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CHAPTER VIII.

Boston; its east wind, culture, and English look—False accusation of "decadence," but gaps in the aristocracy of letters between first and second visits—Longfellow, James Fields, Professor Agassiz—Asthma and its remedies—John Greenleaf Whittier—Oliver Wendell Holmes—Mrs. Julia Ward Howe and the New England Club—Victoria Discussion Society—Evacuation Day in New York and Forefathers' Day in Boston—Rev. Edward Everett Hale—Visit to the Boston University with the Dean and Mrs. Talbot—Miss Peabody and the Kindergarten—The Papyrus Club—Dr. Harriet Hunt—The Bible and the Woman question.

FIFTY years ago Fanny Kemble spoke of "the bitter bleak east wind—the only wind that blows in Boston," and added, "it keeps us all in a state of misanthropy and universal dissatisfaction."  I admit "the bitter bleak east wind," which played cruel havoc with my throat and lungs, but I repudiate entirely the "misanthropy and dissatisfaction."  An Englishwoman certainly feels sooner more "at home" in Boston than in any other town in America.  The very streets have an English look about them, and the conditions of life here are much more like those of the mother country, to say nothing of the people, who undoubtedly retain many of the characteristics of their ancestors.  It is far less cosmopolitan than New York, which Joaquin Miller describes as "an iron-fronted, iron-footed, and iron-hearted town"; further declaring that its screaming, screeching, swift, and very crooked elevated railroad is just typical of the city itself—"iron, all iron, iron and paint."  Commerce and money-getting are certainly the features of New York; everybody dabbles in stocks, and Wall Street is the centre of interest.  The very boys know how many thousands there are in a million before they learn the commandments.  But in Boston a different spirit prevails.  Life is taken far more quietly, less at high pressure, and people are valued more for their culture than their wealth.  The ladies are equally remarkable for their "independence," but less for their dress.  The gay colours I noticed in New York are not to be seen here.  The houses are far more like homes, and if they have not the magnificence of the Fifth Avenue palaces, they all contain more or less of a library of books.  A literary atmosphere pervades the place.  Indeed, Boston is the acknowledged centre of intellectual culture and literary work.  Some writers declare that Boston is losing her mental pre-eminence, that there are no rising authors to take the places of those literary giants who once made her famous, and that she will soon cease to be regarded as the "Athens of America."  The true Bostonian indignantly disclaims this allegation, and declares "that more culture to the square inch was never known there" than exists at the present moment in the "hub of the universe"; so much so, that "a little English Philistinism would be a positive relief," retorted a New England journalist with whom I was discussing the accusation of "decadence."

    But it will not be easy to replace the aristocracy of letters which reigned in Boston when Prescott, George Ticknor, Theodore Parker, Dr. Channing, and Emerson were familiar figures in Beacon Street.  Even the ten years which elapsed between my first and second visit had turned many a valued presence into a "majestic memory."  The grand-looking old poet Longfellow, the genial scholar Professor Agassiz, and my kind friend James Fields, had, with many other notable persons, joined the majority, and left many "a vacant chair."  On whom have their mantles descended?

    Time, however, had dealt gently with John Greenleaf Whittier.  I found him celebrating his seventy fifth anniversary in December, 1882.  The evening I lectured in Tremont Temple he sent me a kindly message: "The night air" kept him at home, he said, but he "was with me in spirit."  On his birthday, in his pleasant rooms in the Hotel Winthrop, overlooking Bowdoin Street, sat the venerable old man, with a mass of snow-white hair rising above a towering forehead, surrounded by tokens of affectionate esteem sent from far and near.  One exquisite bouquet I had seen the day before while dining with the wife of its donor, ex-Governor Claflin.  It was from their hothouses, and consisted of seventy-five roses—each flower marking a year; and for the fragrance of these American roses to be appreciated they must be enjoyed here, freshly gathered, for no description can convey any idea of their delicious perfume.

    And The Autocrat of the Breakfast-Table—dear old Oliver Wendell Holmes—had still a welcome for me.  As of old, I found him the centre of the wit and humour passing round the circle.  His conversation is as rich as ever in vigour and delicious whimsicality.  If his individuality is acknowledged in his writings, how much more is it felt by those who are brought within the magic circle of his personal influence.  As a fellow-sufferer from asthma, we had early found a bond of sympathy in discussing a complaint which hitherto has baffled the science of the whole world, though America must have the credit of the discovery of the best palliative I know, viz., Himrod's asthma powder, from the fumes of which I have invariably derived the greatest possible relief.  Some years ago I gave it to Dr. Morell Mackenzie, of London, who has found it of inestimable value to sufferers from that painful malady here.  I have tried every remedy ever invented, and Himrod's cure is the only one in which I have absolute confidence.

    At the New England Club Mrs. Julia Ward Howe introduced me to the leading women in various reform movements.  This Club was formed not merely to secure a central place of meeting, but with the hope that from personal contact with each other women might learn that much-needed lesson, "to be more just and generous to their own sex."  Mrs. Howe has been a marked woman in her own country for many years.  Her "Battle Hymn of the Republic" was justly regarded as one of the most spirited utterances during the terrible civil war which kindled "the watch-fires of a hundred circling camps."  I think Mrs. Howe is one of the best drawing-room speakers in America.  She is a woman of great culture; and if her speeches perhaps lack the terseness which characterizes the use of plain Saxon, they are full of thought, and very marvels of polish.  She is one of those brave women

    Though Mrs. Howe had once sung of the "fiery gospel, writ in burnished rows of steel," she was the first to cross the Atlantic to advocate at the Peace Congress the great principles of human brotherhood, and to urge that the time had come when the antagonisms of nations and society should be settled in some calmer manner than by bitterness and bloodshed.  I had then the pleasure of asking her to preside at one of the debates of the Victoria Discussion Society, when Dr. Zerffi read a paper on "Women in Art."  This society was organized in London for a twofold object,—to afford a neutral meeting-point for all interested in women's work, and to give ladies an increased opportunity for oral utterance.  Miss Becker, Mrs. Fawcett, Lady Amberley, and one or two English women, had at this time lectured in public, but very few ladies had dared even to join in a discussion at a Social Science Congress.

    No society ever yet escaped difficulties and disappointments, or failed to fall short of the expectations of sanguine promoters; for societies, like individuals, have an unfortunate way of seldom realizing their highest aspirations.  In spite of all drawbacks, however, the Victoria Discussion Society, during its few years' existence, certainly accomplished a great deal of the work I had called it into existence to per form.  It brought together a number of earnest people who would never otherwise have met, and enabled them to compare their varied experiences, and it encouraged many ladies to express valuable opinions, who, under other circumstances, would probably have been too nervous to afford help to other workers, but "would have died with all their music in them."  Dr. Elizabeth Blackwell and Dr. Garrett Anderson, in the opening session of the Victoria Discussion Society, gave an account of their practical experiences in the field of Medicine.  Lords Shaftesbury and Houghton expressed their approval of medical training for women, which was of great moment just then to the cause.  "Ginx's Baby," in the person of Mr. Edward Jenkins, M.P., discoursed on the condition of the poorer classes, and advocated emigration under the leadership of one of our Colonial Governors, Sir George Grey; while Chunder Sen took back to India fresh inspirations for the extension of women's education there.  I can not enumerate here the important subjects discussed from time to time, or the influential people thus brought into practical sympathy with one another, but must content myself with saying that an impetus was given to the passing of the Act to secure the property and earnings of married women by the able way in which Mr. Herbert Mozley and Sir J. Erskine Perry advanced its interests at some of our meetings.

    Two very important annual celebrations take place in America in the concluding months of the year.  New York makes the grandest possible preparations for "Evacuation Day" in November.  "What is Evacuation Day?" asked a young English lady in my presence, much to my amusement, for I had been already initiated into the mystery.  Whereon the eyes of the patriotic Yankee whom she thus rashly interrogated kindled, and with considerable pride he answered, "Well, I guess next Monday will be the hundredth anniversary of the day when the Britishers saw they had better quit for that tight little island of yours"; and then he proceeded to enlarge with great enthusiasm on the courage and patriotism of his forefathers, who freed this country from English despotism.

    A century ago, at the dinner given by General Clinton to celebrate the exit of English rulers, the toast of the evening was, "May the remembrance of this day be a terror to princes."  In spite of all efforts in 1883 to revive the enthusiasm of the people, the toasts were more in keeping with the generous spirit of the present time, which induces this great Republic to offer a cordial greeting to all foreign potentates, whether crowned by right of mere heritage of lands, or by reason of gifts which make them kings in the realms of literature and art.

