaux_; where, on a huge, green-clothed table, six small horses are
wound up, and race around a circle, bets being made upon the colour
and number of the winner. In the height of the season the management
is said to make 3,000 francs per day out of this simple amusement. At
the far end of this pleasant Jardin d'Hiver is the entrance to the
small play-house connected with it; but the companies who perform
here are not above reproach; except during Carnival, when no expense
is spared to secure the best talent, and the Paris play-houses are
called upon to contribute their best actors for the edification of the
visitors. A stroll among the Nice shops in the evening is delightful,
in the warm balmy air, with the moonlight over all and the echo of some
mandolin concert in the distance. One can listen to street musicians
in this sunny land without any fear of hearing "Comrades" or "Ask a
P'leeceman," and may even reasonably expect something decent in the
way of selections from "Carmen" or "Dinorah," both of which are prime
favorites among the lower classes. Nice has long had a municipal
theatre, but this is not well supported, and the most flourishing
establishment of this sort in the town is a huge music hall or _cafe
concert_, which does a roaring business. Sweet-shops abound in Nice
and are a never-ending surprise to English folk, who very sensibly put
them down to the increasing number of Americans who come here. A huge
Casino has just been built on the end of a long pier stretching out
into the sea, and they tell an amusing tale of the way in which the
gambling privilege was secured. An unsuccessful appeal had been made
to the Mayor, M. Henry, and the speculators were in despair until it
suddenly occurred to them that their establishment was not on land,
but at sea, and so they appealed to the Minister of Marine at Paris
with better success. Charming drives abound in every direction around
Nice, and coaches go over to Monte Carlo every few hours. There is but
one drawback to Nice as a place of residence--the increased number
of the descendants of Israel who are making it a seaside synagogue.
Fashion has deserted it for Cannes, but it will always be the favoured
resort of the gay and the bored--those who do not care for society,
and for whom society does not care. The change to the small station
of Monte Carlo and the gaudily-ornamented lift that slowly rises to
the bluff above is marked. For pure luxury and the highest degree of
comfort Monte Carlo ranks next to Paris. Take the Hotel de Paris, next
the Casino, for instance, an establishment owned and conducted by
the Casino company. Soft velvet carpets into which one's foot sinks,
Wedgwood toilet sets, and easy chairs that would not look out of place
in Belgravia, are the distinguishing characteristics of the bedrooms;
and there is not a gas lamp in the place; hundreds of little wax
candles, each shaded by a deep red shade, give light; and when one is
enjoying the cooking, which is a dream in itself, and drinking in all
the beauty and elegance, it is hard to remember that one is in what has
been called the most wicked place on earth. The Bishop of Gibraltar
considers it so abandoned, in fact, that he has refused to license a
Chaplain or consecrate a Church--queer logic on His Lordship's part,
who seems to go on the principle that the worse the place the less
necessity for a Church. And yet the villa holders of Monte Carlo form
a very respectable class. The late Mr. Junius Morgan had a villa here
and many other well-known names might be cited. The place is charmingly
small and centres round about the immense and beautiful Casino. Ask
the inhabitants of the Principality of Monaco what they think of the
Casino and the gambling company. They will reply that it is an unmixed
blessing. For the company pays the taxes of the little realm, keeps
all the roads and public works in good repair; and poverty is almost
unknown. The inhabitants are allowed to enter the gambling rooms but
one day in the year--on the fete day of the Prince of Monaco. Strangers
gain admission to the rooms by presentation of their visiting cards,
and without them are not allowed entrance. A droll tale is told of the
application of this rule to the Marquis of Salisbury. He was going to
the rooms with a party and not having any visiting card with him was
stopped by the gigantic doorkeeper. He was somewhat angry at this and
drew himself up, saying, in very English French: "_Mais j'ai ne pas
besoin d'une carte de visite. Je suis le Marquis de Salisbury, Premier
d'Angleterre._" But the doorkeeper still refused and would not let him
in. He afterwards explained his incredulity by saying to a friend:
"How could I believe he was Milord Salisbury and the Prime Minister
of England? He wore a tweed suit and had his trousers turned up." This
brother evidently derived his idea of the appearance of a Marquis
from the Italian article of that name, which is usually greasy, and
fearfully and wonderfully attired.

The Casino at Monte Carlo and its tables have been often described;
but the crowds that linger three deep about the green cloth are always
fascinating to watch. _Grande dames_ and _cocottes_ elbow each other,
and English statesmen rub shoulders with Parisian blacklegs. The day
I was there I saw the Duc de Dino (who married Mrs. Stevens, of New
York,) philosophically drop L2,000, and stand it better than a young
man who lost five francs at roulette. But the saddest thing of all
was to see young girls of eighteen or twenty (the rule is not to
admit anyone under twenty-one, but of course the officials are often
hoodwinked) with "systems," pressing close to the table and pricking
number after number on their cards as they eagerly follow a run on the
red or the black. These people are always sure they will some day break
the bank, and linger on from day to day and from week to week leaving
whole fortunes in the maw of the remorseless "Administration." Each
additional week seems to add to the strained, eager look in their eyes,
the drawn, pinched look about the mouth, and the tell-tale wrinkles
about the temples that proclaim an habitual gambler. The _croupiers_,
too, are curious studies, as they whirl the ball or deal the cards
that mean so much to the eager crowd; cool, calm, impassive, there is
something devilish about the monotonous way in which they call "_Faites
vos jeux, Messieurs_," or "_Le jeu est fait. Rien ne va plus._" Some of
them, it is easy to see, have come down in the world; and one man was
shown to me who had filled a high position in a crack British regiment,
before he had been detected cheating at cards and had been ruined for
life. I may not give his name or all the facts in the case, but it bore
a striking resemblance to Sir William Gordon-Cummings' "accident."

There is a peculiar class of harpies in the Casino, but very well
dressed harpies, who make their living by "living up" to the table,
so to speak, and grabbing the winnings of the lucky but slow players.
Enormous sums are lost in this way by careless winners, for the ball
(in roulette) rolls so quickly around, and the _croupiers_ toss the
gold so quickly in the general direction of the winners, that a very
quick eye is needed to spy one's property. The "_Serie Noir_" has
already begun at Monte Carlo, and two suicides have occurred. Of course
the "Administration" policy is to hush up these little matters, and
whenever a dead body is found in the lonely gardens surrounding the
Casino (about one a fortnight is the average during the season) its
pockets are pretty sure to be filled with gold and notes, placed there
by the wily detectives of the Casino, to show that the poor man could
not have shot himself on account of his losses at play. And rumour says
that they have an admirably prompt way of getting rid of the bodies of
those who are thoughtless enough to commit suicide on the company's
grounds without noise or scandal. An eye witness told me the following
tale of a tragedy in the rooms last year, which he vouches for: about
ten o'clock at night, when everything was in full swing and the rooms
were crowded with well-dressed people (no shabby-looking character is
ever admitted; and the devil in this case is certainly "in society"),
a shot was suddenly heard, and a handsome young fellow, pale as death,
staggered from the _Trente et Quarante_ table with his hand to his
bleeding side. He fell with a crash, and at once, like lightning, a
crowd of the Casino detectives had closed around him, opened a window
overlooking the sea, and thrown him out upon the rocks below. So
quickly did this take place that not six people saw it, and the people
who inquired about the disturbance were told that a lady had fainted
from the heat and from the explosion in a gas pipe. The next morning
the dead body of the young man was found on the rocks, with his pockets
filled with gold and no trace of a wound about him.

Lovely Monte Carlo! It is like a decayed lady-apple--lovely to look on,
but rotten at the core.

[Illustration]




[Illustration]

SAN REMO.


SAN REMO.--There is a certain apparent similarity between Bournemouth
and San Remo. Both are "winter resorts" and both are popular with
invalids. But this similarity is only apparent. Frost and snow were
rife at Bournemouth a month ago. Sunshine and ripe oranges on the
trees are _en evidence_ at San Remo now. One shudders here, to think
of Bournemouth in winter, just as in Bournemouth the idea of the Lake
District out of summer was repelling.

The climate of the Riviera is not perfect, by any means, but unless
one goes to Honolulu or to "the Cape," it is hard to do better for the
winter. And yet it is not a tropical climate--or even sub-tropical,
simply one with a more or less genial warmth in the winter time.

San Remo is not so "mixed" in its society as Nice, so renowned for
suicides as Monte Carlo, or so vault-like as Mentone.

Cannes is the only place on the coast that approaches San Remo (and,
indeed, outdoes it, so far as exclusiveness in the "English Colony,"
which includes the small American contingent, goes); but Cannes is
really a slice cut out of Belgravia and set down by the Mediterranean,
and one may be in the height of the London Season all winter there.
Cannes is popularly referred to as the "Dukeries," on account of the
number of English Dukes spending the winter there. But to a person
liking society in moderation with a few good dances sprinkled in during
the winter and a fair amount of tennis, San Remo is an ideal place.
Knickerbockers and cricketing flannels are frequently seen, and there
is none of that striving after effect so much found at Cannes, where
top hats and frock coats are _de rigeur_ most of the time.

San Remo is near the French frontier and so, of course, is a queer
mixture of French and Italian village life (for it has only seventeen
thousand inhabitants). It is thirty-six hours from London and easily
reached either by the P. L. and M. Railway, by way of Lyons and
Marseilles, or by Milan and Geneva, via the Mont-Cenis tunnel.

The old town, or _Citta Vecchia_, is built on a hill away from the sea,
and the steep streets are crowded together pell-mell on the nearly
perpendicular hillside. Bradshaw's Guide refers to them as "steep,
mediaeval streets"; but, although I admit the steepness, I have never
discovered the mediaevalism--unless the abundant dirt and endless supply
of unsavoury smells may be taken to represent it. Of course, the dark,
narrow lanes are garlic-haunted, and that reminds me of a story I heard
here. At the old Cathedral, an English priest was talking to an Italian
peasant woman about the next world. She was giving her ideas on the
subject and ended up a glowing rhapsody in this way: "And, oh, our Holy
Father, the Pope, will be there on a great golden throne, smiling at
the faithful; with big bunches of our angelic garlic under his chair
to give to each of his flock as St. Peter brings them to him." If that
idea of Paradise were presented to many good Christians, I fear their
faith might be shaken, for of all the sickening, clinging odours, a
whiff of garlic-scented air is the worst.

This old town is nearly devoid of interest. There are even no curio
shops, and after one walk the average English tourist comes back to
his hotel to "take a tub," and leaves its mysteries undisturbed in
future. To any one, however, brave enough to pick his way through the
overhanging alleys and dark streets, up to the very top of the hill,
an old church presents itself, the "Madonna della Costa," where there
is a wonderful picture of the Virgin which is supposed to be a certain
cure for leprosy. (The method of applying the cure is an unsolved
mystery.)

Most people here go to Mentone to get gloves and stockings, and smuggle
them back over the frontier to avoid paying the absurd prices asked in
San Remo. The new town is built at the foot of the hill and consists
of two streets, with a few good shops, where the tradesmen speak bad
French and charge enormous prices for the necessaries of life. On each
side of this new town stretch the English and German colonies, the
English settling at the west end and the Teutons preferring the east.
Ever since the Emperor Frederick lived in a villa here the east end has
been a resort for patriotic Germans who want the warm breezes of the
Riviera, but do not care to enjoy them on French territory. It is not
the most pleasant part of the town, and English and Americans are very
chary of settling there, as the more aristocratic west end turns the
cold shoulder to the unfortunate villa holders and dwellers in hotels
and _pensions_ at the east end, and has a tendency to consider them
doubtful or _declasse_.

The west end has all the best hotels and _pensions_ as well as villas
scattered along the pretty Promenade overlooking the sea and bordered
with wide-branching date palms. The Promenade ends in lovely gardens,
and both Promenade and gardens are called after the late Empress of
Russia, who spent a winter here early in the seventies. The Promenade
is used as a scene for "church parade" after service on Sunday mornings
by the English colony, and every afternoon, from four onward, one may
meet the world and his wife there. The municipal band plays twice a
week in the public gardens, but the performance--a rather poor one--is
attended mainly by Italians. The language of San Remo is a curious
_patois_ made up of Ligurian Italian--very different to the pure
_Lingua Toscana_ of Florence, and the bastard French heard in Nice and
Cannes.

Five days in every week are bright and sunny, one of the remaining
two is usually cloudy and the other rainy. The average temperature is
fifty-two degrees in winter. The winds are hardly ever troublesome,
as the high chain of hills behind the town act as a natural barrier.
Among the many bad shops there is one really good one: Squire's, the
English chemist's, who dubs himself (but by real Letters Patent) "Court
Chemist to the late German Emperor and to H. R. H. the Prince of Wales."

When the late Emperor Frederick was ill here in '88 at his villa and
all his affairs and correspondence were in confusion, his much-loved
wife, the popular Empress Victoria (who looks so much like her mother,
the Queen of England) used to have all her English letters sent to the
villa enclosed in this chemist's prescription envelopes, to keep them
safe from Bismarck's spies; for the relations, never very cordial,
between the grim Chancellor and the Illustrious Lady were then at a
dangerous tension and the friends of the Empress claimed that he did
not scruple to confiscate her private letters from the English Court
when he could get hold of them. The young Princesses were very fond
of taking long walks in the endless olive groves about San Remo, and
sketching the town from either of the two high rocks that shut in the
bay on each side.

