CHAPTER VI.

HOMEWARD BOUND.

After taking a view of the wonders and surroundings of London we spent a

month in Paris. Fifty years ago there was a greater difference in the

general appearance of things between France and England than now. That

countries only a few hours' journey apart should differ so widely was to

us a great surprise. How changed the sights and sounds! Here was the old

diligence, lumbering along with its various compartments and its

indefinite number of horses, harnessed with rope and leather, sometimes

two, sometimes three abreast, and sometimes one in advance, with an

outrider belaboring the poor beasts without cessation, and the driver

yelling and cracking his whip. The uproar, confusion, and squabbles at

every stopping place are overwhelming; the upper classes, men and women

alike, rushing into each other's arms, embrace and kiss, while drivers

and hostlers on the slightest provocation hurl at each other all the

denunciatory adjectives in the language, and with such vehemence that

you expect every moment to see a deadly conflict. But to-day, as fifty

years ago, they never arrive at that point. Theirs was and is purely an

encounter of words, which they keep up, as they drive off in opposite

directions, just as far as they can hear and see each other, with

threats of vengeance to come. Such an encounter between two Englishmen

would mean the death of one or the other.

All this was in marked contrast with John Bull and his Island. There the

people were as silent as if they had been born deaf and dumb. The

English stagecoach was compact, clean, and polished from top to bottom,

the horses and harness glossy and in order, the well-dressed, dignified

coachman, who seldom spoke a loud word or used his whip, kept his seat

at the various stages, while hostlers watered or changed the steeds; the

postman blew his bugle blast to have the mail in readiness, and the

reserved passengers made no remarks on what was passing; for, in those

days, Englishmen were afraid to speak to each other for fear of

recognizing one not of their class, while to strangers and foreigners

they would not speak except in case of dire necessity. The Frenchman was

ready enough to talk, but, unfortunately, we were separated by different

languages. Thus the Englishman would not talk, the Frenchman could not,

and the intelligent, loquacious American driver, who discourses on

politics, religion, national institutions, and social gossip was unknown

on that side of the Atlantic. What the curious American traveler could

find out himself from observation and pertinacious seeking he was

welcome to, but the Briton would waste no breath to enlighten Yankees as

to the points of interest or customs of his country.

Our party consisted of Miss Pugh, Abby Kimber, Mr. Stanton, and myself.

I had many amusing experiences in making my wants known when alone,

having forgotten most of my French. For instance, traveling night and

day in the diligence to Paris, as the stops were short, one was

sometimes in need of something to eat. One night as my companions were

all asleep, I went out to get a piece of cake or a cracker, or whatever

of that sort I could obtain, but, owing to my clumsy use of the

language, I was misunderstood. Just as the diligence was about to start,

and the shout for us to get aboard was heard, the waiter came running

with a piping hot plate of sweetbreads nicely broiled. I had waited and

wondered why it took so long to get a simple piece of cake or biscuit,

and lo! a piece of hot meat was offered me. I could not take the

frizzling thing in my hand nor eat it without bread, knife, or fork, so

I hurried off to the coach, the man pursuing me to the very door. I was

vexed and disappointed, while the rest of the party were convulsed with

laughter at the parting salute and my attempt to make my way alone. It

was some time before I heard the last of the "sweetbreads."

When we reached Paris we secured a courier who could speak English, to

show us the sights of that wonderful city. Every morning early he was at

the door, rain or shine, to carry out our plans, which, with the aid of

our guidebook, we had made the evening before. In this way, going

steadily, day after day, we visited all points of interest for miles

round and sailed up and down the Seine. The Palace of the Tuileries,

with its many associations with a long line of more or less unhappy

kings and queens, was then in its glory, and its extensive and beautiful

grounds were always gay with crowds of happy people. These gardens were

a great resort for nurses and children and were furnished with all

manner of novel appliances for their amusement, including beautiful

little carriages drawn by four goats with girls or boys driving, boats

sailing in the air, seemingly propelled by oars, and hobby horses

flying round on whirligigs with boys vainly trying to catch each other.