    On the 22nd of December Boston keeps "Forefathers' Day."  Two hundred and sixty years ago the Pilgrim Fathers arrived at Plymouth in the Mayflower; and what would those harsh, solemn, unbending Englishmen have said could they have foreseen how their descendants would commemorate the event?  For these were the men who forbade every kind of amusement; all genial conviviality was a sin in the eyes of these angular, sanctimonious Puritans, who bade adieu to their native land because they would not bow the knee to Baal.  Plymouth, it is true, kept the day as a holiday, with display of flags and salutes by cannons, while the Standish Guards formed in line and marched to the rock on which the Pilgrims landed; after which a service was held in the church and a hymn sung, composed for the occasion by Governor Long.  But elsewhere dinners marked the event.  The "New England Sons" in Pennsylvania had a splendid banquet at the Union League Assembly Hall; Delmonico's was of course the scene of the New York festivity; and as for Boston, it is strange but true that one great feature of Boston life is its public dinners.  As the Rev. Edward Everett Hale told me, "a representative man may dine in public, if he pleases, nearly every night of the year."  Everything begins and goes on with dinners, except the ladies' association—and they have "social teas" instead.  Not that the "flowing bowl" is indulged in at even all the gentlemen's dinners, for Boston is a stronghold of temperance.  At many dinners no wine is to be seen at all, and yet the Rev. C. A. Bartol, in an after-dinner speech, urged the advocates of total abstinence to extra exertions in the cause, as the "rum interest," as he described it, had elected the last Mayor of Boston and the Governor of Massachusetts.  The nation is not suffering from the "overwork" on which Herbert Spencer laid such emphasis, but, according to Mr. Bartol, from "over-drinking, over-smoking, and over-indulgence in all sensual desires."  I had but brief glimpses of Mr. Everett Hale and James Freeman Clarke—the one had only just returned from Europe, and the other was absent lecturing; but both were hard at work helping to crush sectarian disputes and theological wrangling, fearlessly pointing out the dangers to be dreaded in this country, where those who have suddenly grown rich do not assume the responsibility for the use of their wealth which is felt by an aristocracy of standing.  Our European aristocracies at least know that they are under some obligation to the nation.  The American aristocracy of wealth too often feels none.

    The Dean of the Boston University invited me to visit the School of Medicine, and I spent a very pleasant morning there with Mrs. Talbot, Mrs. Hemmaway, the President of Wellesley College, and other representative ladies.  The Dean conducted me through the building, not even sparing me the dissecting-room; and when I entered the lecture-room, in which about 200 students of both sexes were assembled, I received a greeting as unexpected as it was gratifying.  The Dean gave an informal history of the College, and spoke from the experience of this School of Medicine strongly in favour of co-education, after which I was requested to say a few words about what had been accomplished in England.

    Ten years ago, at the New England Club, I made the acquaintance of a delightful old lady, Miss E. P. Peabody, who is regarded as the mother of the Kindergarten system in America.  She studied Frobel's methods in Germany, and introduced that admirable form of teaching in her own country.  Her entire life has been devoted to the work, and in 1882 I found her still discoursing on her favourite theme, impressing an excellent maxim on her hearers, which might be adopted with advantage in other places than Kindergartens—"Never give pain unless it is to prevent a greater pain."  The world would be a very different place, if we acted on this golden rule in all our dealings with each other in daily life.  In April, 1884, Miss Peabody kept her 80th birthday, surrounded by a large gathering of her friends.  During the winter she had occupied herself with the Piute Indian affairs, and, notwithstanding her loss of sight, had written scores of letters on the subject to Senators whom she hoped to influence.  Strange to say, though Miss Peabody writes now chiefly by the sense of touch, her handwriting is far more legible than some of the productions of those who are in full possession of their eyesight.  Passing events, social reforms, and political movements, still excite in her the same vivid interest as of old, and accordingly Miss Peabody's friends never fail to spend many hours with her daily, for the purpose of reading the newspapers and new books, a duty and pleasure largely shared by her niece, Mrs. Hawthorne Lathrop, a Boston beauty of the golden-haired type, whom I first met at the Papyrus Club dinner—a charming entertainment, at which her husband read a humorous account of a supposed interview with Don Quixote, and after other original poems and tales contributed by Colonel Lyman, Governor Long, Mr. Babbitt, etc.  Boyle O'Reilly recited a really powerful poem, indicating the results of the growing breach between labour and capital, a strife which is undoubtedly looming on the American horizon.

    When I first went to Boston, I received a message from one of the earliest pioneer lady doctors begging me to go and see her, as she was "too old and too ill to leave her room."  Pleasant indeed was the interview which followed, for Dr. Harriet Hunt was not only a clever physician, but a warm-hearted woman, of whose kindly and helpful deeds I had often been told.  In her personal presence one realized the earnest simplicity of her character, and her buoyant spirits and ringing laugh betokened the good-will to all and peace which reigned within.  She was one of the first to protest against "the unpardonable sin" of bringing up girls without a knowledge of domestic duties and responsibilities—those solid attainments which endure when youthful "attractions" pass away.  "It must soon be seen that bringing up girls for nothing but marriage mingle poison in the cup of domestic life, and is traitorous to the virtue of both sexes, for neither suffers alone."  These brave words were written in 1827; they are still needed in 1884, proving that it is only by line upon line, and precept upon precept, we shall ever succeed in bringing such truths home.  To this very hour, in both countries, a woman's claim to equal educational advantages, in order that she may worthily fulfil her own place in the world, and prove a real helpmeet for man, is met by many with the charge that she is "ruthlessly shattering household gods," and that "man can offer no protection to the being who tauntingly proclaims herself his rival; he can feel no reverence, not even pity, for the nondescript who tramples on her most precious privileges, and vainly grasps at the rights of man."  There are still to be found in every city Jeremiahs like Dr. Dix, of New York, who lament over these "indecorous" efforts to plunge into "coarse rivalry with man."  Not that there seems much chance of the survival of any kind of good woman at all, according to the reverend gentleman—very happily described by Mrs. Devereux Blake as the "theological Rip Van Winkle of the age"; for in his Lenten lecture he stated that "real women"—whatever he meant by that singular term—were dying out, and that " the ideal of an earnest, modest, simple womanhood " is being superseded by a poor substitute made of "vulgarity, heartlessness, froth, and chaff,"—terrible accusations, followed by arguments drawn from the Bible supposed to be unanswerable, and therefore crushing.  Such opponents seer, to forget that while "the letter killeth, the spirit giveth life."  The same apostle who told "wives to obey their husbands," also said, "Slaves, obey your masters"—a recognition, perhaps, of a prevailing custom, but certainly not an approval of it.  It was indeed only natural that St. Paul, who declared himself ready to refrain from meat all the days of his life rather than offend a weak brother, should urge Greek converts to be "keepers at home," in days when no respectable matron or maiden ever left the house save for religious festivals.  But now, when custom obliges ladies to take part in amusements of all kinds, I suspect the inspired writer would be the first to say that only a perverse generation could persist in keeping women apart from the more serious concerns of life, while it requires such license in another direction.  It is no longer a question of "the home or the world"; it is a case of sober interests or frivolous pursuits; the one will tend to raise the whole nation, the other will ultimately destroy it.

    It seems to me that the Bible, falsely supposed to crush demands stigmatized by opponents as "unfeminine and ungodly," really contains the very essence of the claims advanced.  For instance, what more do we want than the fulfilment of this injunction in sacred writ: "Give every woman of the fruit of her hand, and let her works praise her in the gates."  Christianity, in truth, was the signal for the breaking down of false and artificial barriers, though it has proved a signal some of its professors, in the stubbornness of their hearts, resolutely refuse to see.  They indulge in confusing discourses on "broad lines of demarcation," "masculine and feminine characteristics"; forgetting that the very highest thought of God includes the blending of those elements which, in common speech, we call masculine and feminine.  The grandest human characters include these self-same qualities, the true man having much of the noble woman, and the noble woman having somewhat of the true man.  It is time to reject as heathenish the notion of separate codes of virtue, and to look for modesty in men and courage in women, and then we shall find that what is true of the highest humanity is true of the world at large, and that for the service of that world the spirit and power of woman is as much needed as the spirit and power of man.

    Who can doubt this in a State like Massachusetts, full of the practical work already accomplished by women in schools, reformatories, and other directions?  Take, for example, that marvellous prison managed entirely by women, in which the superintendent, chaplain, physician, alike are women, whose wonderful efforts in reclaiming the erring ones under their care have been crowned with such signal success.

    But wise convictions, like light, dawn gradually, and the mists of prejudice which still enshroud some minds will not be dispersed till people cease to dogmatize on the deepest and most delicate chords of human nature.

 
CHAPTER IX.

English and American receptions contrasted—St. Louis—Absence of gentlemen at afternoon receptions—Innovation at St. Louis—Mrs. Bigelow's "At home"—Dr. Sarah Hackett Stevenson, of Chicago—Illinois women—Judge Bradwell and his lawyer wife—Dr. and Mrs. Hoggan, of London—Incident during a railway journey—Charlotte Cushman on and off the stage—Compared as a reader with Fanny Kemble—Mr. Sothern and Miss Cushman at a steamer banquet — The ruse to avoid speech-making—The model town of Pullman—Caboose travelling in Winconsin and Minnesota—Cincinnati during the flood of 1883—Governor Noyes—Murat Halstead and Mr. Probasco.

THERE is an institution in America very familiar to "the distinguished traveller," entailing so much physical discomfort and mental disappointment to all concerned, that I venture to hope for its speedy overthrow, as one of those shams of society far more "honoured in the breach than in the observance."  I trust my good friends across the Atlantic will not accuse me of being ungrateful or ungracious if I express in these pages sentiments, many of them acknowledged to me in private, though they have as yet not seen their way to fly in the face of an established custom.