A pretty peasant girl in a small fruit shop near the Emperor's villa
made a small fortune by selling mouldy pears and sour oranges to
enthusiastic British tourists who thronged the shop, because the
Empress Victoria had made a lovely study of her in oils, which has
appeared in a London exhibition.

Another permanent memorial of the visit of the Royal Family to San Remo
is the constant appearance of the highly-gilt arms of the Hohenzollerns
over most of the shops in the new town, which, one and all, describe
themselves as "Court Grocer to the Emperor Frederick"; "Court Bootmaker
to the Imperial Family," when possibly the _chef_ may have bought some
candles from the one and the Emperor's valet may have been measured for
a pair of boots at the other. I have even seen the advertising card of
one "Guiseppa Candia, Court Laundress to the German Empress."

The English set in San Remo is charming and very hospitable when one
comes with letters of introduction. The leading English physician, Dr.
Freeman, and his wife are always ready to extend the courtesies of
the place to fresh arrivals; and any visitor at the English Club will
easily recall the jovial person of Mr. Benecke. But when one comes
without letters or other credentials, the English colony can be very
freezing; as a third-rate American author found some years since, when,
with his wife, he tried to take the town by storm.

The country round about San Remo is full of pleasant walks. Ospedaletti
is only two miles away, and one may take a charming walk there and
back in the afternoon. It is an interesting place, albeit a dreary
one, for it is the monument of a great failure. Some years ago a
great International Company bought up all the land along the lovely
bay, built splendid hotels and shops, made good roads and put up the
magnificent Casino still to be seen there. The shares were at a high
premium and every one was sure the company would make a huge fortune,
and so it would if it had not neglected the trifling formality of
obtaining the consent of King Humbert to the establishment of a large
gambling hell in his dominions. The result was that he stepped in at
the last minute and intimated that while he had no objections to a
Casino, he was not prepared to allow games of chance. Of course, this
ruined not only the company, but the place, for Ospedaletti's only
_raison d'etre_ was in the Casino, and the Casino's in the roulette
table. The hotels and shops are all closed now and the beautiful
building is gradually falling to pieces from decay. The roads are all
overgrown, and a few poor Italian families are the only representatives
of the gay world that was to make Ospedaletti a successful rival of
Monte Carlo.

Then, beyond, is the town of Bordighera, an Anglo-Italian resort nearer
the frontier and especially loved by consumptives. George McDonald, the
Scotch author, has a beautiful house there and his daughters are famous
in the tennis courts along the Riviera. Bordighera is a garden of palms
and supplies all the churches of Rome on Palm Sunday.

A more interesting walk from San Remo is to take the Corniche road
as far as the Pietra Lunga on the east side of San Remo, and then to
strike inland through the olive groves until one finds the dreary
village of Bussana, a place totally destroyed by the earthquake of
1886. The ruins of the quaint old church are still shown (with the
inevitable monogram of the Virgin on everything), where a service was
being held when the first shock came on that eventful Sunday. The
peasants say there are still bodies hidden under the massive masonry
and swear that the place is haunted. This was the earthquake that
startled Cannes early on the same morning, when walls were falling
and people flying from the hotels and houses in various stages of
undress. The Prince of Wales was there then on his yearly visit to the
Riviera, and one of his valets rushed in to call him at five o'clock
for the hotel walls had fallen at the back, and there was danger that
the others might go. But the Prince only scolded the valet sleepily
for waking him and refused to get up in spite of the man's entreaties,
finally turning over and going to sleep again amid the noise of falling
chimneys and crashing walls. It is needless to say that H. R. H. was
not injured and that the other walls did not fall.

The local government of San Remo is vested in the Syndic, the jovial
_Cavvaliere_ Bartolomeo Aquasciati, who is practically elected for life
and who has an almost despotic authority over the civil affairs of the
town; while the _Sous Prefect_ is at the head of the police and ranks
above the Colonel of the regiment of Bersaglieri (or sharpshooters) now
here.

San Remo is particularly suited, on account of its peculiarly
antiseptic climate, to persons troubled with throat complaints, and
several really wonderful cures have been wrought by its balmy air.
Living is much cheaper than in Cannes, Nice or Mentone; there is
capital medical advice available, and very pleasant society. The old
rhyme that applies to Zante:

    "Zante, Zante,
     Fior di Levante,"

might be paraphrased to suit San Remo, for it is certainly the _fine
fleur_ of the Riviera.

[Illustration]




[Illustration]

THE CITY OF PALACES.


GENOA.--Streets of palaces, dingy and dirty with the mould of ages, but
with interiors adorned with all the lavish luxury of the East, such is
Genoa to the cursory view. The tourist, rushing through the Cathedral
and the Cemetery, his Murray in hand; hastily conning the names of old
masters and then going away satisfied, does not begin to know his Genoa.

It is a city to linger in, to study slowly and lovingly, to muse over,
in its deserted squares and sleepy parks. Certainly it is a famous
introduction to Italian art. Every one knows it was called La Superba
in the old days, so there is no need for me to do anything but jot
down a few random memories of the place. Genoa, of course, is chiefly
interesting on account of its past, not its present, but it may be as
well to say that its capacious harbour accommodates steamers sailing
daily to nearly every port in the Mediterranean and that in 1888 the
total tonnage entered amounted to 3,000,000 tons. The lanterna or
lighthouse in the harbour is old enough to be a curiosity, for it was
built in 1547, and is apparently good for another couple of centuries.
Near its foot are the dockyard and arsenal, which were established in
1276. But since 1860 the Italian government has made Spezia its chief
dockyard, to the disgust of the Genoese.

The one wide modern street in Genoa is the Via Vittorio Emanuele, on
which are all the good hotels. In every Italian city and village one
meets this name, and a certain degree of monotony attaches to it after
one has shopped in fifty or sixty such streets in as many towns; but
it shows the popularity of the late king, _Il Re Galant'uomo_, as they
still call him. The shops in this street in Genoa are Parisian in every
way, and there is an indescribable air of cheerfulness and gayety as
one moves along past crowds of handsome black-browed Italian women.
This word comes involuntarily to one in thinking of Italian women or
girls. They could never be called pretty, or even beautiful, with
their dark, glowing skins, large, warm eyes, thick, perfectly-curved
eyebrows, and a more or less faint down on the upper lip; but they are
undeniably handsome.

Then, too, their way of walking out in afternoon or evening in full
toilette and with perfectly-arranged coiffures, but without hat or
bonnet, is attractive and gives a cosy air to the open street. Behind
our hotel is a long, glass-covered arcade about the length of two city
blocks, always filled with a gay, chattering crowd of both sexes, who
promenade up and down, now stopping to look at the brilliantly-lighted
window of some shop rich in statues and statuettes of Parian and
Carrara marble, or to sit at small tables in front of some smart cafe
to eat ices, or the Italian equivalent, _granita_.

This arcade is one of the sights of the city and forms one of the
most attractive features of Genoa. One often thinks of the gay scenes
enacted there nightly, when far away.

A walk about the town is delightful, provided one is unfettered by that
abomination, a _valet-de-place_, or local guide. Such narrow streets
running in all directions past grim palaces and squalid houses (but
all of stone, for wood has no part in the internal economy of Genoese
building) ending frequently in some odourous _cul de sac_, or doubling
on themselves, to bring the helpless wanderer back to his starting
point, after an hour's walk!

The Cathedral must form the objective point of a first walk in Genoa.
Indeed, it would be hard to miss it, for it is built of squares of
black and white marble and resembles an immense chess board on end. But
there is a pathetic dignity about it, for it is very old.

It was begun in the twelfth century, and it is most probable that
Columbus said his _Aves_ and _Paters_ under its vaulted roof, for he
was a native of the erst-while republic of Genoa, when that power
ruled the Mediterranean and boasted, like Venice, of a Doge. There is
a curious inscription above the arches which part the nave from the
aisles, near the Doge's gallery, to the effect that the great-grandson
of Noah founded Genoa and that the nave was restored in 1307.

But this is only one of the curious things about this curious
Cathedral, for the verger who was gorgeous in his cocked hat and
wand-of-office, showed us two huge pictures on either side of the
high altar, which had been taken by the great Napoleon from Genoa to
Paris when he conquered Italy; which had gone thence to Vienna and
had finally returned to their former resting place. They showed the
effect of travel, but were wonderfully well preserved. One represented
the martyrdom of St. Sebastian--that ever-present product of Italian
galleries, but in this case the arrows were happily absent. We saw,
too, the picture of the Madonna, painted by St. Luke and alluded to by
Mark Twain. It had not grown at all clearer since he saw it twenty odd
years ago.

A wonderfully beautiful Byzantine tomb was shown us in John the
Baptist's chapel, and was declared to contain the ashes of that saint.
Certainly it must have been old, and the carving was exquisitely done.
The original chains worn by John the Baptist were also shown. They
were very rusty! No woman but the Queen is allowed in this little
side chapel, erected to commemorate the crime of Herodias, but why
Her Majesty should be excepted from the rule is not quite clear,
unless we accept the theory of the divine right of Kings which Kaiser
Wilhelm holds so strongly. There they also show the _sacro catina_,
supposed to be made of a single emerald given by the Queen of Sheba
to Solomon. This vessel formed part of the spoils of the Genoese at
Caesarea in 1101. It is brought out of the treasury three times a year
for the veneration of the faithful, but no one is allowed to touch
it under severe penalties. But as I was admiring this and preparing
to enthuse over its associations, the verger asked if I understood
Latin and immediately launched forth into the original text of the
Excommunication pronounced against any female who should dare to enter
that _sanctum sanctorum_ where John the Baptist reposed. But, alas, if
his accent was not that I had learned at Oxford, it was still less that
of Yale; and I could only guess at the meaning of most of his sonorous
periods. We left the Church with this avalanche of mediaeval Latin
ringing in our ears. The interior, taken as a whole, is impressive.
The nave and two aisles are unusually long, and standing at one end a
semi-gloomy vista of respectable length is opened up. There are other
Churches in Genoa, but none so rich in tradition or saintly relics. The
Via Balbi is worth a visit, for there stand the famous Palazzo Rosso or
Red Palace, built entirely of dark red stone; and the Galliera Palace
with its magnificent collection of paintings. The Galliera family has
done much for Genoa as well as for Paris. The late Duke gave L80,000
to the harbour works a few years ago, and now the city of Genoa owns
the fine gallery of paintings. The Duchess, who has been dead only a
short time, left her splendid house in Paris to the Austrian Emperor
to be used as the permanent house of his Embassy in Paris and (as she
was childless) willed her large private fortune to the clever Empress
Frederick, Queen Victoria's eldest daughter, in trust for deeds of
charity.

A description of one of these immense palace galleries may stand for
all. Always there is a grand hall supported in part on columns leading
to an arcade-surrounded court. Beyond comes the great staircase, in two
ascents. All this is open to the public view, and the long perspective
of halls, courts, columns and arcades is magnificent in the extreme. In
a splendid suite of rooms on the second floor of this Palazzo Rosso is
the largest collection of pictures in Genoa.

The Palazzo Reale or Royal Palace is interesting, having been
splendidly fitted up by King Charles Albert in 1842. There are palaces
innumerable in Genoa, many rich in historical interest and full of
pictures by the old masters, and if one were compiling a guide book one
could write quires of description about gilding that cost a million
francs in one, and mosaic floors worth several fortunes in another.

But the crowning glory of Genoa is its Campo Santo or Holy Field, where
the noble families of Genoa bury their dead. Imagine vast arcades
surrounding an open space of several acres and these arcades crowded
with wonderfully beautiful statues. Each family pays a sum (no small
one) for a niche in one of these arcades with the accompanying vault
beneath and then erects a life-size statue of the departed, or some
symbolical figure. Some are pathetic and tender--the fairy-like child
dancing on roses, for example, or the full-sized sailing boat crossing
the Styx, every rope and sail wrought with wondrous grace in snowy
marble. Others succeed in being only grotesque. One huge figure of
Father Time sitting cross-legged on a coffin with his knee cocked up,
for instance; or an unpleasantly realistic model of an old man with one
foot in an open grave with his face turned over his shoulder. This was
erected by an old Count, still living, when his wife died. And so on
_ad infinitum_. This is a place to muse, to think grave thoughts and to
reflect upon sudden death, but not a place to get up an appetite.

Genoa is an attractive city, although they say that, unlike Florence
and Pisa, it is not an economical town for strangers of limited means
and that lodgings are scarce.

The character of the inhabitants betrays little of the fiery valour
that gave Genoa its proud position in the Middle Ages. Now its people
are quiet, hard-working and practical; they take little interest in
politics and are well content to live under a constitutional Monarchy,
without showing any disturbing tendency toward an anarchistic Republic.

[Illustration]




[Illustration]

THE NAPOLEONIC LEGEND.