No people have ever taken the trouble to invent so many amusements for

children as have the French. The people enjoyed being always in the open

air, night and day. The parks are crowded with amusement seekers, some

reading and playing games, some sewing, knitting, playing on musical

instruments, dancing, sitting around tables in bevies eating, drinking,

and gayly chatting. And yet, when they drive in carriages or go to their

homes at night, they will shut themselves in as tight as oysters in

their shells. They have a theory that night air is very injurious,--in

the house,--although they will sit outside until midnight. I found this

same superstition prevalent in France fifty years later.

We visited the Hôtel des Invalides just as they were preparing the

sarcophagus for the reception of the remains of Napoleon. We witnessed

the wild excitement of that enthusiastic people, and listened with deep

interest to the old soldiers' praises of their great general. The ladies

of our party chatted freely with them. They all had interesting

anecdotes to relate of their chief. They said he seldom slept over four

hours, was an abstemious eater, and rarely changed a servant, as he

hated a strange face about him. He was very fond of a game of chess, and

snuffed continuously; talked but little, was a light sleeper,--the

stirring of a mouse would awaken him,--and always on the watch-tower.

They said that, in his great campaigns, he seemed to be omnipresent. A

sentinel asleep at his post would sometimes waken to find Napoleon on

duty in his place.

The ship that brought back Napoleon's remains was the _Belle Poule_

(the beautiful hen!), which landed at Cherbourg, November 30, 1840. The

body was conveyed to the Church of the Invalides, which adjoins the

tomb. The Prince de Joinville brought the body from Saint Helena, and

Louis Philippe received it.

At that time each soldier had a little patch of land to decorate as he

pleased, in which many scenes from their great battles were illustrated.

One represented Napoleon crossing the Alps. There were the cannon, the

soldiers, Napoleon on horseback, all toiling up the steep ascent,

perfect in miniature. In another was Napoleon, flag in hand, leading the

charge across the bridge of Lodi. In still another was Napoleon in

Egypt, before the Pyramids, seated, impassive, on his horse, gazing at

the Sphinx, as if about to utter his immortal words to his soldiers:

"Here, forty centuries look down upon us." These object lessons of the

past are all gone now and the land used for more prosaic purposes.

I little thought, as I witnessed that great event in France in 1840,

that fifty-seven years later I should witness a similar pageant in the

American Republic, when our nation paid its last tributes to General

Grant. There are many points of similarity in these great events. As men

they were alike aggressive and self-reliant. In Napoleon's will he

expressed the wish that his last resting place might be in the land and

among the people he loved so well. His desire is fulfilled. He rests in

the chief city of the French republic, whose shores are washed by the

waters of the Seine. General Grant expressed the wish that he might be

interred in our metropolis and added: "Wherever I am buried, I desire

that there shall be room for my wife by my side." His wishes, too, are

fulfilled. He rests in the chief city of the American Republic, whose

shores are washed by the waters of the Hudson, and in his magnificent

mausoleum there is room for his wife by his side.

Several members of the Society of Friends from Boston and Philadelphia,

who had attended the World's Anti-slavery Convention in London, joined

our party for a trip on the Continent. Though opposed to war, they all

took a deep interest in the national excitement and in the pageants that

heralded the expected arrival of the hero from Saint Helena. As they all

wore military coats of the time of George Fox, the soldiers, supposing

they belonged to the army of some country, gave them the military salute

wherever we went, much to their annoyance and our amusement.

In going the rounds, Miss Pugh amused us by reading aloud the

description of what we were admiring and the historical events connected

with that particular building or locality. We urged her to spend the

time taking in all she could see and to read up afterward; but no, a

history of France and Galignani's guide she carried everywhere, and,

while the rest of us looked until we were fully satisfied, she took a

bird's-eye view and read the description. Dear little woman! She was a

fine scholar, a good historian, was well informed on all subjects and

countries, proved an invaluable traveling companion, and could tell more

of what we saw than all the rest of us together.