    Receptions arranged for the introduction of a stranger into the society of a city in which he finds himself for the first time, when crowded and protracted, are perhaps equally wearisome in all parts of the world.  Our arrangements in London for this inevitable ceremony are bad enough, but at least the recipient of the honour is seated in some comfortable, though conspicuous, place, and allowed a brief respite for something approaching the interchange of ideas with the most notable people in the assembly, who are alone presented, on the ground that, as the time allotted is not indefinite, the number of introductions must of necessity be limited also, and in keeping with its stern demands.  The rest of the company are quite content to be present on the occasion, and to extract their enjoyment from social intercourse with one another.  They recognize the fact that any other course involves the hopeless confusion of the stranger they seek to honour.  In America, however, a different fashion prevails.  Each person expects a formal introduction, and would be much outraged if this barren honour were neglected.  Consequently, the guest in question has to stand with the host or hostess at the door, to be presented to, and shake hands with, every one who enters the house, and the same ceremony has to be gone through with when they quit it.  The bare interchange of names, mutual bows, with murmurs about "the pleasure such an introduction affords," as the crowd sweeps by, is the beginning and end of such ceremonials.  Social intercourse is an impossibility, and recognition in the street the following day, on the part of the stranger, is a hopeless task.  A perfect sea of kind faces have succeeded each other in such bewildering rapidity that no permanent impression could possibly be retained.

    There is another objectionable feature in an afternoon reception, organized for the benefit of a lady, which we also escape in England.  Except at Washington and Boston, gentlemen are not even invited.  They are supposed to be too busy at their various occupations to countenance such entertainments.  Unlike the Old World, which prides itself on its "leisure class," America refuses to acknowledge the existence of men who can afford to give to society the hours claimed by work.  I fancy, however, that if a glimpse could be obtained into the city offices and city clubhouses, some strange discrepancy would be sometimes discovered between what is and what is supposed to be.  Be this as it may, gentlemen are rarely seen at these afternoon receptions.  I shall have the courage of my opinions, and boldly declare that while such a form of "receiving" exists, this is a fact much to be lamented in the interests of all who take part in them.  I have thoroughly enjoyed many a luncheon, and even a dinner of "ladies only," but I certainly think the success of a large reception depends very greatly upon the due balance of the sexes being, as far as possible, preserved.

    "An afternoon" was kindly arranged for me by one of the most brilliant ladies in St. Louis, during my stay in that city.  I was previously entertained at luncheon by my host and hostess, but when the hour arrived for the appearance of the general company, to my great surprise my host prepared to depart, intending to leave his wife to receive without his assistance the 150 ladies who had been invited to meet me.  Our united entreaties, and my suggestion that he should start the innovation there, on the excuse that it was out of deference to an English guest, prevailed, and he consented to remain.  Afterward he frankly confessed that he had greatly enjoyed himself, though he pretended to be much afraid of the indignation of the husbands, who as usual had not even been asked to accompany their wives.  The American gentleman as a rule makes a ceremonial call in the evening, during the hours the Englishman regards his castle as sacred, and expects no one without a definite invitation to cross its threshold.  In circles where the English fashionable dinner-hour of from seven to eight has been adopted, this practice is naturally dying out, and gentlemen pay their respects to the lady of the house on the day she announces herself as "at home."  In these houses I have often met as many gentlemen as lady callers between three and five o'clock.  I remember once at Mrs. Bigelow's in New York mistaking the English stranger who was talking to me for an American, owing to his familiarity with the country, and the manners and customs throughout the State.  At last he explained his nationality, adding he had "been on this side of the water more or less for six years."  "On business?" I ventured to ask.  "Not at all," was his reply.  "You are irresistibly drawn to this country," I suggested.  "I am irretrievably overdrawn in the old," was his ready and amusing rejoinder.

    Among the pleasantest welcomes I received during my second visit to Chicago, was a notable reception given by Dr. Sarah Hackett Stevenson in her house in Michigan Avenue, in conjunction with the famous Fortnightly Club of that city.  It was very crowded, and difficult to obtain much conversation with any one present; but nevertheless it was impossible not to appreciate what was so kindly intentioned, and so ably carried out, that it was justly described by the papers next day "as a public demonstration of Chicago's best citizens."  A few years before, I had seen a great deal of Dr. Stevenson in London; she studied in our medical schools there, and was one of Professor Huxley's brightest pupils.  To-day she is a leading physician in Chicago, with a large and increasing practice, often called upon to drive out into the country in the middle of the night through the frost and snow, to some patient who has the bad taste to require her services at such an inconvenient season.  Dr. Stevenson is a remarkably tall, handsome woman, with a commanding presence; she is an uncompromising upholder of the dignity of her profession, a stern administrator of allopathic draughts and pills, but so sympathetic and womanly withal, that her patients not only have confidence in her skill, but firm faith in her never-failing tenderness and kindness.  She has consequently attracted round her a number of enthusiastic friends, and is one of the leading spirits at the Woman's Medical College and Dispensary.  The last time I met her was at a little gathering at Mrs. Gilbert's, when she delighted all present by a wonderfully clever little skit on the nineteenth century upheaval of old-fashioned beliefs and customs, in which she very cleverly exposed the absurd contradictions which abound in modern society.  It was full of pungent humour, yet a reverent and almost pathetic undercurrent pervaded every line.  If Dr. Stevenson is induced to publish it in the form of a Christmas brochure, with the charming illustrations a friend had made on her manuscript, I trust it will reach England, where the author is pleasantly remembered by a group of cordial friends.

    The Prairie State derives its name from the word "Mini," signifying "living men."  It certainly has contained many ladies who deserve to rank under that denomination as well, for countless women have distinguished themselves in various directions. Miss Willard, President of Evanston College, is now the acknowledged leader of the temperance party in America.  The assistant State entomologist was a woman.  I knew a lady journalist in receipt of 2,500 dollars a year for her work on a daily paper as book reviewer and fashion editor; but it is somewhat singular not to find "a notary public" there, as in other places, considering the laws of the State are more liberal than any other in the Union regarding the power of married or single women to enter into contracts, and carry on any profession or trade they please.  Women are eligible for any position in the public schools, and as lawyers have obtained enviable reputations.  Miss Alta M. Hullet was admitted to the bar before she was nineteen; but her health failed her, and she went to California, where she died of hereditary consumption.  It is often said that no professional man would marry a lady who aspired to rival him in his own career.  A notable exception to this theory is to be found in Chicago.  Mrs. Myra Bradwell, the first lawyer admitted in the State, not only married judge Bradwell, but a business partnership exists between them.  She also edits the Legal News, which is esteemed "a great authority" in the West.

    A similar refutation of this doctrine may be found in medical circles in London in the case of Dr. Hoggan and his clever wife, Dr. Frances Hoggan.  I must relate a curious incident apropos of the assertion that a man always objects to the admission of women into his own profession.  Dr. Hoggan was requested by the friends of Dr. Susan Dimock, of Boston, to undertake the melancholy task of identifying her body, as during that lady's voyage to Europe in pursuit of a well-earned holiday, she had perished in the shipwreck of the Schiller, off the Scilly Islands.

    During his journey to the place where the lamentable accident occurred, Dr. Hoggan had to change trains, and on entering another carriage he found an old lady engaged in a vehement discussion on "woman's sphere."  The opposition was maintained by two young ladies, who were evidently staunch champions of a woman's right to make use of her talents for her own advantage as well as for the good of others.  As the veteran representative of the clinging-dependence-upon-man-theory found that the forces were against her, she turned to the new-comer for sympathy and assistance.

    "I am sure," she said, "that this gentleman does not approve of women who compete with men in trades and professions."

    "On the contrary, madam," Dr. Hoggan replied, "I am quite in favour of women undertaking any work for which they are fitted."

    "Surely," she exclaimed with horror, "the idea of a woman doctor is thoroughly repulsive to you?"

    "Certainly not," he answered quietly, " though I am a medical man myself."

    "I am certain that you would never dream of marrying such a woman," she cried, thinking now at least she should obtain the convincing answer wherewith most to discomfit her young marriageable opponents.

    "Madam," replied Dr. Hoggan placidly, "that is just what I have done.  My wife is a doctor in London, with an excellent practice."  Tableau.
 
    I was fortunate enough during my first visit to America once again to meet a woman I had held in special honour ever since I had made her acquaintance abroad.  Charlotte Cushman's fascination of manner, to my mind far above mere beauty of feature, with her marvellous charm of expression and boundless humour, had always an irresistible attraction for me both on and off the stage, while her pure and noble life and generous actions commanded a respect seldom given to those so often contemptuously denominated "playactors."  Miss Cushman loved the art she adorned with a devoted singleness of purpose, and showed the world that a woman may be sons peur et sans reproche in this perilous profession.  She was giving a series of readings at this time in the principal cities in America.  Her powerful intellect and passionate nature, combined with her personal magnetism and wonderful deep-toned voice, enabled her to hold her audiences as spellbound throughout her recitals as she ever did in her famous representations of "Meg Merriles," "Lady Macbeth," or "Queen Katherine."  As a reader she was more than the peer of her sister artist Fanny Kemble, whose recital of "Midsummer Night's Dream" in Exeter Hall gave me, in the days of my youth, my first dramatic inspiration.  Indeed Miss Cushman had genius of the highest order.  Her acting had a magnetic effect upon those on the stage with her; for the time being she lifted them up to a level near her own, for the atmosphere of genius is felt behind the footlights as much as it is in the auditorium.  Her two watchwords were "Devotion and Work," secrets of success which aspirants for dramatic honours, however celebrated, would do well to take to heart, for no great eminence can be ever reached without them.