ROME.--Prince Napoleon, the head of the Bonaparte family and _de
jure_ Emperor of the French, has died at Rome after a long and
serious illness, during the course of which, faithful to his declared
principles, he refused to accept a drop of medicine. His has been
a strange and eventful life. Nephew of the great Napoleon, born in
Trieste in 1822, he has been four times in exile. He was born in exile
and he has died in exile. One of the most brilliant men who ever lived,
one of the most statesmanlike, his whole life has been ruined, and the
great promise of his youth spoiled, by the cynical disregard of the
opinion of others which has always distinguished him. He was far the
superior of his cousin, the Emperor Napoleon III., and if his advice
had had more weight with the Emperor, the Republic in France would
still be a hopeless dream, and the mud of Panama would not have soiled
France.

Prince Napoleon had, of course no connection with the _coup d'etat_
of the Second December that gave Napoleon III. the French Empire,
for his claims were indisputably superior to those of the successful
plotter; and although a reconciliation did take place between them,
their relations were never very cordial, in spite of the fact that the
Emperor placed great reliance upon Prince Napoleon's judgment. It may
be safely said that if Prince Napoleon had been in Paris during the
fatal days of 1870, the unfortunate war with Prussia would never have
been declared. It is ancient history now that the Empress Eugenie was
the cause of that war, and in private conversation often referred to it
as "_Ma Guerre_."

Not long since I met the famous Doctor Cordes of Geneva, who had been
called in consultation by the Emperor before he started on the fatal
campaign that culminated in Sedan; and he told me that the Emperor was
simply a child in the hands of the Empress, for he was, at that time,
suffering the most terrible agony from stone in the bladder. At that
time, however, Prince Napoleon was traveling in Spitzbergen with his
_bon amis_, Ernest Renan, the clever author of the "_Vie de Jesus_,"
and knew nothing of passing events. A warning dispatch was indeed sent
to him, but he shrugged his shoulders on receiving it and remarked that
although the members of the government in France were "_imbeciles_,"
still they were not all fools.

But events proved that they were, and Prince Napoleon hurried back
upon the declaration of war, meeting with a hostile reception on his
way through Scotland, where the sympathies of the people were with
Prussia. He found the French Ambassador in London, M. de la Vallette,
jubilant and repeating the boomerang-like phrase, "_A Berlin_." The
Prince foretold the result clearly and exactly, and after Sedan quietly
devoted himself to scientific pursuits until the time for the third
Empire should arrive. He had never liked the Empress Eugenie. He saw
clearly the mistake the Emperor had made in not allying himself with
one of the reigning houses; and in espousing the beautiful Mademoiselle
de Montijo. He assumed a spiteful attitude toward the Empress whom he
called "_Ni-Ni_," and once refused to drink her health in public.

M. Renan says of him that his grasp of a subject was wonderful, his
wit extraordinary, and his executive ability unsurpassed. His sister,
the brilliant Princess Mathilde, who shares so many of his gifts, has
the only _salon_ in Paris to-day, and with her brother's death and the
union of his party it will become historical.

Prince Napoleon was so reserved that he went through life without
inspiring or receiving any real affection, and without meaning it he
unconsciously repelled adherents who wished to become devoted. He had
the misfortune of passing for a Republican under the Empire and for an
Imperialist under the Republic, which was the more unfortunate as he
despised all forms of government, and in his ambition to rule would
have put up with any. A curious thing about him was the fact that his
followers liked him better at a distance. Only the other day one of his
staunchest friends exclaimed: "I never liked him so well as now, when I
know I shall not see him again."

At a distance people remembered only his brilliancy, culture, eloquence
and the surprising ease with which he mastered every problem, however
difficult, in public affairs. He was superior everywhere and popular
nowhere, and although he had the personal magnetism which enforces
admiration at first sight, he had also the unfortunate power of
inducing antipathy toward him on further acquaintance.

The deceased Prince's life was in all its vicissitudes an extraordinary
one and is rich in anecdotes and stories. His career was a succession
of false steps, and again and again the cup of power was at his lips,
only to be dashed to the ground by his own mistake. A man of majestic
person, high ambitions and unexcelled ability, his singular lack of
tact and knack of doing the wrong thing in the right place ruined his
chances of success.

Prince Jerome Napoleon, or the Emperor Napoleon the Fifth--to give him
his real title--was the son of Jerome Bonaparte (the brother of the
great Napoleon), King of Westphalia, by his marriage with the Princess
Catherine of Wurtemburg. He was brought up in Rome, Austria and Geneva,
and finished his education under the supervision of his uncle, the King
of Wurtemburg, at the military school of Ludwisburg, near Stuttgart.
On the establishment of the Empire, under his cousin, he took rank
as Heir Apparent before the Prince Imperial's birth, after which
he became Heir Presumptive, and was for some time Governor-General
of Algeria. The Emperor often employed him upon various diplomatic
military and scientific missions. Many people may have forgotten that
at one time Prince Napoleon was a prominent rival of the Emperor. When
the future Napoleon III. was indulging in various little escapades
that made it seem unlikely he would ever rise to any great position,
fortune favoured his more youthful cousin. Prince Napoleon had every
advantage. In looks he was weirdly like the first Napoleon. I saw
him here last year and instinctively looked for the cocked hat and
knee breeches associated forever with "_le petit caporal_." No one
who saw his massive, clean-shaven, powerful face could doubt that he
stood face to face with a veritable Napoleon. He seemed to hold the
winning card when the Revolution of 1848 broke out, but every day he
lost ground, notwithstanding his active interference in affairs, and
every day Prince Louis Napoleon gained more influence in spite of his
reserve. And this illustrates French nature. It prefers a man who is
impenetrable rather than one who bustles about and allows his plans to
be found out. After a few pitched battles Prince Napoleon allowed it to
appear that he recognized his cousin as the stronger man, and attached
himself to his cause. But he had no sympathy with the men who planned
the _coup d'etat_. He distrusted and disliked them, and they returned
the compliment. But he became Heir Presumptive, was made a general and
had the Palais-Royal as a residence with L40,000 a year.

In 1859 he married Princess Clotilde, the daughter of King Victor
Emanuel, and sister of the present King of Italy. He leaves three
children, Prince Victor Napoleon--now Napoleon the Sixth,--Princess
Letitia, widow of the Duke of Aosta, and Prince Louis, a colonel in
the Russian Dragoons. And now we come to two mistakes generally made
as to the dead Prince's character. He was not a coward and he was not
an atheist. Ever since the Crimean war Prince Napoleon has been dogged
with a reputation for cowardice and was given the nicknames of "_Plon
Plon_" and "_Cringe Plomb_" by the Parisian mob. There is not a doubt,
however, that he behaved with all the courage of his race at the battle
of the Alma, and that his recall was not due to his own choosing, but
to the intrigues of his enemies.

The report of the Marshal Commanding confirms this. But a damning story
of his ill-health was circulated at the time by the semi-official
papers, and the mob was ready to put the worst construction on it.
Report says the Empress Eugenie was in no small degree responsible
for these rumours, for she cordially disliked him and he returned the
feeling with interest.

Fate was again cruel to him in the war with Prussia in 1870-'71. When
he returned from Spitzbergen he was anxious to be given a responsible
command in the Imperial army, but instead was sent off to Italy to keep
King Victor Emanuel in a good humour. He had one more chance, before
the war, of redeeming his honour, when the Duc d'Aumale challenged him
to a duel, but lost it by too much conscientiousness. He hastened to
the Tuilleries to ask if he ought to fight. Of course the Emperor said
no, and then the Empress made her famous but ill-natured _bon mot_,
"If a bullet is ever found in our cousin's body it will be that he has
swallowed it."

Prince Napoleon was not an atheist. This is proved by his whole life,
by his friends and by his death, and will be proved by his memoirs, for
in his last moments, while still conscious, he received Extreme Unction
from Cardinal Bonaparte, and he has had a religious funeral. He was an
anti-clerical, and while certainly not a religious man, he inclined
towards the doctrines of Rousseau.

The famous Good Friday dinner at which the Prince and his guests ate
_charcuterie_ and drank a somewhat profane toast was the base of the
belief respecting his religious opinions--a belief greatly magnified
and spread by the Empress Eugenie. Prince Napoleon never knew when to
speak and when to remain silent, although a magnificent orator, and his
failing has been well summed up by a famous senator: "The Prince speaks
well, he is the best of orators--but he says only too well what had
best been left unsaid."

His friends were the most famous men of the day, Victor Hugo, Edmond
About, Ste. Beuve and Pere Hyacinthe, who sent him his blessing as he
lay dying. His relations with the Emperor show many instances of his
want of tact. Having been complimented by Napoleon upon two speeches
delivered in the Senate against the temporal power of the Pope, he
resolved to improve upon them, and then delivered his famous anti-Papal
speech at Ajaccio, a speech which drew forth the following interesting
letter of remonstrance from the Emperor:

"_Monsieur Mon Cousin_,--I cannot help informing you of the painful
impression which I received on reading the speech you delivered at
Ajaccio. When I left you in Paris with the Empress and my son and as
President of the Privy Council, I hoped that you would prove yourself
by your acts, conduct and speeches, worthy of the trust which I had
placed in you, and that you would set the example of that unity which
ever ought to exist in our family. You have raised questions which
no longer concern our day. It is necessary to have borne, as I have,
the responsibilities of power in order to judge how far the ideas of
Napoleon I. are applicable to the present time. Before the great statue
of the founder of our family, what are we but pigmies, only able to
behold a part and incapable of grasping the whole? One thing, however,
is certain, and that is that Napoleon exercised--first of all in his
family and then in his government--that severe discipline without which
all government is impossible, and without which all liberty leads to
anarchy. Having said this much, my cousin, I pray God to have you in
his holy keeping.

                                                      NAPOLEON."

This letter was written in 1866, when the Emperor was traveling in
Algeria.

After the fall of the Empire and the death of the Emperor, Prince
Napoleon kept up a sort of armed neutrality with the Empress Eugenie
and his young cousin, the Prince Imperial (then Napoleon the Fourth),
after whom, he was the head of the Bonapartist party. When the Prince
Imperial fell in Zululand in 1879, Prince Napoleon became the head of
the family. But the Prince Imperial had made a foolish, boyish will
in which he named his cousin, Prince Victor, the eldest son of Prince
Napoleon, his heir and successor. The Empress Eugenie was only too glad
to annoy her hated foe by pretending to accept this absurd arrangement,
and unfortunately Prince Victor Napoleon fell into the hands of foolish
advisers, quarreled with his father and set up a party of his own.
For several years father and son have not spoken, each claiming to
represent the Imperialist party in France. But it is now stated with
authority that Prince Victor Napoleon was reconciled to his father on
his death-bed, and this will do much towards wiping out the memory of
his unfilial conduct. But he was strongly tempted. The Empress Eugenie
urged him, all the old adherents of his great family urged him, to set
up the Napoleonic standard, while his father seemed apathetic and
indifferent. Then, of course, he commanded a divided allegiance. Now he
stands at the head of a united party. Thousands of men who would not
join Prince Napoleon on account of his anti-clerical opinions and who
refused to support Prince Victor Napoleon against his father, are now
rallying to the Imperial standard.

Scoffers said the Napoleonic legend was dead when the first Napoleon
died. Scoffers say so now. Yet Napoleon III. proved that it was very
much alive in the fifties, and it is well on the cards that Napoleon
VI. may do so in the nineties. The new Emperor _de jure_, is clever,
eloquent and possesses tact, above all the _sine qua non_ of one in
his position. He has few enemies and many friends and will inherit the
Empress Eugenie's large fortune upon her death.

And so the greatest service Prince Napoleon has ever done for his
family and cause is by dying, for his death unites, while his life
divided, his party.

History will judge him fairly. Brilliant, clever, witty, statesmanlike,
eloquent and masterful, his life has been ruined by want of tact. His
last words are significant: (I quote from the London _Times_.)

"He declared that he died an Emperor, adhering to the principles of
the _Concordat_, and fully imbued with the religious sentiments of the
Bonapartes."

Such was the Emperor Napoleon the Fifth, a man misjudged by many and
loved by few, but a man whose talents will one day be recognized by
France.

[Illustration]




[Illustration]

A DEVONSHIRE MARKET TOWN.


NEWTON ABBOT, DEVON.--At the first blush the sudden change from the
balmy breezes of the Riviera to the comparatively harsh winds that
blow over Dartmoor, would seem to be a trial. But such is hardly the
case. I am writing to-day in a private sitting room of the quaint Globe
Inn in this little-visited town, with the windows wide open and the
sun streaming in with a warmth that is almost too genial. One never
hears of a tourist visiting Newton Abbot, and from all I can gather
Newton Abbot is in the same position. It is a queer, quiet little
market town in South Devon, about six miles from Torquay, the great
southern watering place, and not far from Dartmouth and the moors. One
can have hunting and fishing in the neighbourhood, for the South Devon
fox hounds meet near by three times a week and the rivers Eske and
Culme supply capital salmon fishing. Several big country houses are
close by, and to the casual observer Newton Abbot exists simply to
form a coterie of tradespeople for the benefit of the County Families
in the neighbourhood. It has no society of its own, and even its
Mechanics' Institute gives entertainments only by the suffrages of the
"surrounding Nobility and Gentry," to quote from its programmes. And
yet it is a happy, quiet little town enough, sunning itself in its own
small valley, and with many of its by-streets running up the numerous
hills at the back, whose brows are dotted with genteel (how popular
that word is among the lower-middle class in England) semi-detached
"villas." The London papers get down at mid-day, and until noon Newton
Abbot gets on very well with a local print which reproduces the news
from yesterday's _Times_.