On several occasions we chanced to meet Louis Philippe dashing by in an

open barouche. We felt great satisfaction in remembering that at one

time he was an exile in our country, where he earned his living by

teaching school. What an honor for Yankee children to have been taught,

by a French king, the rudiments of his language.

Having been accustomed to the Puritan Sunday of restraint and solemnity,

I found that day in Paris gay and charming. The first time I entered

into some of the festivities, I really expected to be struck by

lightning. The libraries, art galleries, concert halls, and theaters

were all open to the people. Bands of music were playing in the parks,

where whole families, with their luncheons, spent the day--husbands,

wives, and children, on an excursion together. The boats on the Seine

and all public conveyances were crowded. Those who had but this one day

for pleasure seemed determined to make the most of it. A wonderful

contrast with that gloomy day in London, where all places of amusement

were closed and nothing open to the people but the churches and drinking

saloons. The streets and houses in which Voltaire, La Fayette, Mme. de

Staël, Mme. Roland, Charlotte Corday, and other famous men and women

lived and died, were pointed out to us. We little thought, then, of all

the terrible scenes to be enacted in Paris, nor that France would emerge

from the dangers that beset her on every side into a sister republic. It

has been a wonderful achievement, with kings and Popes all plotting

against her experiment, that she has succeeded in putting kingcraft

under her feet and proclaimed liberty, equality, fraternity for her

people.

After a few weeks in France, we returned to London, traveling through

England, Ireland, and Scotland for several months. We visited the scenes

that Shakespeare, Burns, and Dickens had made classic. We spent a few

days at Huntingdon, the home of Oliver Cromwell, and visited the estate

where he passed his early married life. While there, one of his great

admirers read aloud to us a splendid article in one of the reviews,

written by Carlyle, giving "The Protector," as his friend said, his true

place in history. It was long the fashion of England's historians to

represent Cromwell as a fanatic and hypocrite, but his character was

vindicated by later writers. "Never," says Macaulay, "was a ruler so

conspicuously born for sovereignty. The cup which has intoxicated almost

all others sobered him."

We saw the picturesque ruins of Kenilworth Castle, the birthplace of

Shakespeare, the homes of Byron and Mary Chaworth, wandered through

Newstead Abbey, saw the monument to the faithful dog, and the large

dining room where Byron and his boon companions used to shoot at a mark.

It was a desolate region. We stopped a day or two at Ayr and drove out

to the birthplace of Burns. The old house that had sheltered him was

still there, but its walls now echoed to other voices, and the fields

where he had toiled were plowed by other hands. We saw the stream and

banks where he and Mary sat together, the old stone church where the

witches held their midnight revels, the two dogs, and the bridge of Ayr.

With Burns, as with Sappho, it was love that awoke his heart to song. A

bonny lass who worked with him in the harvest field inspired his first

attempts at rhyme. Life, with Burns, was one long, hard struggle. With

his natural love for the beautiful, the terrible depression of spirits

he suffered from his dreary surroundings was inevitable. The interest

great men took in him, when they awoke to his genius, came too late for

his safety and encouragement. In a glass of whisky he found, at last,

the rest and cheer he never knew when sober. Poverty and ignorance are

the parents of intemperance, and that vice will never be suppressed

until the burdens of life are equally shared by all.

We saw Melrose by moonlight, spent several hours at Abbotsford, and

lingered in the little sanctum sanctorum where Scott wrote his immortal

works. It was so small that he could reach the bookshelves on every

side. We went through the prisons, castles, and narrow streets of

Edinburgh, where the houses are seven and eight stories high, each story

projecting a few feet until, at the uppermost, opposite neighbors could

easily shake hands and chat together. All the intervals from active

sight-seeing we spent in reading the lives of historical personages in

poetry and prose, until our sympathies flowed out to the real and ideal

characters. Lady Jane Grey, Anne Boleyn, Mary Queen of Scots, Ellen

Douglas, Jeanie and Effie Deans, Highland Mary, Rebecca the Jewess, Di

Vernon, and Rob Roy all alike seemed real men and women, whose shades or

descendants we hoped to meet on their native heath.