    Before I pass away from the reminiscences connected with this gifted artist, I must narrate an amusing experience in which Mr. Sothern was involved.  Some years ago a London Shipping Company gave a grand banquet on a new steamer about to start for Australia.  I was sitting between Miss Cushman and Mr. Sothern, and soon after the speeches commenced he leaned behind my chair and whispered something to Miss Cushman, who at the same moment placed her hand on her forehead and gave a tragic groan, as if in sudden pain.  "Lord Dundreary" started up, and while confusion reigned, gallantly offered to lead her into "fresh air on deck."  Taking her by the arm, he carefully escorted her from the crowded saloon, with every sign of anxious solicitude, to the carriage which conveyed them both from the docks.  Not a suspicion of the truth crossed the minds of those present, the rapid exit excited profound sympathy, and for a moment even cast a gloom over the company.  Years afterward I happened to be in the Manchester Theatre on Mr. Sothern's benefit night, when he was bound to address the audience at the conclusion of the play.  He began by confessing that speech-making was an ordeal he had always dreaded, and that in strict confidence he would tell how he once evaded it in the presence of a lady "now in the stage-box" to his right.  Mr. Sothern then explained the mystery of the sudden departure from that steamer banquet.  On receiving a slip of paper from the chairman toward the end of the déjeuner, asking him to respond to some toast, a happy thought struck him.  He begged Miss Cushman to be taken ill immediately.  Her ready and clever compliance with his request enabled him to escape from the dilemma, and to leave without detection or loss of dignity, for every one supposed that with commendable chivalry he was sacrificing the rest of the day's enjoyment in order to escort a sick friend home.

    No one should leave Chicago without visiting the model village built by Mr. George M. Pullman, the inventor of the palace car which bears his name.  About twelve miles from the city, on the banks of Lake Calumet, is one of the prettiest towns I saw in the West, built not only for the manufacturing of these luxurious railroad cars, but for the health and comfort of the 3,000 men who are employed in making them.  Picturesque brick houses, costing from 1,500 to 15,000 dollars, arranged in flats, containing all modern appliances, have been built in rows, and are rented by the work-people at prices corresponding to size and location.  The town is lighted with gas, has a good water-supply, and a thorough system of drainage.  There is not a drinking saloon in the whole place, though wine can be purchased at the hotel, which has been opened for the convenience of visitors.  "The Arcade," an immense store, supplies all the necessaries of life, and a farm near the outskirts provides the milk, butter, and vegetables consumed by the inhabitants of this happy village, which extends over 4,000 acres of prairie land, and has already cost its founder about six millions of dollars.  Churches have been built, and excellent schools, and that great boon, a public library, has been opened, with 10,000 books selected by Mrs. Pullman, who has taken the greatest interest in helping to secure the welfare of the place ever since the first stone was laid in 1880.  "I believed that workmen would appreciate stylish homes, so I resolved to try the experiment," said Mr. Pullman, "and it is a complete success."  Undoubtedly the employer's best policy is to elevate the tastes of the people.  Nice surroundings make men better citizens.  "Our poorest workmen" continued Mr. Pullman, "can now get a comfortable house in Pullman, and we are daily seeing good results from it."

    The Allen Paper Car-Wheel Company, in which Mr. Pullman has an interest, has also pitched its tent in this model town, for there is a growing tendency to remove great factories out of the city limits; accordingly, "Hyde Park," which begins at Thirty-ninth Street, and runs along Lake Michigan toward Indiana, has become a huge town, and is a perfect hive of industries.

    Mr. Pullman would not allow the purchase of property within the boundaries of his own domains, as he fears it would deprive "the projectors of the enterprise" of the power to enforce their own ideas as to architecture as well as government; but to make the place easy of access, at a cheap rate, he has opened a railway connecting his model town with the Lake Shore and Michigan Southern and Pennsylvania Railroads.

    In one of Will Carleton's remarkable farm ballads there is a story showing that even wedded bliss is not appreciated without "fifteen minutes' experience" of the other side of the picture, and I am certain that no traveller accustomed to Pullman cars will prize them properly till he has had to leave the main routes and travel long distances over lines where such luxuries are unobtainable.

    Once I imagined I had reached the lowest depth of American railway travelling when I found myself compelled to take the ordinary car.  A journey through the wilds of Wisconsin taught me otherwise.  I was even condemned to a freight, that is, a cattle train, to which, for the accommodation of human passengers, a "caboose" is attached.  This, being interpreted, means a kind of luggage van, in which seats are placed, and you find your only chance of getting to your destination is to take your place with fellow-travellers who, not to put too fine a point upon it, stand in terrible need of the national piece of china known as "a spittoon," but which, unhappily, is a little refinement beyond this mode of locomotion.  I penetrated as far as the borders of Minnesota, where the wolves still haunt the woods, and occasionally commit havoc in the "deer parks"; where open buggies with pairs of utterly untrained horses met me at the depots, and conveyed me, after various perils, to the hotel of the town, and in which I often encountered food and society of the very strangest description.  How gladly I returned to Chicago and the Palmer House, with its excellent cuisine, can never be described!  I left the city in all the glories of a curiously late Indian summer, and found her white with the first beautiful snow of the season, ringing with the sound of the sleigh bells, and hospitable as ever,—dinners and luncheons for me, and sleigh drives and dances for the young friend [Ed.—Charlotte Robinson] who accompanied me in my third series of wanderings through this vast country.

    The visit to Cincinnati which naturally remains most vividly impressed upon my mind is the time I spent there during the great flood of 1883.  I arrived on the 11th of February, in time to lecture at the Grand Opera-House in the afternoon.  I found the city besieged by a raging river—in fact, just commencing a terrible struggle with the mighty Ohio, which had overflowed its banks, and was then rising rapidly.  Some of my audience had already found the bridges impassable, and had actually crossed from the Kentucky side in skiffs.  When the lecture was over I was driven through the flooded districts as far as carriage and horses dare venture, and I saw a picture of desolation which I shall not easily forget.  Stout hearts and hands were busy trying to save household goods and property of all descriptions; women and children were being rescued in boats through the windows of their houses, having clung with a natural but imprudent tenacity to their homes to the very last moment.  Cattle unwisely left in their quarters in the same vain spirit of hopefulness were standing nearly up to their backs in water, and all kinds of things were floating through the streets beside the boats which were speeding on their errands of mercy through the inundated parts of the stricken city.  When the shades of night fell upon Cincinnati, men became conscious that their gravest apprehensions were about to be realized.

    Before morning dawned the waterworks and gasworks were both under water, and for days the city was in darkness, save for a few electric lights and the oil lamps and candles hastily secured for household use.  On the 13th it was hoped that the raging river had reached its maximum—the waters had already crept up until they had exceeded the famous record of the last flood in 1832; but the hours wore on, and though at one time the waste of waters began to decline, in the evening a pitiless rain came down in torrents for hours, and by the morning the awful flood started again on its upward course.  The river rose at the rate of nearly two inches an hour, and houses and stores were seized in its relentless grasp that were quite expected to escape destruction.

    I was dining that night with some representative Cincinnati people, and the excitement betrayed by the gentlemen who all day long had been watching the loss of their valuable property, and striving to carry help to the human victims of this fearful inundation, was in marked contrast to the usual calmness of nineteenth-century manners.  And no wonder; surrounded by the rising flood, railroad communication endangered, telegraph wires destroyed, 300 telephone instruments under water already, the supply of gas and water cut off, who could say what would happen before the end was reached?  And when Governor Noyes—late American Minister in Paris—remarked "he did not know when such a gloom had possessed this city," every heart at that table responded to the truth of his observation.  But a month before, Cincinnati had forwarded to the flooded districts of Germany a large and liberal donation in aid of the sufferers there, little dreaming she would so soon be called upon to face a calamity of even vaster dimensions within her own walls.  Along the riverside matters were at their worst.  Laurenceburg and one-half of Aurora were under water—in fact, the whole cluster of towns in the Ohio valley were completely at the mercy of the relentless element.  Hundreds of houses were from ten to thirty feet under water, the people were driven from their homes, and the court-houses and public buildings were crowded with those who escaped with their lives in their hands, while all they possessed was ruthlessly destroyed.