By the way, "The Thunderer" is too dear for the average man (it is
three-pence a copy as against a penny for the other London dailies)
and so it is lent out to read by the local library which advertises
itself as "in connection with Mudie's." One rather wonders where the
"connection" comes in when a copy of "Robert Elsmere" is handed one as
the "last thing out, sir, just down from London."

But Newton Abbot has some historical interest. In the midst of the
town, just in front of the old ivy-covered tower of St. Leonard's, is
a remarkably ugly stone surmounted by a modern lamp-post. The stone
bears an inscription to the effect that in 1688 the then Mayor of the
town, standing thereon, read the first proclamation made by William
of Orange after landing in England. Enthusiastic Orangemen visit the
stone to this day, and zealous members of the Order of the White Rose
curse it heartily, as they regret King James and the Stuart dynasty;
which, whatever its faults, at least inspired more romantic loyalty and
personal devotion than the phlegmatic Dutch Prince ever did.

I visited several houses near Newton Abbot with a view to taking one
furnished for the sake of the good fishing near, and although none
was found to suit I had some droll experiences. One house was very
well furnished, and the family seemed in a remarkable hurry to get
away while offering the place at a low rent, but it afterwards turned
out that the paterfamilias--a clergyman--had just eloped with the
parlourmaid.

At another house I was received by a smartly-dressed person who tried
hard to give me the impression that she was a lady, and who at length
airily inquired: "And would you like to move in, at once, forthwith
directly?" But her drawing room was decorated with wax flowers under
glass shades; and mottoes done in Berlin wool, with a chromo-lithograph
of the late Lord Palmerston over the mantel; so I was not exposed to
much temptation. The occupant of another cottage waxed confidential as
she showed me over the house, told me her name was Mrs. Mudge and that
she "laundered" for a living. She looked as if she did something for a
living, for her face was fiery red and she diffused an odour of gin and
cloves as she slowly maundered on.

Nearly every street in the town shows by its name some connection with
the Courtenay family--Earls of Devon--who in the old days owned most
of the property in South Devon. Now evil times have come upon them and
beautiful old Powderham Castle, near Dartmouth, alone remains to them.
But they are venerated still in the county and the "Courtenay interest"
is a great help to the candidate for Parliamentary honours.

Newton Abbot has the distinction--if it be a distinction, which is
very strongly debated--of having as its representative in Parliament
the only Liberal member from Devonshire.

Mr. Seale-Hayne is a wealthy follower of Mr. Gladstone and is faithful
to his chief, but even he owes his seat to a prudent refusal to accept
Mr. Gladstone's extreme views on the subject of home rule. The sturdy
farmers of Devon have ideas of their own and do not see why the efforts
of a few Irish agitators should be allowed to break up an Empire.

The Conservatives and Liberal-Unionists divide the representation
of Devon between them, with the solitary exception of the aforesaid
Mr. Seale-Hayne, and the Conservatives are working hard to defeat
him at the next general election. The echoes of the great gathering
at Exeter last year, when Lord Salisbury addressed an audience of
several thousand working people upon the fallacies of home rule for
Ireland, have not yet died away, and his speech will bear fruit at the
next general election. The tactics of the Gladstonians in the rural
districts are now devoted to drawing off the attention of the rural
voters from home rule--an attention that, to Gladstonian minds, is
too closely fixed upon the struggles of the rival Irish parties, and
the probability of their following the lead of the famous Kilkenny
cats--and fixing it upon co-called "rural reforms." The Conservatives
and Liberal-Unionists, on the other hand, place home rule in the front
and make it the main issue; so the curious spectacle is presented of
the party responsible for the measure placing it in the background, and
the party opposed to it making it the main issue in the campaign.

Turning to sweeter subjects--who, having once tasted Devonshire clotted
cream can forget it? And when to a glass dish of clotted cream is added
a sunny morning, a well-laid breakfast table and a hissing tea urn,
life looks at least cheerful.

[Illustration]




[Illustration]

OXFORD--FROM A STUDENT'S NOTE BOOK.


OXFORD.--Everything at Oxford is quaint and charming, but its inns
are unique and it is impossible to find one that sells bad beer,--the
undergrads would never stand it,--and where a better judge of bitter
beer than a Christ-Church, or a Magdalen, or a "Johns" man is to be
found, it is hard to say. The names even of these inns are soothing.
It is such a relief to get away from the American hotel abomination,
with its gilded radiator, and from its cold, stiff restaurants and
pretentious name; to the sanded coffee room of the quaint, cosy
"Mitre," or to the bar-parlour of the "Bell" or the "Plough." And
although these small, low-built inns are old--older than New York
City several of them--they are radiant with a fresh lavender-smelling
cleanliness that is never found in the big American hostelries, where
the befringed and be-ribboned Irish importation reigns in her pride.

Rosy-cheeked country lasses serve the public here, and are shining
examples of civil service, while behind the bar stands a lively, neat
and pretty barmaid, who is an adept in chaffing the college men,
but with too much self-respect to allow any vulgar jesting in her
domain. We undergrads were not allowed to frequent every inn, but the
"Clarendon" was a great favourite, and I have heard many jolly stories
in its quaint old "Smoke Room," lined with prints after Hogarth. When
I was "in residence" at the University, three years ago, there used to
be a very pretty barmaid who officiated at the "Plough," opposite my
rooms, and I noticed that she was usually at the window when Connigsby
Disraeli, nephew to the great Earl of Beaconsfield, who was then a
student at "New," passed by. A queer fellow, Disraeli, and sure to make
his mark if he lives. I met him at the theatre constantly, where he
always led the applause. He is very popular still in Oxford, for he is
hail fellow well met with everyone, be it "town" or "gown"; and he is
"up" on dogs and horses as well as in the classics. His kennels were
famous when he was "in residence" or "up," as it is sometimes called.
If his uncle had not been the first Earl, and had the title not
therefore been confined to his direct line (he had no sons), Disraeli
would have been "Milord"; but he is sure to make his own way. At the
last general election he was elected to Parliament from the Altrincham
Division of Sussex by a large majority over his Liberal opponent. The
Queen is said to take a personal interest in his success, and Her
Majesty's partiality for his uncle is well known. He has already begun
to attract attention by active work in the Conservative cause and by
clever addresses at Primrose League meetings all over England.

My rooms in the college days were in Cornmarket Street, near the
"High," and my landlord (who was duly licensed by the all-powerful
Proctors) rejoiced in the name of Huckings. He was formerly valet to
the Marquis of Queensberry, and never allowed one to forget the fact;
few were the days when allusions to "His Lordship the Markis" failed to
greet my ears. Huckings is very proud of his "acquaintance" with the
Nobility, and often boasted that Prince Christian-Victor, a grandson
of Her Majesty and a student of Magdalen, once knocked him down in the
cricket field. But Huckings is eminently respectable and very civil.

His furniture was usually covered with a green material stiffly
starched, that crackled and rustled like an Irish-American servant out
for a Sunday walk,--no English housemaid would dream of taking the
liberty of allowing herself to rustle. Huckings was a capital cook and
an experienced butler, and his welsh-rarebits were as light as air.

There is but one theatre in Oxford, and that is directly under the
supervision of the Vice-Chancellor, and no play can be performed
without his sanction. The programmes are headed "By permission of the
Reverend the Vice-Chancellor, and the Right-Worshipful the Mayor." For
Oxford, as a 'Varsity town, is under the control of the head of the
University as well as of the Mayor.

The unsophisticated crowd in the gallery always hisses the villain,
who is usually the best actor, and applauds the hero, who is often
a poor one; but this is usual all through England, and is taken by
the heavy villain of the play as a tribute to his genius. Very good
entertainments are given as a rule: "The Pirates," Toole in "The Don,"
and the inimitable Corney Grain have appeared among others. The bar
is forbidden to sell whiskey to the undergrads, so the call is for
"lime-juice," which answers the same purpose!

I met my old tutor, or coach for "cramming," in the street to-day, and
I have just had him to dine. He is typical--a short, squat man with a
heavy, unkempt beard, and with countless lines seaming his face. He
has not been out of Oxford for twenty years and spends all his time in
coaching backward students. He reminds one in some ways of a ripe and
somewhat mouldy Stilton cheese.

His rooms are musty and cobwebby, for he tells me no one has dusted
them for two years, as he cannot stand having his papers disturbed. And
how he smokes! His pipe rack must hold twenty pipes at least, and most
of them are beautifully .

The walks about Oxford are charming and on returning from a long tramp
it is delightful to stand on Folly Bridge at dusk and watch the punts
and canoes come dropping down the "Char," or to see a college eight
dash swiftly down the Isis to Iffley. The old inn at Godstow, just
opposite the ruins of the famous Nunnery, is very quaint; and the fame
of Mumby's cherry brandy is known to all the colleges in Oxford.

The author of "Alice in Wonderland" is a Fellow of Christ Church
College, and lives in two rooms looking out over the green old "Quad."
He is fond of children and has them always with him. They tell a droll
story of him in Oxford. The Queen enjoyed "Alice" so much that she
requested the author, by letter, to send her another of his "charming
books." Much flattered, he forwarded Her Majesty his "Treatise on the
Differential Calculus."

When I was an undergrad it was almost impossible to pay for what one
bought in Oxford, for the tradespeople insist on one's taking long
credits--a neat little plan by which they make a good deal in the long
run, as they charge heavy interest. Oxford changes little as the years
go by. It was lovely spring weather to-day and everyone wandered to
the river, through the green Christ Church meadows, just as they have
done for hundreds of years and will do in future centuries; and they
are wise, for nothing is so delightful on a warm afternoon in June as
to take a punt and slowly glide along the Cherwell, or to drop down the
Isis in a canoe and take a plunge at "Parson's Pleasure."

Descriptions of College life at Oxford have been done to death and it
is hardly worth while to go over the well-worn ground. "The Adventures
of Mr. Verdant Green" still give a fair idea of 'Varsity life, and
"Tom Brown" is as good to-day as when it was written.

The contrast between American and English college life is sharply
marked. A short experience of Yale made me enjoy Oxford all the more.
There is no class spirit, but the tone in the twenty-odd colleges--each
a small Yale--is more athletic and more _Commencement-de-siecle_ in
every way.

A curious thing is the way in which cap and gown are worn here. The
gown with its two short tails reaches only to the small of the back,
and is only worn when absolutely necessary. There has been a good deal
of amused talk "in Hall" over the report that some upper classmen
at Yale actually wear a long gown reaching to the feet. It would be
considered bad form for Oxford undergrads to wear such a thing, as long
gowns are worn only by dons and tutors.

Americans are coming in increased numbers every year; and for some
unknown reason they usually go to New College, or to "Ch. Ch.," as
Christ Church is familiarly called. But I found St. John's College--or
"Johns,"--with its lovely gardens and long, low, time-worn buildings,
a delightful place to study in or at. "Ch. Ch." is pre-eminently the
"swell college." Balliol is for hard students, and Magdalen is very
aristocratic; Jesus is for Welshmen, Wadham for men who want an easy
time, and Brazenose and Oriel for athletes. "Johns" combines the
happiest features of each. The others have no marked characteristics.

The good old dons are a feature of Oxford, and it is easy to see from
their rosy cheeks and well-fed look that they do not despise the famous
Oxford ale, which is pure and wholesome, while the wine is bad and
dear. Consequently everyone drinks beer, except a few old Deans and
Masters of Colleges, whose gout confines them to toast and water.

The thought of dons brings up memories of the payment of gate fines, if
one happened to be out of college after the great bell of Christ Church
had boomed out the hour of nine; and it was harder than may be supposed
to dodge the Proctor and his "bull dogs" if one was out "in mufti,"
_i. e._, without cap or gown. But take it all in all, college life at
Oxford is an enviable thing, and Oxford itself is a delightful place.

[Illustration]




[Illustration]

THE ENGLISH LITTORAL.


BOURNEMOUTH.--Imagine a few houses set down in the midst of a forest of
pines on two great cliffs overhanging the sea; with a sandy soil, and
you have Bournemouth. There are shops, indeed, and a principal street,
but they are so mixed up with the pines and so divided, one from the
other, that they do not give an impression of town life at all, and one
easily imagines oneself to be in the depths of the country. The pines
are the fetishes of Bournemouth. You breathe in their healing balsam,
you bathe in pine juice and sleep on pine pillows. You walk in pine
groves, and sit on furniture made exclusively of pine and, when you
die, you are laid under the shade of the pines. I don't doubt the fact
that pines are healthy in moderation, but they are monotonous.

Bournemouth is a new place, for everything dates back only forty years.
Before that there were only plantations of pines on the cliff. The
name of the discoverer of Bournemouth is unknown, but the man who has
"made" the place, and made it, too, with wonderful taste and skill,
building all the houses in the pine woods and cutting hardly any of
them down, is Sir George Meyrick, ably assisted by the Lord of the
Manor who owns the half not belonging to Sir George. One cannot call
Bournemouth wildly gay, but it is eminently select--so are the prices,
which are high enough to frighten away any one under the rank (and
income) of a Marquis. There is no theatre in the town, the aforesaid
Lord of the Manor who owns most of the freehold objecting to such
worldly amusements; but the inhabitants have managed to get around him
by fitting up the town hall as an amateur play-house, where occasional
third-rate companies perform.