    One of the railroad depots in Cincinnati was swept away, and all the tracks were for some distance under water.  The theatres, strange to say, were not closed, though only the hardiest playgoers ventured out through the gloomy streets; the great bulk of the people felt they could not attempt to enjoy themselves surrounded by so much misery.  Added to that, there was no gas, so the stage was deprived of footlights, and the hastily devised electric lights did not supply their places very satisfactorily.  Mrs Langtry had both fire and water to combat during her first American tour.  Her debût in New York was delayed by the Park Theatre fire, and her engagement in Cincinnati seriously damaged by the flood; indeed, but for the great advance sale of tickets it would have been completely ruined.  As it was, ticket-holders were unable to avail themselves of the seats they had purchased, for the people were afraid of leaving their homes; consequently the theatre presented a cheerless appearance, and the electric light played strange tricks with the performers, who were followed by ghastly shadows of strange dimensions and fantastic shapes.  When the river began to fall, the serious question arose how to save the buildings, which it was feared the departing waters would carry with them.

    It is a grand thing to see how the best side of human nature comes to the front in moments like these.  Money poured in from all quarters, and Cincinnati merchants, who had lost heavily themselves, gave liberally and ungrudgingly to homeless sufferers in their hour of need.  Nor were the ladies behind in deeds of genuine charity.  They not only carried food to the hungry, but were busily at work for days making clothes for the shivering women and children who had lost not only their homes but all their worldly possessions.  I met some who spared all they could out of their own slender wardrobes, thus fulfilling the poet's noble idea of true benevolence—

    The newspapers commenced a hot controversy respecting the causes of such floods, and some denounced the destruction of the forests, and declared that the overflowing of the Ohio was due to the disappearance of the forests at the headwaters and along the banks.  They maintained that if these forests had not been cut down, the snow would have melted far more slowly, and the river channel might have sufficed to carry off safely the increase in the volume of water, and advocated the cultivation of willows along the banks as well as the better protection of the trees.

    There is a humorous side to every human calamity, and this great flood proved no exception to the rule.  People at once began to plume themselves on the fact that the overflow of the river in 1832 could no longer be held up to them as the greatest ever known in Cincinnati.  Thorough-bred Yankee spirit asserted itself by a grim satisfaction that this generation could now boast of having witnessed the most terrible overflow of the Ohio—that the flood of 1883 had "beaten all other famous records hollow."  But before poor Cincinnati lay in waiting not only the still worse flood of 1884, against which some wise precautions had been taken, but the unexpected three nights of terror, during which about 200 people lost their lives, when a lawless mob, reckless of life and property, devastated the city, and exulted as the flames they had kindled destroyed its public buildings.

    It will always be impossible for me to disassociate Cincinnati and Mr. Murat Halstead, the spirited chief of its leading newspaper, for whose family during the last twelve years I have entertained a strong personal friendship.  Mr. and Mrs. Halstead have always contributed very greatly to my pleasure while staying in their neighbourhood, driving me to all the objects of interest within reach, and gathering round them in their own house the friends they wished me to know.  Nor can visits to Mr. Probasco's beautiful home at Clifton be left unrecorded.  I found there one of the finest libraries I saw in the whole country, and some very fine statues and works of art.  Some time since Mr. Probasco presented Cincinnati with a magnificent bronze fountain, standing on a massive base, quatrefoil in form, composed of blocks of Bavarian porphyry.  The pedestal is ornamented with four bas-relief representations of the material use of water—steam, water-power, navigation, and fisheries.  The central crowning figure is "the genius of water," a woman in flowing robes, standing on the shaft with outstretched arms, while the water descends from her hands in fine spray.  This munificent gift, which cost 50,000 dollars, was given to the city on one condition, that it should be daily replenished with ice—a condition faithfully fulfilled.

 
CHAPTER X.

New Year's Day [1884] in Colorado—The Rocky Mountains—Denver—Mrs. Olive Wright—Greeley—Ralph Meeker—Dynamite Agitators—Colorado Springs—General Palmer's enterprise—Dr. Solly—President Tenny's picnic in January—Journey over the Rocky Mountains, through the Grand Canyon of the Arkansas—Salida—Marshall Pass—Gunnison—Across the desert to Salt Lake City.

I WATCHED "the old year out and new year in "under the shadow of the majestic range of the Rocky Mountains, in the midst of scenery more wild and magnificent than anything I ever imagined before, more than 6,000 feet above the level of the sea; yet, thanks to the lightness and purity of the atmosphere, I could breathe there with a freedom seldom vouchsafed to an asthmatic; and though the thermometer was at zero, such was the power of the sun during the morning hours, that it was far pleasanter to walk abroad without a sealskin than with one.

    No wonder that invalids have sought Colorado as a land in which "life is worth living," and become enthusiasts about a climate which is cool in summer and balmy in winter—a place noted for its exquisite blue skies and transparent atmosphere as well as its grand scenery.  Of course I do not mean to say that there is no bad weather in Colorado, but it is certainly safe to assert that the belt of country skirting the eastern base of the Rocky Mountains enjoys an amount of sunshine and bright weather not to be found in any other section of the United States; and the mineral springs—hot and cold, sulphur, soda, and iron—are too numerous to mention, those of Manitou (six miles from this), Idaho, and Canyon Creek, being most resorted to as specifics for diseases of many kinds.

    I left Chicago on Saturday morning, and travelled for two nights and a day without leaving the cars, chiefly over barren prairies extending for hundreds of miles, across the Missouri by a picturesque bridge, which I saw to advantage from the opposite bank.  Here the track became more interesting; and at last, shortly before we reached Denver, the Rocky Mountains came in sight, and for the first time I fully appreciated the illusion of distance.  When our train seemed quite close to the base of these mountains, I learned that we were more than forty miles away!

    Denver was chiefly generous to me in the matter of rain.  Taking advantage, however, of the first fine day, I drove with Mrs. Olive Wright round the city and on to the hills beyond.  Women have always been remarkable for their success with the young of their own species; but in Mrs. Wright I met a lady familiar with all the details of cattle-raising and colt-breaking.  We have one lady in London who has turned her attention from the study of the law to the training and selling of horses, and who is well known to the habituées of Rotten Row, where she may be seen riding the horses she wishes to sell.  There, in the wild life at the foot of the Rocky Mountains, it was not perhaps surprising to meet with a practical advocate of "cattle-raising and colt breaking as a desirable feminine employment."  Nor is Mrs. Wright the first in the field in Colorado.  In 1869 a girl of twenty-one alighted from the Denver coach, and secured an office, in which she opened an agency for Singer's sewing-machines.  She had been left, at the death of her parents, a mere child in Illinois, without support, and had struck out a line for herself in Chicago.  With nothing but her own industry and courage to help her, she secured a position as teacher in the Singer office in that city.  When she asked to start a Denver agency, great was the astonishment of her employers; but she had displayed so much business tact they resolved to let her make the attempt.  She had energetic men in rival establishments to contend with, but she rose superior to all obstacles, and won a pronounced success.  She then married a cattle-dealer whose herds were numbered by thousands; and when he died, leaving her with two young sons, she at once assumed all the vast responsibilities, and became one of the leading cattle-dealers not only of Colorado, but of the United States.  Fortune followed every venture she made, and "her income rolled in at the rate of from 100,000 to 300,000 dollars a year."  The month before I visited Denver she became the wife of Bishop Warren, but remains proud of the fact that, although she was once so poor, she owes this vast fortune chiefly to her own industry and perseverance.

    I was somewhat disappointed, I must confess, in the Windsor Hotel.  I suppose when one remembers how the city stands in the midst of an alkali desert—that twenty years ago it was a sparsely-settled village with only log-cabins, in which dwelt people in constant dread of Indians, who were expected to scalp every one in the place before nightfall—it is marvellous to think what has been already accomplished there in such a short space of time, and in the face of such difficulties.  The streets are full of activity; there are fine houses and fast horses; carriages are to be seen with heraldic crests familiar to Europeans, but somewhat out of place in this land of equality.  "Yes," said a friend, in answer to a remark I made, "it reminds me of the old saying, people nowadays use coats of arms who wore coats, without arms a few years back."  Considerable extravagance is also to be seen—gorgeous clothes and pretentious entertainments; but at the same time there is energy and liberality—schools have been built, an excellent university opened, and if Denver has the faults, she has also the virtues, of a new wealthy Western city.

    The Tabor Opera House justly ranks as one of the finest theatres in America, and I saw it under the best possible circumstances.  The Italian Opera Company arrived in Denver during one of my visits there, and Colonel Mapleson kindly invited me to be present on the opening night; so I not only heard Gerster sing, but saw the rank, fashion, and beauty of the city assembled to welcome her.  Patti received an immense ovation next day, but I had to leave for Greeley—a town founded by Horace Greeley and his friend Mr. Meeker, on strictly temperance principles.  The Indians not only resented the intrusion of the white men, but were rendered furious by the introduction of the agricultural machines they brought with them, and Mr. Meeker soon fell a prey to their vengeance.  The Greeley Tribune is still conducted by a son of the murdered man.  Ralph Meeker is one of the ablest journalists in America.  He has travelled so much in Europe and lived so long abroad, knows England, France, and Russia as well as most Londoners know their own city, that he is thoroughly cosmopolitan; and many of his friends would certainly be surprised if they could have a glimpse of his present surroundings, and see him contentedly settling down in a place where the most stirring event is the addition of a new irrigating ditch or the arrival of an itinerant lecturer.