But people hardly come here to go to the play. They come for rest and
change. Bournemouth is a good long way from London: three hours from
Waterloo station, and in Hampshire, on the border line of Dorset.
The climate is wonderfully dry, and milder than that of London, but
not warm. Indeed, there is little difference between the climates of
Geneva and Bournemouth, except that, of course, there is more snow in
Geneva, and the air is less relaxing. One can easily understand how
consumptives may derive benefit from it (lately many have hurried off
to Berlin to place themselves in Dr. Koch's clinic), but to healthy
people it is debilitating, even more so than the climate of Nice and
San Remo.

The scenery around is lovely. Great hollows (locally called chines)
extend to the sea between the cliffs, and a drive along the coast
reminds one forcibly of the drive along the Corniche road between
Monte Carlo and Mentone. Indeed, this part of the Hampshire coast is
beginning to be called the British Riviera, and it deserves the name,
although the sea is less blue and the sky has a duller tinge than those
of the Mediterranean coast can show. The neighbouring drives are full
of interest. The ruins of Corfe Castle will repay a visit, and Canford
Manor, Lord Wimborne's place, is well worth seeing. There are drives
to Poole, a sea-port near, and to Christchurch, with which Bournemouth
is incorporated for the purpose of Parliamentary representation.
Boscombe Chine and Branksome Chine are lovely spots, a little way out
of Bournemouth.

Bournemouth is rich in churches. St. Peter's is a noble bit of
architecture, and Holy Trinity is a remarkable building, whose steeple
is a tower distinct from the main building. Its rector, Canon Eliot,
has recently been appointed Dean of Windsor and Domestic Chaplain to
the Queen; and people are lamenting his departure, for he has been here
twenty years and during that time has gained for his church, by his own
efforts, the sum of L40,000.

The inhabitants of Bournemouth have been anxious for some time to
have the place granted a charter of incorporation, so that they might
rejoice in a _bona fide_ Mayor of their own instead of having to put
up with a simple Chairman of Commissioners. A member of Her Majesty's
Privy Council came down to inspect the town and advised the Queen to
grant the charter, which she did last month. Lately political feeling
has been running high over the election of the Mayor, and there have
been several Richmonds in the field, one of whom put forward the fact
that he had been for seven years caterer to H. R. H. the Prince of
Wales and to the Guards' Club in London as a claim to the office. He
came within a few votes of election, but was beaten by the leading
stationer of the town.

Now to celebrate this important epoch in the history of Bournemouth,
Lord and Lady Portarlington, who live very near, decided to give
a _conversazione_ in the Winter Garden of the Hotel Mont Dore. Of
course, the Mayor and Aldermen appeared; and now the current of
feeling in Bournemouth is at fever heat, for "the right worshipful,
the Mayor," to give him his proper title, appeared in robes and chains
of office--_hinc illae lachrymae_. England is divided equally on this
subject; about half the Mayors of provincial towns wearing robes and
badges, with cocked hats and the other half confining themselves to
a simple chain of office. The Bournemouth papers are fighting the
matter tooth and nail, and one worthy Alderman (an Irish-American
green-grocer) has resigned office rather than submit to wear "these
relics of mediaevalism." It will be news to most of us that cocked hats
were _en evidence_ in the middle ages.

But Bournemouth is really a charming place and well worth a visit.

[Illustration]




[Illustration]

A DAY AT WINDSOR.


WINDSOR, BERKS.--"Personally conducted" parties have done Windsor to
death; and the place has been described so often and so poorly that it
needs a bold pen to make another attempt. My day at Windsor was passed
during the cold month of January; when the Royal Borough was hung
with crape, when the flags were at half mast and when everything was
redolent of gloom and sadness.

I saw the highest in the land weeping, and Royalty when overcome with
grief; for the Heir Presumptive to the English Throne had been cut
off and the nation was in mourning. The clearest memory that remains
with me after the splendid ceremonial in St. George's Chapel, is the
recollection of the bowed figure and grief-worn face of the Prince of
Wales as he stood at the foot of his older son's coffin, between his
only remaining son, Prince George, and his son-in-law, the Duke of
Fife. He raised his head as Sir Albert Woods, Garter King of Arms,
proclaimed the "style and title of His late Royal Highness"; and his
terrible loss was evident to the most unobservant there. But the
funeral has been everywhere fully described, and it would be useless to
repeat a catalogue of its many and varied incidents.

After it was over, I walked through the grassy stretches of Windsor
Great Park with an old Oxford friend, who had known "Prince Eddie"
well, both on the _Bacchante_ and afterward at York. He told me much
that was new of him and several stories of his wonderful tact in social
matters, by means of which he had averted serious scandal from a family
well known to readers of Burke and Debrett. I parted from him that
evening with a better appreciation of the dead Prince and his character
than I had ever had before.

His death has been a terrible blow to all the Royal Family, but in the
midst of their terrible grief the Prince and Princess of Wales cannot
but feel consoled by the overwhelming sympathy that has been poured out
upon them not only by English hearts; but from Ireland, Scotland and
Wales, and from the greater England beyond the sea.

There is something infinitely pathetic about the death of their eldest
son, just a week after his twenty-eighth birthday and the month before
his wedding. All England has wept with the Royal Family, and foreigners
realize as never before the depth and strength of English loyalty. The
crowds that lined the streets in front of Marlborough House when Prince
Eddie lay ill, contained many work-people and clerks; and the grief
and respect shown by the lower classes everywhere has been a wonder to
all, and a complete refutation of Andrew Carnegie's windy diatribes
as to the progress of democracy in England. There is no jarring note
in the sympathy of grief, for no word has been said against the dead
Prince--nothing but praise and a hearty recognition of his modesty and
hard work. We shall see, when we review the history of his engagement,
something of his strength of character.

Prince Albert Victor Christian Edward was born at Frogmore, Windsor,
on January 8, 1864, and his names were carefully chosen, representing
two grandfathers (the Prince Consort, and the King of Denmark); one
grandmother (the Queen); and a great-grandfather (the Duke of Kent,
Queen Victoria's father). The Queen preferred the two first names,
and so, until he was created Duke of Clarence in 1890, his official
designation was Prince Albert Victor of Wales. But to the great mass
of the English people he was always Prince Edward, or Prince Eddie as
he was affectionately called, for Edward was a name that held glorious
associations for them and they looked forward to having another
"Long-shanks" on the throne.

The history of his life has been repeated so often that it is only
necessary to recall a few incidents: his two years as naval cadet
in the training ship _Britannia_ at Dartmouth with his brother; his
three years' cruise around the world in the _Bacchante_; his studies
at Cambridge and Heidelberg; and his tour in India. He and his
brother, Prince George, had always been together until their choice of
professions separated them. Prince Eddie went with all his soul into
army work and Prince George chose the navy. The grief of the British
army at Prince Eddie's death shows what Tommy Atkins thought of him.

During the last six years in England every one has been wondering why
Prince Eddie did not marry and settle the succession; and, finally, the
truth leaked out last year, although long before that his attentions
to his pretty cousin, Princess May of Teck, had attracted attention.
Ever since they had played together as children he had been devoted to
her, and his father and mother heartily approved his choice. The Queen,
his royal grandmother, resolutely opposed all thoughts of this match
and brought pressure to bear to get Prince Eddie to marry his cousin,
Princess Margaret of Prussia, a daughter of the Empress Frederick and
sister of the present Kaiser. But Prince Eddie was firm and declared
if he could not marry Princess May he would not marry any one. And so
matters stood for several years. But when Princess Louise of Wales (who
is next in succession after Prince George) married the Duke of Fife,
the necessity for the marriage of Prince Eddie grew greater, as there
was a shrewd suspicion that the great English nobles would hardly care
to have the children of the Duke of Fife rule over them if the other
branches failed. But even yet Prince Eddie stood firm and would not
yield, although at last even the Prince of Wales urged compliance with
the Queen's wishes. And finally Prince Eddie's reward came. When Prince
George was so ill with typhoid, popular sentiment urged Prince Eddie's
marriage and then the Queen gave in and made the two young people
happy.

The public announcement of the engagement was received with universal
joy, for Princess May was thoroughly English, and both the _fiancees_
leaped at once into great popularity. They went down to Windsor
together to salute the Queen, and everything seemed to give universal
satisfaction. Even Her Majesty relaxed when she saw how joyfully her
subjects received the news of the royal betrothal, and the Prince of
Wales declared at a public dinner his delight that his son was to marry
a Princess who was English by birth, education and preference. The
ground of the Queen's objection to the marriage was simple, and she
was soon convinced that the English nation attached no importance to
it. On her mother's side, Princess May is descended from King George
III. and stands in nearly the same relationship to that monarch as
her late betrothed, for the Duchess of Teck is the daughter of King
George's son, the Duke of Cambridge; and Queen Victoria's father the
Duke of Kent, was another son; so the Queen and the Duchess of Teck are
first cousins; Princess May and the Prince of Wales second cousins;
and Princess May and Prince Eddie second cousins once removed. But
the Duke of Teck's pedigree was the trouble, for he is the descendant
of a morganatic marriage, and but for that would now be heir to the
throne of Wurtemburg. The English people found no fault with Princess
May's descent, and, indeed, a sweeter, more gracious, more charming
Princess it would be hard to find. The marriage was fixed for February,
and soon wedding gifts began to pour in. Committees were formed all
over the British Empire for the purpose of subscribing to a national
gift. In Ireland it had been decided to present the royal bride and
bridegroom with a castle, and Scotland and Wales were planning the same
gifts. Bridesmaids were chosen and everything seemed to smile upon the
national rejoicing. When Princess May went with her father and mother
to pay a visit to the Prince and Princess of Wales at Sandringham early
in January, huge shooting parties were organized in which Prince Eddie
joined, and every morning the ladies of the Royal Family drove out to
join the sportsmen at luncheon. On one of these occasions, on a rainy,
misty day, Prince Eddie complained of feeling very cold, and instead
of waiting to drive back with the others, walked briskly home to
Sandringham with Princess May. The next day he was better and insisted
upon going out with the other sportsmen. Again he was compelled to
leave them, and again he walked back with Princess May. How she must
value the remembrance of those two walks now! This was on the Friday.
On Sunday he was ill, on Tuesday alarming bulletins were issued, and
on Thursday he was dead. Oh, the pity of it! On the threshold of his
career, on the eve of his marriage he was taken. One is tempted to ask
_Cui bono?_

He will have his place in English History; and the memory of my day at
Windsor will always linger; for I have seen what is of more interest
than the Castle, with all its wealth of art--the loyalty of a people to
their Royal House in its time of trial.

[Illustration]




[Illustration]

SCARBOROUGH.


SCARBOROUGH.--The seaside resorts of England are numberless, and yet
there is a curious lack of similarity in their surroundings, their
atmosphere and in their class of visitors. Scarborough is to the
north of England what Bournemouth is to the south. It is select and
exclusive, but the ultra smart London set is not found in its purlieus.
It is a great place of resort for the old Yorkshire families--families
who can trace their descent back to Norman William and behind him to
the Saxon Thanes and Earls; and who look with ill-concealed disgust
upon the _nouveaux riches_ who are so painfully to the fore just now in
Belgravian drawing rooms and at crushes in Mayfair. Scarborough is not
wildly gay; its visitors take their pleasures sedately, and the voice
of the imitation <DW65>-minstrel is unheard in the land. One needs
to be in rude health to enjoy Scarborough, for the sea breezes come
rushing in from the lap of the Atlantic to mingle with the keen air of
the downs; and if one's lungs are sound it is a delight to live. Hotel
prices are fearfully and wonderfully conceived in Scarborough, but the
landlords say people eat so much on account of the splendid air that
they must charge high prices in self-defence.

The amusements and distractions of Scarborough? If one hunts or
shoots there is plenty of sport. Several packs of hounds meet on the
downs near by, and although the country is a bit stiff, the going is
fairly decent. It may perhaps be considered a drawback that hounds
occasionally disappear over the cliffs in the ardour of the chase, and
that a too-eager hunter might easily do the same--with his rider on
his back; but most men who hunt here say that they enjoy the spice of
danger.

Scarborough has two features distinctively its own: its "Spa" and its
cabs. Just why the long promenade where the band plays should be called
the "Spa" no one knows, but the fact remains, and every Sunday all the
world and his wife walk there for "Church Parade." The Scarborough
cab is really a small Victoria, drawn by one horse, ridden by a
correctly-got-up tiger, who lends a picturesque air to the trap. They
go well, these small horses, and gallop up and down the long hills on
which Scarborough is built, with greatest ease. The "day tripper,"
with his 'Arriet, is unknown here, for the simple reason that there
would be nothing for him to do.

There are no stands in the streets to display "s'rimps," "whilks"
and other questionable marine delicacies, put up in brown paper bags
at "tuppence the quart"; no merry-go-rounds; no cheap photographic
studios; or one-horse circuses where the manager is clown, acrobat
and owner in one, to tempt the taste and gratify the curiosity of
the lower classes. And there are no Americans in Scarborough. It is
too far from Paris, and too quiet for the extraordinary specimens
of nasal tendencies, who make an annual descent upon the Continent
and swarm from Dan to Beersheba. One never meets them at home, these
painfully rich and newly varnished Yankees who travel through Great
Britain in great state and pomp, and whose breeding is shamed by
that of the scullery maid in the cosy little inns they so disdain.
It is really trying to see the impression most Englishmen have of
Americans--impressions gathered simply from these inflictions who,
knowing no one but the green-grocer on their corner at home, come
abroad to astonish the natives; and who succeed in doing nothing but
in making the appellation of American to stink in the nostrils of the
foreigner.

Of course there are ruins near Scarborough, and again of course the
favourite drive is to these ruins. Another excursion is to a hill
overlooking the town, where tradition says that unsavoury individual
yclept Oliver Cromwell, once stood, or sat or performed some other
operation equally important.

Politically, as becomes its staid and exclusive _clientele_,
Scarborough is Conservative; and has no sympathy with an old man's
visionary plans to break up a great Empire. Irish agitators appear
occasionally but not often, and they rarely carry away a full purse
from the collections they invariably take up.

Descriptions of places are invariably tiresome. One place is usually
like another, and the best way to know a town or city is to go there;
but anyone who can picture a town built up on the cliffs and down in
the hollows between, with stretches of sandy beach in front, will have
a fair idea of the Bournemouth of the north. The country round about
Scarborough is attractive. Quaint villages quite out of the world like
Symsbury, are met with at every turn; small market towns, like Yarm,
where the old custom of engaging servants by the "hold fast" in the
market-place on the yearly appointed day still obtains; and small
seaside resorts, like Redcar and Coatbridge; with Whitby famous for its
jet; all these are worth a visit. Yorkshire men are canny, and good at
a bargain and no better judges of horseflesh are found anywhere. The
only drawback connected with Scarborough is its distance from London,
but that is really only a drawback to Londoners. The Scarborough man
is rather proud of the fact. He looks with pity upon the benighted
south of England man, and has no words to express his contempt for the
finnicky foreigner, who comes to Scarborough and drinks sour red wine,
instead of quaffing huge draughts of the glorious old Yorkshire ale.

[Illustration]




[Illustration]

CLIMBING IN LAKELAND.


ROSTHWAITE, NEAR KESWICK.--A couple of days since I started off
with a barrister friend to do a days' climb in the Lake country. He
promised me a good view from the top of Scafell Pike, but a rough time
in getting there; and took an almost pathetic interest in my boots
and "shorts," hinting darkly that certain mysterious "screes," over
which the path lay, would test their strength and durability to the
utmost. We travelled third class, of course, for my friend would have
thought me insane to propose anything else; and, really, we were very
comfortable, as all the seats were cushioned. He wore the regulation
British walking costume: stout, heavy, hob-nail boots, thick woolen
stockings, and loose and impossibly wide knickerbockers; while a blue
serge jacket and a peaked cloth cap clothed his upper man. Of course,
his short briar-wood pipe was to the fore, and on the whole, he looked
comfortable. My own get-up was more ordinary, as I had started at half
an hour's notice.

We rushed into Darlington station before long--an immense glass-covered
structure, with platforms half a mile long--and there changed for
Penrith and Keswick. We began to ascend soon after leaving Darlington,
passing by Barnard Castle, the "beauty spot of Yorkshire"--the tracks
lying over breezy moorlands. We changed at Penrith, a dreary junction,
and reached Keswick about seven o'clock in a mist of half-twilight that
was very kind to the distant mountains, making them appear much bigger
and grander than they were ever meant to be. Fortunately, we found the
Borrowdale coach still running, and as it would take us within two
miles of our destination, we were well pleased. Before it started we
had time to attend a very lively meeting of the Salvation Army in the
Keswick market-place, where the tall, thin man who dealt out freely
sundry dismal prophecies, betrayed painful need of a bronchial trochee.

The drive on the box seat of the four-in-hand was glorious. The moon
came out as we reached the edge of Derwentwater and threw her soft
light full on the lonely lake; and, what was of more importance, on the
broad road ahead of us. The horses were fresh and the road inclining
to a descent, so we rolled gaily on past the Lodore Hotel, hard-by the
famous falls, until, too soon, we stopped before the Borrowdale Inn.
Then, with a cheery good-night from the coachman, we started to walk
the remaining two miles, our appetites forcibly reminding us that we
had eaten nothing since early morning; and with a cheery feeling of
expectancy for the comforts of the inn presided over by the famous
Mrs. Rigg. The lights of the little hamlet of Rosthwaite soon appeared
and we halted at a long, low, straggling house, buried in vines. A
tall, stout lady stood in the doorway and proved herself to be _the_
Mrs. Rigg by the way in which she bustled about in all directions,
calling several buxom country lasses to her aid. She sent two of them
to prepare our much-wanted supper, while she herself piloted us to our
quaint, low-ceilinged bed-rooms, where every bed had curtains. Now,
Mrs. Rigg is a widow, and has been ever since the memory of man, and
concerning the original Mr. Rigg nothing is known; but, whoever he
was, people take more interest in the fact that his wife knows how to
keep a good homely inn, called by Mrs. Rigg herself the "Royal Oak,"
but known to all the neighbourhood as "Mrs. Rigg's." Mrs. R. herself
is a tall, stout old lady with a false front and an imposing cap,
and when she sits in the little bar parlour behind the steaming tea
kettle, reading the _Family Herald_, she presents a picture of comfort
not easily surpassed. Mrs. Rigg is suspected of a leaning toward the
village painter, to the regret of all concerned, and dismal are the
forebodings of the aforesaid country lassies should she yield herself
(and her inn) to his fascinations. We enjoyed our supper--huge chops
served with mealy potatoes and foaming tankards of "bitter"--and
then in the cozy smoke room (why never smoking room in England?), we
proceeded to lay out the route for the next day. Our intention in
coming to Rosthwaite had been to climb Scafell Pike and, possibly
Glaramara; so we confidently looked forward to a fine day. But, oh,
the despair when we woke up next morning, for the rain was coming down
in a steady drizzle and the mist was floating gently over and about
all the mountain tops within view. We met with rueful faces in the
coffee room, for now Scafell was quite out of the question as well as
Glaramara; for, of course, no view could be had on such a day, and the
idea of wandering along the edge of precipices in the mist was hardly
tempting.

But an inspiration came to us. It was unanimously voted a pity to waste
that day, as we should be obliged to return on the next; so, after much
poring over maps and guides, we decided to go as far up Scafell as
possible and then, making a circuit, to return by Sty Head Pass. This
sounded easy and I began to congratulate myself--rather previously, as
it afterward turned out--upon the probability of getting back in time
for dinner at six. We had scraped acquaintance with an "undergrad" from
Oxford--Wadham College--and we invited him to go with us. We hurried
over breakfast, taking care, fortunately, to eat a hearty one; and
then, with a rueful look at the cozy, firelit room we were leaving,
tramped out into the rain about ten o'clock. We knew we should get wet
through, so we took no overcoats and simply buttoned our jackets tight
about our necks to keep our flannel shirts dry as long as possible.

The road was very good for some distance, being the coach road to
Buttermere, so we went gaily on. About two miles from Rosthwaite we
reached the queerly-named little village of Seatollar (which our Wadham
friend insisted on referring to as "Tolloller"), where we turned off
into a rustic road overgrown with grass, which for some time led us
among pine groves before bringing us to the famous Borrowdale yews:
a group of fine old firs upon the hillside. Here our Oxonian again
would have it that the name applied to the various flocks of sheep
grazing near and pointed out to us some "genuine Borrowdale ewes." It
got damper and damper as we went on, but I ceased to wonder when I
heard we were drawing near the "wettest place in England," the hamlet
of Seathwaite, where the annual rainfall is actually one hundred and
fifty-six inches! There is not much of interest in Seathwaite except
its moisture and the fact that it has no public house, as Sir Wilfred
Lawson the great temperance advocate owns all the freehold.

Here we left the road and struck up the side of the valley, having
Glaramara and Great Gable in front of us, two big mountains covered
with clouds; while Talyors-Gill poured its rushing, thread-like
stream down the hillside opposite. Here we first began to walk on
grass, and grass that had been rained on for the last hundred years
without intermission, judging from its appearance. But we said little
and pushed on by the side of the beck for some time, until it became
necessary to go straight up the mountain by the sheep track, which was
marked only by an occasional cairn or small heap of stones. It was
hard work to climb over slippery rocks almost perpendicular; but we
persevered and surmounted the hill, only to find ourselves struggling
in a green bog at the top. The rain now came down harder than ever and
as the Oxford man began to whistle "Wot Ch'er?" we felt gloomy. We
pushed on in single file, each one dripping as he walked, the sound of
the water swashing about inside our boots being painfully evident. We
went on like this for some time. My friend suddenly broke into a shout,
"Here we are, boys, thank goodness, this is Eske Hause." "Oh, then we
are half way up Scafell," said the Oxonian--"hang the mist!"

This last observation was timely, for a thick Scotch mist had now shut
in upon the small plateau known as Eske Hause, where we stood, but as
to the derivation of that name deponent sayeth not. We stopped here
for a few minutes while our Oxonian produced a guide map, and with the
water pouring down from the peak of his cap, proceeded to mark out our
path. The rest of us wrung ourselves out and paid as much attention as
we could.

"We must go down by Sprinkling Tarn (good name, that) and then by Sty
Head Tarn until we get to the Pass. Now, shall we lunch up here or
down by the tarn?" We decided to postpone luncheon until we reached a
lower and presumably warmer level, and we eagerly proceeded to make the
descent. The path, or track, was steep and stony and the stones were
slippery. I will draw a veil over that descent, but when we got down by
Sprinkling Tarn (a small, lonely bit of water) we felt like being put
through a wringer. We hurried on, not noticing that the path had merged
itself imperceptibly in the surrounding turf, until our Wadham friend
exclaimed: "Oh, I say, you know, this can't be right. It's quite time
we were at that confounded tarn and I haven't seen a cairn this half
hour." It was too true. We were off the track. There was mist all about
us and the keen rain was chilling us through and through. We searched
for the path in vain, until we were entirely discouraged, when some one
suggested that it wouldn't be a bad idea to have a bite; so we stood
about in a dripping group as we got out our sandwiches and flasks. We
were wet and chilled, and I doubt if Sir Wilfred himself would have
objected to a taste of Scotch whisky under the circumstances. But the
sandwiches! Oh, Mrs. Rigg, Mrs. Rigg, how we blessed you, there, on
the steep side of Scafell as we found that the ham of which they were
exclusively composed had "gone bad!" We said little, but we thought
hard just then.

After that we went sadly and silently on. Soon we found we were going
down instead of up, which we knew to be wrong, as Sty Head Pass was
above us. And now the thunders of a torrent swollen by recent rains
began to be heard, and presently we came in sight of a tumbling mass
of water hurrying along the bottom of the valley. We stood aghast, for
this we knew must be Lingmell Beck, and the valley the one leading to
Wastwater, miles away from the Pass. Night was closing in and the mist
was nothing lighter, while it was really hard to carry the wet and
dripping mass our clothes had become. We wandered up and down this
valley for some time in bewilderment, not finding any trace of a path.
But at last my friend, who had been carefully examining the mountain
side, cried but: "Look, boys, there's the Pass, way above us! We must
push straight up if we ever want to get back to-night."

We looked doubtfully at the thin black line that might be the Pass, and
which seemed miles above us, and then, with one determined look, set
our teeth and went up the mountain. I say went, for we didn't walk,
although we used every other means of progression, for we crawled and
crept and stumbled along, sometimes on our hands and knees, frequently
sliding back with great agility. I never experienced such a climb
anywhere, even in Greece among the wild Theban mountains; for, dripping
wet, with our clammy clothes clinging to us, we went a solid mile up
that hill before we found the Sty Head Pass. That, although rough,
was child's play compared with what we had come through, and when we
reached the small cairn that marks the highest part of the Pass, we
shuddered as we looked down the almost perpendicular mountain and
wondered how on earth we ever came up.

From the top of the Pass it was a fairly easy walk to Rosthwaite by Sty
Head Tarn, which, owing to the encircling mist, looked like an immense
ocean.

Mrs. Rigg was at the door when we got down and looked so cheerful and
glad to see us that we forgot to mention that ham. But we haven't got
the damp of that walk out of ourselves yet; and it is doubtful if
anything but the warm Italian sun is capable of removing the general
mildew that enshrouds us.

[Illustration]




[Illustration]

WINDERMERE.


AMBLESIDE.--The chief peculiarity of the Lake country is the
ever-present dampness. But once used to this one begins to enter into
its peace and quiet. A month here away from the world would be, to a
tired and overworked man, better than all "cures" or sanitoriums, for
the damp is not the city pest, but that peculiar kind of moisture which
makes the hard, smooth turf as green as an emerald and gives to the
temporary visitor an appetite wolfish in its intensity.

Ambleside is five miles from Windermere village (the nearest station)
and is reached by four-horse drags running three times a day. The road
is as smooth as a billiard table, the horses always fresh, and on the
day it doesn't rain, a drive to Ambleside by the Lake is a thing to be
remembered.