    Unfortunately I just missed the meetings of the State Agricultural College at Denver, at which Mrs. Olive Wright read a very interesting paper on "What women are doing in Colorado."  Some women seem to be mining; the first prize at the last State fair was taken by a lady for skilful horsemanship and horse-breaking; and much of the value of the domestic cattle industry is, according to her paper, due to them.  I certainly heard of girls on the prairies, who seemed to like a tramp over the plains in search of the boundary line of her father's "claim" as much as the daughter of a British sportsman enjoys a morning on a Scotch moor during the grouse-shooting season.  They become as used to handling the rifle as the plough, and many of the pioneer ladies I heard of were pursuing their studies in their prairie homes.  Some have gone through trials which even would shake the nerves of the sterner sex.  I was told of a widow who had built her own "claim shack," had it twice blown away by tornadoes and once burned to the ground in the course of two years; but she holds on to the life she has chosen, and in face and form is the embodiment of health.

    I was in Denver when the Irish agitator, P. J. Sheridan, arrived.  He was met at the depot by prominent citizens, and the Mayor took the chair at his lecture, in the course of which he spoke of "dynamite as God's chosen instrument at this period of the world's history"!  The Americans were very indignant about this time at the London Times, for complaining, in a leader on this subject, that "an open crusade against England was being preached in America."  That, perhaps, may be too broad a way of putting it, but it seemed to me very strange that such utterances as those of Sheridan's, and others I could cite, should be sanctioned by the presence of any official person.  Sheridan, it will be remembered, was suspected of being concerned in the Phoenix Park tragedy, when Lord Frederick Cavendish and Mr. Burke were foully murdered, and the efforts of the English Government to secure his extradition after his escape to America were utterly futile.

    Such men as Sheridan stir up endless ill-feeling between the two countries.  In an interview with the reporter of the Denver Tribune, after declaring that he believed England could be made bankrupt by what he had the audacity to describe as "scientific warfare," he proceeded to censure the United States Government for "submitting calmly to insults from England, such as the detention in prison of M'Sweeney and other American citizens without trial"; he stigmatized the American Minister, Lowell, as "a flunky," and said the "bulk of the people were too much imbued and anxious to cultivate English manners and customs, and had altogether lost the pluck their forefathers showed a hundred years ago"!

    Nor do these things only take place in the far West.  I quote from a New York paper, of March, 1884, the following account of the Brady Emergency Club meeting in that city, in which it says that the "enthusiasm was of a peculiarly cyclonic sort.  Streams of British blood, blocks of exploding British buildings, and acres of burning British houses floated about the dark little hall upon the traditionary wings of Irish eloquence; and dynamite, dirks, and knotted clubs seemed ready to rise up from beneath the dusty floor and form in grim circles about the speakers' heads.  Frank Byrne, who at one time was very badly wanted by the peace-loving detectives of England, gave a calm but cheerful explanation of the manner in which every English official in Ireland might be killed.  The ordinary weapons of warfare were unfit to meet the condition of the Irish people.  The most potent weapon within reach he declared to be dynamite.  In addition there was the knife, the torch, the club, and the revolver.  Mr. Byrne further declared that to kill all the Englishmen in Ireland was the sacred duty of every patriotic son of Erin.  English cities should be burned, English barracks blown up, Dublin Castle levelled to the ground, and a vice-regal personage killed every year until the stock ran out.  These things were easy enough to do if the men in Ireland were given the means.  'Learn us how to make dynamite,' shouted a voice, 'that's all we want!'  When the disturbing element had been subdued permanently the club went into secret session."

    Even Mr. Beecher on St. Patrick's Day is reported as having said in an after-dinner speech, that while he deplored it, "people left to right themselves had a right to use whatever weapons their ignorance put into their hands"—a remark which called forth such comment that subsequently Mr. Beecher had to explain that he did not mean to "justify the use of dynamite, though he could not wonder, in the condition of things existing among the more ignorant classes, that they should be led to the adoption of such means."

    The execution of O'Donnell drew forth some fiery speeches at Washington, in which "Representative Robinson"—all the speakers were members of the House—indulged in the following extraordinary remarks, according to a special telegram to the Chicago Inter-Ocean:

"He said the English Government was the most despicable and damnable tyranny on the face of the earth.  Referring to Matthew Arnold, who spoke recently here, he said that he couldn't lecture anyway.  He dug up and read an old essay, written ten years ago, that anybody could buy for half a cent, and yet all the would-be lords, the snobs, and the dudes of Washing ton were there to applaud and worship.  He said that in the ages to come the name of Patrick O'Donnell would be more loved and honored by patriotic, liberty-loving men everywhere than all the kings and queens of England.  He proposed before long to find out whether the House of Representatives approved the course of the Minister at the Court of St. James.  He carried in his pocket for some time a resolution to impeach Mr. Lowell, but his friends had dissuaded him from introducing it.  If Minister Lowell had done his duty O'Donnell would be alive to-day.  James Russell Lowell was the great-grandson of a revolutionary Tory, one of the men whom George Washington hunted into the sea in 1776, as St. Patrick drove the snakes and toads from the soil of Ireland.  The descendant of a degenerate sire had maintained the reputation of his family in this respect.  Sixteen years ago Congress passed a law that no representative of this Government at foreign courts should dress himself up as a dude to please royal eyes.  Not long ago a friend of the speaker called upon Mr. Lowell, and he found him dressed to appear at court in a garment that was a hybrid between breeches and pantaloons, and nobody could tell what it was.  We must have Lord Russell Lowell called home.  He ought not even to be allowed to vote here, for the speaker didn't believe he could consistently take the oath to abjure allegiance to Victoria, Queen of England.  He was not in any sense a fit man to represent this Government.  He said he would not vote for any appropriation to support any American dudes abroad.  Let us find some good healthy citizen out West—Indiana or Missouri—who wouldn't be afraid to let people know that he was a citizen of the United States.  Lowell cost this Government 17,500 dollars a year.  He could find a good hoosier from Indiana, or a puke from Missouri, who would far more worthily represent this nation, and for a great deal less money.  Call home all those who are misrepresenting us abroad, and let the money we pay them be distributed among the poor.  Mr. Robinson's remarks were most vigorously applauded."

    The next speaker, Representative Finerty, of Chicago, commenced by observing they had not assembled "for oratorical amusement," but for a solemn purpose.  "We are here," he continued, "to lament the impotency of this mighty Government of ours, that has been scared and spit upon and insulted by a nation that is not fit to blacken her shoes—a nation whose crowned head wears petticoats as an apology for her despicable tyranny."

    While such utterances are received by cultured Americans with the ridicule and disgust they naturally inspire, it must be confessed that it is not often you meet with people across the Atlantic who do not consider that Ireland has been cruelly and persistently wronged by England.  A few repudiate "the intolerable insult of being misrepresented by the crowd of Irish malcontents" among them, and consider that shipping dynamite from their ports to England "is a violation of the usages of civilized nations."  I regret, however, to say I have heard even that justified as "a tit-for-tat retaliation" for the outrage of "allowing armed cruisers to prey upon the commerce of America."  Last March a hope was expressed by an English journal that, "in the performance of an evident international duty, America would protect England from the shipment of dynamite by Irish revolutionists," and a newspaper of considerable standing in the United States did not scruple to reply, that while "the American people detest dynamiting, they also detest piracy.  They especially detest being called upon by those who hold the accumulated profits of four years of piracy still in their possession to protect England from any of the natural though vexatious consequences of the disaffection of her subjects on the ground that this is an evident international duty."

    From Denver to Colorado Springs the Rocky Mountains seemed to increase in beauty both as to variety of form and colour.  I shall never forget that morning's journey, with the snow slightly spread on the ground, and sparkling with a thousand colours in the rays of a burning sun, which made the heat of the Pullman car so oppressive that we sought the freedom of the "platform" outside as we crept along on the Denver and Rio Grande Railway through this be wildering maze of ravine-scarred mountains.  When I reached my destination I found General Palmer's carriage waiting for me, but, greatly to my disappointment, he and Mrs. Palmer had been suddenly summoned to New York; but their friends, Mr. Elwell and Mrs. Abby Sage Richardson, were ready to welcome me in their place to their beautiful mountain home, Glen Eyrie, about six miles from Colorado Springs.  After a wild drive across the "Mesa"—the Spanish for plain—past the Garden of the Gods, I found myself descending an almost perpendicular road, which forcibly suggested a devotional exercise, as well as the prudent course of holding on to the wagonette, and there at the foot I saw a literal realization of Cowper's desire for "a lodge in some vast wilderness," at the entrance of a deep ravine at the foot of Pike's Peak—a region already well known to English readers through Bret Harte, and Colonel John Hay's "Pike County Ballads."  The lodge gates opened at our approach, and after a drive of considerable length up this wild canyon, amid fantastic vermilion-coloured rocks a hundred feet high, we came to the stables, and then another turn in the road gave me a full view of the picturesque house General Palmer built in this romantic gorge some ten years ago, much to the dissatisfaction of the Indians, who watched the process with considerable indignation at the white man's encroachment on their territory, but wisely abandoned their wigwams, and retired from the fruitless struggle into Mexico and elsewhere.