Ambleside is a village of a few thousand inhabitants and primitive, to
a certain degree. The Post Office, for instance, is in a stationer's
shop and the drapers' and tailors' establishments are one. Ambleside
is nestled at the foot of Wansfell Pike and is built on the side of
a hill, consequently the streets are steep. There is but one street
really, and the chemist, the butcher and the inevitable relic shop
are to be found in it. The village is honeycombed with lodgings and
there are many inns, for it is a great centre for excursions. The
immediate neighbourhood is rich in attractions. Stock-Ghyll Force is
but a short distance off--through the stable yard of the "Salutation
Inn," and although a turn-stile with the sign "No Admission" appears,
one may enter boldly without paying. The waterfall is not high but
is wonderfully picturesque as it falls down the moss-covered rocks
and dashes away through a deep ravine. The Stock-Ghyll is a favorite
resort for newly-married couples and is certainly romantic enough for
the purpose. Then there is a charming walk to Rydal--Wordsworth's
village--by the banks of the Rothay, past Fox-How, where the noble
Arnold of Rugby, beloved by all readers of "Tom Brown's School Days,"
lived; and Fox-Ghyll, the residence of the late Mr. Foster. Fox-How
is an ideally perfect place, situate on the side of a hill, with a
smooth green expanse of lawn in front, and buried in rose vines and
honeysuckles. It is a low stone building with old-fashioned windows
and has a cheery, hospitable look. The name is curious and a frequent
one in the lake country. It comes, I believe, from the old Norwegian
word "hague" (a sepulchral mound). Dr. Arnold named the three roads
between Rydal and Grassmere. The highest he called Corruption Road,
the middle Bit-by-Bit Reform (now called Bitbit Road), and the most
level, Radical Reform. A little further on is Rydal Mount, Wordsworth's
home, a charming old place, cushioned in trees. There the road goes
on by Rydal Water, a small lake almost covered with rushes, and then
through a gap in the mountain to Grassmere. This is all haunted
ground, for Wordsworth, Southey, Coleridge and De Quincy all walked
and mused by the side of these lakes and on these hills, and one
hardly wonders that they were inspired by the lovely scenery. Then, in
another direction, one may walk from Ambleside to the quaint little
village of Clappersgate, which is made up entirely of low grey stone
cottages covered with vines and roses. The resources of Ambleside in
providing day excursions for its visitors are really unbounded, and one
of the pleasantest of these is to walk down to Waterhead, at the end
of Windermere, and take passage on one of the small steamers that run
several times a day. As the small vessel starts out from the pier one
gets a splendid view of the mountains at the back of Ambleside, and
the little village looks like a cluster of one or two houses in a vast
amphitheatre. Then we turn around a wooded point and stop for a minute
at Low-wood, the big hotel on the border of the lake, and then go on
past hills and valleys and flocks of sheep to Bowness, passing two or
three small islands, one of which, Holm Crag, is a favorite resort of
birds in the winter months. Then we dart over the lake to the little
island of Ferry, and then go straight on past a bewildering number of
bays and islets to Lakeside at the foot of the lake where the railway
station of the Midland line gives access to Ulverston and the iron
country of Furness.

Windermere is almost equal to Lake Geneva, and although it has become
the fashion to cry down the English lakes, it is a fact that more
enjoyment at an extremely moderate outlay may be obtained in the small
belt of country that contains them, than in Switzerland, overrun as it
is by the cockneys and _parvenues_ of every nation. I know of hardly
any greater treat to a person of any artistic appreciation than that
trip up and down Windermere on a clear day. Then the drives from
Ambleside are charming. One may drive to Grassmere by Red Bank, a steep
hill overlooking that lake and Rydal Water, and also to Hawkshead,
where a very curious old church demands attention; and to High Wray,
where there is an inn rejoicing in the name of "The Dun Cow." A hill
outside High Wray commands a splendid view of the hills behind and
about Ambleside: Loughrigg Fell, Wansfell Pike, Nab-Scar, Crinkle
Crags, Coniston-Old-Man and Great Gable. On a clear day one may also
see Helvellyn. The road passes Wray Castle, a modern house built to
imitate perfectly a mediaeval fortress. The owner is a retired M. D. of
Liverpool. Another delightful drive is to Langdale Pikes and to Megeon
Ghyll, a lovely waterfall rather bigger than most of the cascades in
Lakeland.

On this drive one may have a capital view of Red Screes, another of the
high mountains. Curious names are met with all through Westmoreland.
For instance, three peaks not far from here are called Harrison
Stickle, Pike O'Stickle and Pike O'Blisco.

There are many curious customs still extant in and about Ambleside.
Christmas is celebrated in the old hospitable way. At that time the
farmer and his family are away at other houses night after night
and one must look for them anywhere but at home. At Christmas every
Cumberland and Westmoreland farmer gives two banquets, one called
"t'auld foak's neet" and the other, "t'young foak's neet;" the first
of which is for those who are married and the second for those who
are single. The tables groan under old-fashioned dainties: raised and
mince pies, goose, caudle cup, "guid strang yell," as they call the
home-brewed October, and a huge bowl of punch. Intoxication never
happens at these Cumberland feasts.

Among others, Mrs. Hemans once had a cottage on Windermere called
"Dove's Nest," and wrote some verses on the scenery, which are well
known; but she can hardly be ranked with the school of "Lake Poets."

There is a queer old rhyme current in the district, in itself a
significant comment on the weather of the country:

    "When Wansfell wears a cap of cloud
    The roar of Brathay will be loud;
    When mists come down on Loughrigg Fell,
    A drenching day we all foretell;
    When Red Screes frown on Ambleside,
    The rain will pour both far and wide.
    When Wansfell smiles and Loughrigg's bright,
    'Twill surely rain before the night;
    If breezes blow from Bowness Bay,
    'Tis certain to be wet all day;
    And if they blow from Grassmere Lake,
    You'd better an umbrella take.
    But if no rain should fall all day
    From Ambleside to Morecambe Bay,
    Upon that morning you will see
    Fishes and eels in every tree;
    When in the nets on Windermere
    Twelve pickled salmon shall appear,
    No rain shall fall upon that day
    And men may safely make their hay."

[Illustration]




[Illustration]

SANDRINGHAM HOUSE.


WOLVERTON.--The country in Norfolk is real country and the scenery is
typically English. The Prince Consort could hardly have selected a
more suitable spot than Sandringham for the country seat of the Heir
Apparent; and the fact that the Prince and Princess of Wales make
Sandringham House their headquarters for the greater part of the year
has naturally given an impetus to property in the neighbourhood.

Sandringham House is not a palace. It is simply large, genial,
hospitable and attractive, like its master. The Prince of Wales is a
much discussed man, and the ordinary American who has not travelled and
who derives his knowledge of English affairs from the American daily
papers--which usually give only that side of the question which is
acceptable to the Liberals and Radicals of Great Britain--has little
idea of his personality, and does not begin to gauge the strength of
his character.

The Prince is usually supposed to be a jovial, good-natured man who
devotes his whole time to pleasure, and who has no ideal in life beyond
the pursuit of social gayeties and field sports. This is a total and
gross mistake. The Prince of Wales is one of the most hard-working men
in the Kingdom, and the humblest of his future subjects has probably
more time to himself than the Heir Apparent; and, I venture to say,
does not spend it half so usefully as this much-abused Prince.

For many years he has been King of England in everything but name, and
he is far more than the figurehead of the nation. His knowledge of
public affairs is remarkable; he is a master of diplomacy and his tact
is famous. Like his father, he possesses a fine mind, and sometimes
displays a depth of foresight astonishing even to his old friend, Mr.
Gladstone. He has a happy knack of looking at all sides of a question,
and his mature judgment upon matters of public import is often sought
by statesmen of all shades of opinion.

He has never meddled in politics, and his success in steering a
straight course among the quicksands of party passion and strife is
well shown by a dinner he gave in London only the other day to the King
of the Belgians, at which Mr. Gladstone sat next to Lord Salisbury,
and Mr. Balfour chatted pleasantly with Mr. John Morley. The Prince of
Wales alone could give such a dinner. A fair estimate of the Prince is
rarely found in American papers. Because he is Prince and will some
day become King, they think it their duty to spatter his reputation
with mud; and to show their "Republican sympathies" (I use the word
in its widest sense) by ill-digested diatribes against royalty. The
Conservative party, like the English Court, has hardly a representative
among us, and our knowledge of important events on the other side
usually comes from a "Liberal" source. It is evident that in many cases
the American papers know a bitter editorial against the Prince of Wales
may serve some political end of their own; and they never hesitate to
sacrifice him on such occasions.

It is no exaggeration to say that the most popular man in England is
the Prince of Wales. Even the Radicals cheer him, for he is always
ready to do anyone a good turn, while still careful of his dignity.
It is interesting to note the Prince's daily life at Sandringham, his
country seat, where he appears as a simple Squire.

Saturday-to-Monday parties are frequent at Sandringham in the autumn
when the shooting has begun; and often seven or eight gentlemen; a
General, an Admiral, a Diplomat or two, with their wives, a foreign
Prince or Nobleman, and possibly a Bishop, assemble on Friday evening.
These with the household officers make up the party; and gathered
under the rose-shaded candles around the flower-laden table in the
dining room they present a varied picture of gay and stern humanity.
No sooner is the substantial dinner over than McKay, the Scotch piper,
emerges from a neighbouring room and intones some wild Scotch air on
his bag-pipes. In the evening the Prince and Princess move from group
to group in the drawing room, saying a few pleasant words to each of
the guests, and then withdraw to their private apartments, while music
by some famous pianist usually closes the evening. Baccarat is never
played at Sandringham, and the smoking-room cohort breaks up early.
Breakfast is served at half-after-nine (previous to which several gongs
have sent their echoes loudly through the house) at small round tables
in the dining room, and the meal must be quickly despatched, for at
eleven the carriages start for the meeting-place, whether all the
guests are ready or not. A four-horse drag carries eight or ten guests
with their guns and game bags; and an array of dog-carts, village-carts
and various traps is at the disposal of the remaining visitors. A
breezy morning on the moors is followed by a merry al-fresco meal in a
tent, where curries from India await the Hindoo Maharajahs, and a juicy
ham sent by the King of Portugal tempts the ordinary appetite, while
savoury Irish stews show the Hibernian sympathies of the Prince. The
genial Host always rides a grey cob to and from the moors; at dusk the
traps and drags again appear; and the party, indulging in cigars and
lively chat, returns gaily to the house. After a change of garments
and a "tub," they are just in the mood to enjoy the comfort of the
sitting room, where the charming Princess presides behind the tea tray,
looking more like a sister of her three tall daughters than anything
else. No one, of course, really sits down to tea; each one takes his
cup and wanders through the rooms, stopping to listen for a moment to
the piano, or to admire the small green parrot who gives three very
emphatic and loyal cheers for the Queen. When the guests finally leave
this most hospitable and royal house they are sure to find among their
luggage at the station a well-filled hamper of game. Another morning
the Prince takes an early train to London, lays the corner stone of a
Masonic asylum; drives to a new hospital which he opens; presides over
a meeting of the British Bible Society; and then attends a meeting at
the Imperial Institute, finally returning to Sandringham by a late
train.

The hearty cheers which meet him in London on his way to and from the
station are, if anything, more cordial than those which greet his Royal
Mother on her drives through the town.

Very little of the Prince's time is spent in amusing himself. He is
at the nation's disposal, and the nation is a hard taskmaster. His
is a difficult position to fill, and in the fierce, white light that
beats upon a throne, his slightest actions are distorted. The present
baccarat affair is a good illustration of the way in which the Prince's
affairs are twisted to suit the scandal-loving readers of the Radical
press; but the storm of adverse criticism now raging around his head
has already begun to create a reaction in his favour, and thoughtful
people are commencing to ask themselves whether it is quite fair to
shower so much abuse upon the Heir Apparent for what is admitted to be
an error of judgment, but which amounts to nothing more.

His attitude in this baccarat affair has been strictly honourable,
although open to criticism. It may be worth while to analyze the
charges against him. A slight examination will show the flimsy
character of the foundation upon which they rest. In the first place,
people are under the impression that the fact of his connection in any
way with the affair was disgraceful. This view of the case will hardly
be accepted upon mature reflection. When the Prince ran down to Tranby
Croft for a few days' rest, and in the evening sat down to a friendly
game of baccarat, he never dreamed that one of his oldest friends would
deliberately try to cheat him. With the fact of his playing cards for
money the world has nothing to do. Each man must decide for himself
whether games of chance when played for money are wrong or right. It
may be claimed that the Prince was not a man, but a Personage; but it
is well to remember that he played cards in his private capacity and
not as Heir Apparent.

The jury has decided that Sir William Gordon-Cumming did cheat at
cards; and to any one knowing the game, his very feeble explanation
appears absurd; while the fact that five witnesses saw him push
his counters over the line to add to his stake at an improper time
practically places the matter beyond dispute. The only fault that the
Prince of Wales committed was one of kindness. He signed the paper,
prepared by Lord Coventry and General Owen Williams, promising secrecy
if Sir William would agree never to touch cards again.

That is: he, a Field Marshal of the British Army, tacitly agreed to
allow Sir. William to remain in the Army and in his regiment while
knowing that he had cheated at cards. His duty as an officer was to
report Sir William's conduct at once to the Duke of Cambridge, the
Commander-in-Chief.

This he failed to do out of regard for his friend; and for this he has
been so bitterly attacked in the press! Again, he has been criticised
for his continued presence at the trial, where he came--it was
suggested--for the purpose of muzzling eminent Counsel. Can any one
fail to see what scorn and contempt the press would have poured out
upon him had he failed to appear in person? Every one would have said
he was afraid to be present.

No one recognizes more fully than the Prince himself that an error
of judgment was committed when he condoned Sir William's offence; and
his recognition of this fact has been proved by the apology offered in
his name by Mr. Stanhope, Secretary-of-State for War, in the House of
Commons. All this talk and discussion in England is merely froth on the
surface. The resolutions and strictures passed by various Dissenting
bodies with much display of bad taste appear to be equally due to a
desire on their part to condemn gambling in high places, and at the
same time to draw public attention to themselves. The lower-middle
class and the agricultural labourers, who compose the great bulk of the
population of England, go placidly on their way, paying no attention to
this noisy affair and only longing for their beef and beer.

The upper-middle class is more deeply stirred; for does it not count
many a Mr. Pecksniff among its members, and are not Mr. Stiggins and
Mr. Chadband to be met within its chaste and highly moral circles?

There is no doubt that the Prince will be decidedly more careful in
future as to whom he admits to the honour of his acquaintance. This
baccarat affair may cause him some slight temporary loss of popularity,
but a generous fault often makes a man more popular than a miserly
virtue; and the enthusiastic cheers which greeted the Prince at Ascot
only a day or so ago are perhaps a better indication of what the people
of England think of their future King's course in this matter.

A significant fact is Mr. Gladstone's loyal adherence to his Prince,
and his stern discouragement of the intention of his unruly Radical
colleagues to attack the Prince in Parliament. Mr. Labouchere, too, the
cynical editor of the Radical _Truth_, as well as the Liberal _Daily
News_, supports the Prince; and the authors and literary men whom he
has so often helped are rallying to his aid.

The Prince of Wales, like every one, is mortal; but far more than his
great-uncle, King George IV., does he deserve his well-earned title of
"The First Gentleman in Europe."

[Illustration]




[Illustration]

THE LATTER-DAY JACOBITES


CHARING CROSS.--A few years ago Mr. Gladstone brought down upon himself
a perfect hailstorm of remonstrance, reproach and denial by a statement
in a public letter, to a candidate for Parliamentary honours in the
Liberal interest. This statement was to the effect that no one ever
now dreamed of objecting to the Revolution of 1688, and its results.
Previous to this, the great majority of English and Americans had
thought the cause of the Stuarts forever dead; and that a romantic
interest--chiefly historical--alone remained of the intense devotion
shown to that fated family in the unsuccessful risings of 1715 and
1745. But the great majority was undeceived upon the appearance of Mr.
Gladstone's letter, and learned with a degree of sympathetic amazement
that there existed in Great Britain two "Orders" or "Leagues," both
aiming at the return and recall of the heiress of the Stuarts, to the
throne of her ancestors. One of these, the "Order of the White Rose,"
was merely platonic and existed to gratify a passion for historical
romance on the part of its members. Its principal object was to hold
meetings on the anniversary of the death of Mary Queen of Scots, King
Charles I., and the battle of Culloden--the battle that proved the
death-blow to the cause of the gallant young "Pretender." I say its
object "was," advisedly; for the stupid action of the powers that be,
on a certain day in February last (1892), has changed its somewhat
lukewarm hero-worship to working zeal, and has brought it into closer
relations with the other association: the "Legitimist Jacobite League,"
This society makes no secret of the fact that it meditates treason.
Its avowed purpose is to restore the Stuarts; and on its books appear
the names of seven thousand people devoted to its cause. Most of these
rebels in embryo hail from the Highlands, where the old loyalty to
the Stuarts still exists, and where the last desperate stand was made
against the bloodhounds of the butcher-Duke of Cumberland.

This League always refers to Her Majesty as "The Lady Victoria" and
recognizes as Queen the heiress of the Stuarts--the wife of the oldest
son of the Prince Regent of Bavaria.

It would be interesting to digress here and wander in the fascinating
paths of the genealogy and descent of the Stuarts; but it would fill
columns. However, the Order of the White Rose and the Jacobite League
are satisfied with the descent of the Princess, and they are the ones
chiefly concerned. Lest my information be considered apocryphal, I may
say that all my statements have been verified by a member of the Order.
Lately the League has turned its attention to Parliamentary matters,
and although the members consider that the last legal Parliament was
held when King James II. was cheated out of his throne by his Dutch
son-in-law, they are not above agitating in a constitutional way, and
have secured several Legitimist candidates to stand at the general
election. So to sum up in a few words: Before last February there
existed in Great Britain two associations each looking upon the present
Royal Family as usurpers, and each devoted to the Stuart cause; one
theoretically, the other practically. Both these associations had
existed since the rising of 1745, but in a more or less chrysalis
condition until Mr. Gladstone's letter aroused them to declare
themselves, when they were amazed at the adherents that poured in from
all over the United Kingdom--principally from Scotland and Ireland,
many from England, but not one from Wales.

Some of these recruits were animated simply by a desire for something
new and were people who are never happy unless in pursuit of some
interesting fad; but the majority consisted of those whose ancestors
had fought either at Killiekrankie, at Culloden or at Preston Pans.
There is more or less mystery as to the attitude assumed by the
object of all these hopes. But she is believed to take up a position
of innocuous desuetude, so to speak. That is, if the royal lightning
should strike her, she would, like Barkis, "be willin';" but until the
Jacobite thunderstorm gathers, and the White Rose lightning illumines
the political sky, she bides her time. For Bavaria is at peace with
England. A glimpse at the incident of last February before referred to
and another which happened a short time before, may be instructive.
Everyone knows the statue of King Charles the First, which stands at
Charing Cross. The Order of the White Rose had decided to decorate
this statue of the King upon the anniversary of his martyrdom, and
about three o'clock in the morning a small band of zealous Jacobites,
with wreaths of white roses, gathered near the statue--as on Primrose
Day the Conservatives gather to cover the statue of the great Earl
with primroses--but to their annoyed surprise a surly policeman was
stationed there who told them gruffly to "move on"--that no decorations
would be allowed on or near the statue. Many were the murmurs and loud
the remonstrances, but both were unavailing, until one of the party
sarcastically inquired if they might leave the wreaths at the foot of
the statue of George III. hard by. No objection was made to this (mark
the distinction drawn!) but the Legitimist sympathizers preferred to
carry their wreaths away as souvenirs, and moved on with many muttered
observations on the "Hanoverian pack," hated of their fathers. Several
of the papers referred to this peculiar action of the authorities with
ridicule, and blamed the Home Secretary for giving an unnecessary
prominence to the lately resuscitated party. This was the first thing
which quickened the lukewarm zeal of the Order while it inflamed the
ardour of the League. The next blunder of the authorities was more
serious, and to this may be ascribed the Stuart revival. Of this
incident I was fortunate enough to be an eye witness. I had happened
to see a paragraph in an obscure little evening paper on the seventh
of February to the effect that as the next day was the anniversary of
the death of Mary Queen of Scots, the Order of the White Rose would
form a procession in Westminster Abbey to lay a wreath upon her tomb.
The Jacobite League was not mentioned, but, as events proved, many of
its members had learned of the purpose of the Order and had arranged to
be present. Mindful of the refusal to allow the Order to decorate King
Charles's statue, and yet hardly thinking that any opposition would be
offered to the attempt to honour the memory of the unfortunate Queen,
especially as on that day the Chapels Royal were opened to the public,
I arrived early at the Abbey and as soon as I entered could see that
something unusual was in the air. Small knots of people were whispering
in the nave, and excited vergers bustled about, dropping their h's
all over the Abbey. The daily afternoon service was to commence at
half-past three, so there was some anxiety to get the function over.

The Marquis de Ruvigny--a name familiar to all versed in the history
of the Stuart cause--and Mr. Clifford Mellish were waiting at the
door for the arrival of the wreaths, when the appearance of a score
of stalwart police-constables created some surprise. The majority of
the strangers present (there were about six hundred) had evidently
come for the ceremony of placing the wreaths on Queen Mary's tomb and
were waiting silently and reverently until everything should be ready.
Fortunately, as we all thought, the day was one when the royal tombs
were open to visitors; but soon an ominous murmur arose that the gates
leading to the chapels where the royal tombs were had been closed.
The Marquis de Ruvigny indignantly refused to believe that such a
_betise_ was possible on the part of the Dean; but a surging of the
now increasing, crowd towards the chapels showed that the gates were
secured.

Then in no measured terms the disgust and anger of the Jacobites broke
forth: "Intolerable Stupidity!" "Afraid of the consequences!" "Absurd!"
"Idiotic!" were some of the expressions used. But one braw Scotchman
summed up the situation in a few words: "The government has turned a
romantic pilgrimage into real treason, and has raised us to the dignity
of a political party." The leaders now got together near the gates and
talked earnestly while waiting for the wreaths to come. I was curious
as to the effect of the closing of the gates on the British public in
general, and wandered through the Abbey, catching expressions here
and there. "It's a perfect shame," exclaimed a rosy-cheeked vicar
evidently just up from the country. "It makes me sympathize with the
Jacobites--the idea of depriving Englishmen of their right of free
assembly." And a stout old gentleman near him, who was evidently
something in the city, turned with the plaint: "My ancestors lent King
George the First money, and I have always been a staunch Hanoverian;
but by Jove this is too much. Do you suppose if these people wished
to decorate the tomb of George III. or of Dutch William they would be
stopped?" And many more spoke to the same effect.

The impression made on the general public present was evidently bad.
But the sight of a well-known figure pacing up the nave suggested
Archdeacon Farrar, and it was indeed he. Soon the leaders of the
abortive procession spied him and entered into eager expostulation,
but all to no purpose. Dean Bradley was in Algiers, and the
Canon-in-residence for the time being (Canon Ainger) had decided to
close the Chapels Royal. He could not interfere. But then the large
wreath appeared, a beautiful affair of white roses and camellias, and
it was hastily decided to affix it to the gates leading to the royal
tombs. Then a short, stout man with sandy hair and beard pressed
forward, eager to take it.

"My grandfather, Robbie Anderson, led the way for Prince Charlie at
the Battle of Preston Pans and I'll be proud to lead ye now," he said.
A scarcely suppressed cheer broke forth as the wreath was placed on
the gates, in which those of us who claimed a touch of the old Scotch
Cavalier blood joined. A card was attached, and by general request the
descendant of Robbie Anderson read it aloud. I afterwards copied it:

"In memory of Mary, Queen of Great Britain, France and Scotland.
Presented by the Legitimist (Jacobite) League. February 8th, 1892."

Then as the inspectors from Scotland Yard drew nearer, a red-faced
verger bustled through the crowd up to the gates and pointing to the
wreath exclaimed, "Take that thing down!" This gave rise to murmurs of
remonstrance and indignation and the Marquis de Ruvigny spoke for all:

"I decline," said the Marquis, "to touch that wreath. Take it down
yourself." But this the verger had no orders to do, and retreated in
discomfiture. Then it was proposed to hold a meeting in Deans' Yard to
protest, but Mr. Stuart Mellor very sensibly observed that it would
do no good to be arrested for brawling, and that public opinion would
know what to think. And as most of the Jacobites present were Catholics
this exclamation of one of them was to the point and caused a quick
clearance:

"I say, if we don't look sharp, we shall be in a Protestant place of
wash-up at time of service." And so the crowd faded gradually away,
and what but for the tact of the leaders might have turned into a
"demonstration" in the Abbey, was safely over. But the moral effect of
the gathering and the severe measures used by the authorities has not
yet died away, and many Englishmen who cared little for the Stuarts
have joined the Order or the League as protest against this act of the
government. The Dean, I believe, refers the matter to the Bishop of
London, and he mentions the Ecclesiastical Commissioners more or less
vaguely. It is difficult, therefore, to fit the blame. But there is
no doubt that this incident has given renewed force to the Jacobite
cause. Their Parliamentary candidates are busy, and the coming general
election will afford a practical test of their strength with the common
people. There is no doubt that in Ireland they could secure many seats
if they tried, for the Irishmen of the south still remember the Battle
of the Boyne.

Sensible people all around regret the blunder of the government, and
as usual H. R. H., the Prince of Wales, voiced the universal sentiment
when he declared the suppression of the pilgrimage a shame.

"Why," said he, "I would have gone with them myself, and would have
worn a white rose, too, if they had asked me."

And no doubt if the Canon-in-residence, or the Dean of Westminster,
or the Bishop of London, or the Ecclesiastical Commissioners, or
whoever was responsible, had acted in this sensible, unprejudiced way,
the incident would have closed and people would have smiled at the
archaeological enthusiasm of the Jacobites, instead of thinking them
hardly used, and, ergo, sympathizing with them.

[Illustration]

       *       *       *       *       *

Transcriber's Notes:

Page 115, "Princesss" changed to "Princess" (and Princess move from)

Page 125, "inocuous" changed to "innocuous" (of innocuous desuetude)

Page 129, "sympatize" changed to "sympathize" (makes me sympathize)






End of Project Gutenberg's As the Crow Flies, by Walter Phelps Dodge

*** 