    It seems very strange to find in the midst of this wild country, and in the very heart of this ravine, so perfectly appointed a house, and to spend our Christmas Day after the Old World fashion—a splendid Christmas tree having been decked out with the usual bonbons, presents, and gay-coloured candles, and placed in the library for the special benefit of the eldest little daughter of the house, who had not only many gifts herself, but had prepared presents for all the servants and children of the retainers on the estate, who trooped in freely at the appointed hour, taking their places on the sofas and arm-chairs with the true American spirit of brotherhood and equality, which even the English butler and other servants from across the Atlantic seemed to share.  Then came a dinner for the "grown-up" guests, with the usual crackers, apt quotations from Gilbert's famous "Bab Ballad" about the origin of the strange mottoes found therein, and after a due amount of startling tales of adventure by land and sea, and witty local stories, the piano came into request, and a German lady staying in the house "discoursed sweet music," and some Christmas carols sung by her daughters concluded our evening's entertainment.  Seldom have I heard Beethoven, Chopin, and Mendelssohn better interpreted by even professional players.

    I must record one very remarkable incident of that Christmas Day.  A great storm of wind swept over the Colorado plains, and even managed to effect an entrance into this weird but secluded nook.  It shook the house to its very foundation, and it was fortunate that all the guests had arranged to stay till the next day, for no one could have crossed the Mesa on so wild a night.  We really trembled for the chimneys, the hothouses and the conservatories, but, strange to relate, no damage was done.  As morning dawned the wind ceased, and the dazzling sun tempted all lovers of outdoor exercise into the pathless woods and up the mountain-sides; but when the news of the outer world reached us, no one was surprised to hear that a few miles away a freight train of nine heavily-loaded cars had been blown off the railway track at Monument Park, a place which is exposed to the full force of the wind as it sweeps in its mad career over plains extending hundreds of miles.

    I used the expression, news from the outer world, advisedly, for no postman desecrated the mountain seclusion of Glen Eyrie.  If the mail-bag was wanted, a mountain messenger had to be sent to Colorado Springs, and no New York paper reached there till it was five days old.  My dependence upon the morning newspaper has been a standing joke against me; for ever since I learned to take an interest in matters beyond the home which first sheltered me, I have always regarded it as quite as essential to my wellbeing as my breakfast, and never before had I found myself totally unable to procure this adjunct to a comfortable existence.  Not even the little sheet published in Colorado Springs could reach Glen Eyrie by the accustomed breakfast-hour.  Strange to say, in that new land, amid those new sights and associations, I found myself settling down to this novel state of things with the utmost composure, though, I confess, the opening of the mail-bag, with the possibilities of English newspapers and letters, was always an event creating great excitement, and a New Year's greeting from dear old Manchester, in the shape of some photographs, was a welcome and opportune arrival on the very day itself, when the messenger returned early in the afternoon, after making a special expedition to the post-office on my behalf.

    As the days passed by in far too swift succession, the better I appreciated the enthusiasm of those who had made Colorado, with its marvellous mountains, prairies, lakes, and waterfalls, their home, and no one could be admitted into the delightful society to be found in the unique town of Colorado Springs without being impressed with the fact that it is a most cosmopolitan, as well as cultured community, drawn from all parts of the earth.  The "far West," so often represented as a "wilderness," given over to the reign of the wild "riotous ranchman," where a race of ignorant backwoodsmen can alone be expected, is in reality peopled by the adventurous sons of Britain, and young collegians from the more crowded Eastern States of America.  Colorado Springs is, in fact, a very exceptional place, for its wonderful health-giving properties have attracted some of the best people from other cities, and it is really a charming resort.  The streets are lined with trees—there are more than 7,000 in this small town—and there are few days in the year when even invalids can not venture out of doors.  The dryness of the ground, the electric air, and the bright warm sunshine render croquet and tennis pleasurable pursuits even in winter.  No liquor can be sold, as every deed of land contains the forfeiture clause; nevertheless wine is to be found on the tables of the hospitable and wealthy inhabitants.

    One of the best doctors in Colorado Springs is an Englishman, a nephew of Mr. Solly, who has done so much for working-men's clubs in England.  Dr. Solly is quite the leading spirit of this Western colony, first and foremost in every progressive measure.  "Renting out rooms" used to be a feature of life at the Springs, but latterly it has proved quite insufficient to accommodate the invalids and tourists who come in increasing numbers every year.  "In fact," said Dr. Solly, "the problem I have had to solve has been how to house the outcast rich," and the building of the Antlers Hotel was the way in which that difficulty was met.  Scotch enterprise came to the assistance of the project in the person of Mr. James Caird, of Dundee, and a handsome house of quarry-faced lava stone, capable of holding more than 100 persons, with broad piazzas commanding a lovely view of the surrounding mountains, was opened about two years ago.  It is managed by a lady, who has shown singular executive ability, and I shall always remember with pleasure the days I spent in "the bridal suite," which was very handsomely assigned for my use during my stay there.

    The windows of my sitting-room looked out on the mountains, the lofty summit of Pike's Peak, 14,300 feet high, towering above them all.  As I write now in the noise and smoke of London, I vividly recall the hours spent in watching the marvellous panoramic changes that passed over the scene before me then.  The rosy tints at dawn, the intense blue, the exquisite golden glow of sunset, and the great peaks standing out like weird, majestic phantoms through those clear, starlight nights.

    The day after I had taken up my abode at the Antlers, Miss Warren, the manager, called to see if I had everything I required in the hotel.  During the conversation which ensued she surprised me by saying that she had reason "to be very grateful " to me.  "How could this be, considering I had never seen her before in my life?" was my natural rejoinder.  Then followed the strange and pleasing explanation.  She had been at Cincinnati during the great flood of 1883, and was in some doubt as to the wisdom of undertaking the responsible position offered her at the Antlers.  She was feeling too dispirited to believe in her capacity for properly filling the novel post of manager.  She could not even purchase the hotel furniture she had gone there to buy, for the town was almost in darkness, and the inhabitants were full of the calamity that had come upon them.  During that period she saw my lecture on "Woman's Work" advertised, and she resolved to hear it.  It appears that I made some remarks that inspired her with courage, and enabled her to see her way clear before her.  She determined to enter upon the work she subsequently carried on with so much credit to herself and satisfaction to her employers, and often had she wished to thank me for the encouragement so unwittingly given on that occasion.  Earnest workers, engaged in public work of any description, will appreciate the feelings with which I received such unexpected testimony, for they know how very futile, and easily dispensed with, seem one's best efforts, and will readily understand how such a definite proof of help afforded to some unknown conscientious but doubting heart not only renews your own hope, but stimulates you to fresh activity.

    Twelve years ago there was hardly a house to be seen in Colorado Springs, and it owes its existence entirely to General Palmer's enterprise.  The town site was bought for 1 dollar and 25 cents an acre; today residence lots of 50 feet cost about 2,000 dollars and business lots of 25 feet are worth 5,000 dollars.  Why it should have been called Colorado Springs I can not tell, for it possesses none; these, however, are to be found five miles off, at Manitou (which preserves its Indian name, "Spirit of the Waters"), where the celebrated soda and iron springs abound, and a flourishing town has also sprung up.  Canon Kingsley spent much of his time in America as the guest of Dr. Bell, a London physician, who settled at Manitou, after aiding General Palmer in his long explorations through this region, long before the Indians and buffaloes had departed and the trains had arrived.

    In 1870, when General Palmer projected the Denver and Rio Grande Railway, the largest city in the huge State of Colorado could scarcely claim 5,000 inhabitants, and the entire population of the vast State was only 40,000; yet hardly were 1,200 miles of railway built, when new cities throughout Colorado developed with surprising rapidity.  In this remote mountain region of the "Springs," the capital of El Paso county, is now found a town capable of supporting an endowed college, eight churches, a handsome club, and an opera-house, at which there is a fair stock company.  Good travelling theatrical combinations often visit it.  I found the Boston Ideal Opera Company in possession last New Year's Day, and it is always crammed from floor to ceiling for amateur entertainments, which are as popular in this isolated Western sanatorium as in the more robust cities in the Eastern States.  Theatrical enterprises for the benefit of local charities usually take place under the generalship of Dr. Solly, who is not only a very clever actor, but a first-rate manager.  This active, public-spirited gentleman spares no pains to have dresses and cast as perfect as he can make them.  Rehearsals are carried on day after day as carefully as if the amateur players depended for their daily bread upon the success of the play they have undertaken to produce.  An ambitious but really admirable performance of "The Wolf in Sheep's Clothing" came off during my stay there, in which Miss Stretell—sister-in-law of Comyns Carr of "Far from the Madding Crowd" and "Called Back" dramatic notoriety—greatly distinguished herself.  Considering how large a proportion of the inhabitants of Colorado Springs are regarded as invalids, I was absolutely astonished at the gaiety which prevailed in this secluded nook among the mountains.  There were not only literary debating clubs, popular lectures, select poetical readings by Mrs. Abby Sage Richardson (one of the best read, most cultured ladies I ever met), but dinners, picnics, and, last but not least, balls, which were kept up with great spirit long after the sun arose the next morning!

    The marked features of the Colorado climate are the dry air and clear sunlight.  President Tenney told me that, according to the observation of six consecutive years, there was an average of 300 clear and fine days in each.  No wonder that the breathless asthmatic or consumptive patient exclaims, with Shakespeare's heroine in the Forest of Arden, "I like this place, and willingly would spend my time in it."  I believe that P. T. Barnum once said that the Colorado people were the most disappointed he ever saw.  "Two-thirds of them came here to die," he exclaimed, "and they can't do it!  This wonderful air brings them back from the verge of the tomb."  But the region of the Rocky Mountains offers inducements of many other kinds: the active man finds boundless opportunities in cattle ranches, sheep-keeping, and horse-raising, to say nothing of the coal, iron, lead, silver, and even gold with which the State abounds; while the sportsman is attracted by the wild deer, antelope, and elk, and more dangerous game in the shape of wolves and bears, which still infest the forests of pine and cedar.  How the heart of "Red Spinner" would rejoice in the trout-fishing to be found in the neighbourhood of Lord Dunraven's estate, "Estes Park," and revel in the speckled beauties of the finny tribe that haunt the streams and lakes of Colorado!  While the invalid is restored to health by the mineral springs and the soft yet exhilarating air, the overworked merchant from some crowded city also finds the completest freedom from letters, telegrams, and newspapers in the recesses of these mountains, where there is indeed "a solitude where none intrude."  The signal station on Pike's Peak is said to be the highest habitation in the world.  Little we think as we read "the weather probabilities" of how the men on that snowbound rocky summit, 2,000 miles west of New York, flash down the mountain-side and over the wild prairies of America, the information gathered from the signs they have learned to interpret by the use of the meteorological instruments which have found their way to that wild outpost.

    It is impossible to convey any idea of "The Garden of the Gods," with its massive red sandstone portals, 380 feet high, the various wild mountain passes, Rainbow Falls, or the Cheyenne Canyon (the Spanish for ravine); and who in England would believe in a frozen waterfall?  Yet that was one of the strange sights witnessed during an expedition over the Ute Pass.

    It will be equally difficult, I expect, for friends at home to imagine a picnic in winter, with snow-capped mountains around, frozen streams across which carriages could even venture in safety, and yet a sun so hot that overcoats and sealskins were dispensed with as a merry party discussed an excellent luncheon under the shade of the pine-trees, in which blue jay birds were perched.  Such was the alfresco repast I enjoyed on the 12th of January, thanks to the hospitality of President Tenney.  And this was but an episode in a delightful day's excursion far away in the depths of the Cheyenne Canyon, among wondrous rocks of black, gray, and bright red sandstone, often vivid with patches of yellow and green lichen.  Sometimes we were looking at waterfalls, or peering into vast fantastic chasms, and at other moments gazing at the perpendicular rocks towering above our heads.  Every moment was "a picture for remembrance."

    I must candidly confess that during my tour through Colorado "a change came o'er the spirit of my dream," and Nature obtained a hold over me in those Rocky Mountains she had never had before.  My early years were spent in the country, but I soon learned to love the town.  I became a thorough Londoner at heart.  Humanity had an attraction for me that nature never possessed; men and women, with their struggles, hopes, and fears, interested me far more than the finest landscape; with them I ever felt a sympathy and companionship that land and sea could not inspire—in fact, the lonely mountain and the restless wave beating without result on the unresponsive shore used often to fill me with a depression I could not endure.  But Colorado scenery, combined with such a glorious climate, at last "enthused" me, as our Yankee cousins would call it.  The very sense of laving was an absolute delight which can not be realized by those who have never experienced the buoyancy of this electric air.  I had often before wondered how cultured young men, with the results of hundreds of years of civilization within their reach, could relinquish them for the privations of primeval life in the wilds of Australia and America.  Now I understood something of the compensation of "God's free air," even on a cattle ranche far away from the enjoyments of art and literature; and the feeling deepened during my trip over the Rocky Mountains, through the marvellous Grand Canyon of the Arkansas, after I left Colorado Springs.

    I started by an early morning train to Pueblo, and branched off on the Leadville line, which brought me to what the inhabitants of this great Republic have well named the Royal Gorge.  Mr. Ruskin's heart would indeed have ached to see the solemnity and majesty of this weird ravine desecrated by the noisy, ugly, puffing locomotive which drew our train through its mystic shades by the side of the river, under the giant cliffs 3,000 feet high, that seemed to frown on its intrusive presence, and even to threaten its puny form with destruction!

    The giant of the nineteenth century—the ogre who, while he brings these lovely places within ordinary reach, spoils their picturesqueness and destroys their solitude—is gradually asserting his sway throughout this wild district.  Slowly but surely he is even winding his stealthy way, 14,220 feet above the sea-level, up Pike's Peak itself.  How Colorado will hereafter be affected by this railroad I really can not say; but it is certain there are few Americans left who love the wild forests and mountains well enough to protest, like their countryman Thoreau, against railways, steamboats, and telegraphs.  The trail of this restless, nervous, bustling, mammon-worshipping age is over all; the spirit which animates Wall Street asserts itself in the wild canyons of the Rocky Mountains, and many a dollar-loving inhabitant of Manitou is now rejoicing at the prospective "increase of tourists."  People who have hitherto refrained from making this grand ascent on mules, as involving too much time and exertion, are expected to avail themselves of the iron horse, which in a few months will be disturbing the serenity of the eagles, hawks, and coyotes, who have until now shared with the signal station the possession of the grandest peak of the American Alps.

    I reached Salida at six o'clock one evening, and have great reason to rejoice that my bones are not reposing there at this minute.  In the ordinary reckless American fashion, our train came to a standstill on the centre lines, facing the depot, instead of drawing up to a respectable platform on which passengers could alight with ease and safety.  The smallest country railway station in Great Britain is furnished with this necessary appendage of safe travel, but across the ocean, platforms are luxuries rarely indulged in!  Accordingly I had to step out of the Pullman car in the middle of the track, and naturally at once proceeded to cross the lines to the depot, never noticing in the deepening shades of evening that another train was coming up.  But for the timely intervention of a stranger, who kindly but very uncomfortably seized me by the throat, I most certainly should have been run over by the locomotive, if not killed on the spot, for the engine steamed past as he held me firmly, in his saving but surprising grasp.  Nothing strikes the English traveller with more dismay than the heedless disregard of life in America.  The railway tracks are unprotected; they often run through the busiest streets, killing foot-passengers and scaring horses with equal impartiality.  On the prairies, dead cows and horses on the track are of course facts of daily occurrence; indeed all the locomotives are provided with "cow-catchers."  Certainly, in places "where men most do congregate" a placard greets the eye, "When the bell rings, look out for the locomotive"; but as the train dashes past your carriage as you wait at some dry-goods store, "Deaths on the Track" is naturally a standing heading for a daily paragraph in American newspapers.

    Salida is a sheltered village into which no snow ever penetrates, and the air was so soft and balmy that I stayed on the balcony of the hotel that January evening watching in the moonlight the famous Sangre de Criste range of mountains.  After resting till four o'clock, I started without any breakfast, or the comforts of a Pullman car, in order to see the sun rise over the celebrated Marshall Pass.  Never shall I forget that journey.  No pen or pencil can ever do justice to the scenes through which we passed.  The Denver and Rio Grande Railway is indeed a very marvel of engineering skill.  The man who planned it seems to have lassoed the mountains and caught them in a tangle of coils.  The single track winds round and round in curves so sharp that from our middle compartment we could see the engine in front of us, as well as the rear carriage, and far ahead was our pilot-engine, looking like a child's toy in the midst of this grand landscape, which was only marred by the inevitable snow-sheds, the one near the summit being just four miles long.  No human being inhabits this wild region save coyotes, bears, and eagles, and the men who live in huts along the track, to see that it is cleared of the falling boulders from the rocks above.  At last we reached an elevation of 10,857 feet, the highest railway track in America, and witnessed a glorious sunrise.  Then began our descent on the other side, five hours bringing us to Gunnison.  After this we entered the Black Canyon, where the rocks are as high as those of the Royal Gorge, and the chasm wider.  Another climb by a steep grade—213 feet to the mile—and we were at Cedar Divide; before me lay the Uncompahgre Valley and the Wahsatch Mountains beyond.  At the Grande junction a veritable desert of 150 miles of prairie had to be traversed; our train struck on a mining camp at which there had been an accident, and stopped to take four injured men "on board," to procure them medical help at the nearest town.

    The sunset that evening was a worthy pendant to the sunrise seen at the Marshall Pass: the last glorious rays of the departing sun lighted up the peaks and snowy summits of the mountains with a brilliancy of colour no artist would dare, even were it possible, to represent on canvas; and then, as there is no twilight here, darkness quickly ensued, the Pullman car was lighted up, the porter began to make the beds, and before ten o'clock every one was comfortably sleeping, while the train sped on through the night, and landed us at six o'clock the following morning at Salt Lake City.  If travellers from New York to San Francisco care to enjoy some of the grandest scenery in the world, they will abandon the old road across the dull prairies.  Branch off at Denver by this new route, and there is an ever-changing panorama of snow-crowned mountains, deep gorges, forest-covered slopes, and a remembrance for a lifetime.  Even those to whom the Alps, the Andes, and the Himalayas are familiar, will appreciate the glimpses of glory to be obtained as they stand on the brink of those terrible precipices during a railroad journey over the Rocky Mountains.