Here among the Scotch lakes and mountains Mr. Stanton and I were

traveling alone for the first time since our marriage, and as we both

enjoyed walking, we made many excursions on foot to points that could

not be reached in any other way. We spent some time among the Grampian

Hills, so familiar to every schoolboy, walking, and riding about on

donkeys. We sailed up and down Loch Katrine and Loch Lomond. My husband

was writing letters for some New York newspapers on the entire trip, and

aimed to get exact knowledge of all we saw; thus I had the advantage of

the information he gathered. On these long tramps I wore a short dress,

reaching just below the knee, of dark-blue cloth, a military cap of the

same material that shaded my eyes, and a pair of long boots, made on the

masculine pattern then generally worn--the most easy style for walking,

as the pressure is equal on the whole foot and the ankle has free play.

Thus equipped, and early trained by my good brother-in-law to long

walks, I found no difficulty in keeping pace with my husband.

Being self-reliant and venturesome in our explorations, we occasionally

found ourselves involved in grave difficulties by refusing to take a

guide. For instance, we decided to go to the top of Ben Nevis alone. It

looked to us a straightforward piece of business to walk up a mountain

side on a bee line, and so, in the face of repeated warnings by our

host, we started. We knew nothing of zigzag paths to avoid the rocks,

the springs, and swamps; in fact we supposed all mountains smooth and

dry, like our native hills that we were accustomed to climb. The

landlord shook his head and smiled when we told him we should return at

noon to dinner, and we smiled, too, thinking he placed a low estimate on

our capacity for walking. But we had not gone far when we discovered the

difficulties ahead. Some places were so steep that I had to hold on to

my companion's coat tails, while he held on to rocks and twigs, or

braced himself with a heavy cane. By the time we were halfway up we were

in a dripping perspiration, our feet were soaking wet, and we were

really too tired to proceed. But, after starting with such supreme

confidence in ourselves, we were ashamed to confess our fatigue to each

other, and much more to return and verify all the prognostications of

the host and his guides. So we determined to push on and do what we had

proposed. With the prospect of a magnificent view and an hour's

delicious rest on the top, we started with renewed courage. A steady

climb of six hours brought us to the goal of promise; our ascent was

accomplished. But alas! it was impossible to stop there--the cold wind

chilled us to the bone in a minute. So we took one glance at the world

below and hurried down the south side to get the mountain between us and

the cold northeaster.

When your teeth are chattering with the cold, and the wind threatening

to make havoc with your raiment, you are not in a favorable condition to

appreciate grand scenery. Like the king of France with twice ten

thousand men, we marched up the hill and then, marched down again. We

found descending still more difficult, as we were in constant fear of

slipping, losing our hold, and rolling to the bottom. We were tired,

hungry, and disappointed, and the fear of not reaching the valley before

nightfall pressed heavily upon us. Neither confessed to the other the

fatigue and apprehension each felt, but, with fresh endeavor and words

of encouragement, we cautiously went on. We accidentally struck a trail

that led us winding down comfortably some distance, but we lost it, and

went clambering down as well as we could in our usual way. To add to our

misery, a dense Scotch mist soon enveloped us, so that we could see but

a short distance ahead, and not knowing the point from which we started,

we feared we might be going far out of our way. The coming twilight,

too, made the prospect still darker. Fortunately our host, having less

faith in us than we had in ourselves, sent a guide to reconnoiter, and,

just at the moment when we began to realize our danger of spending the

night on the mountain, and to admit it to each other, the welcome guide

hailed us in his broad accent. His shepherd dog led the way into the

beaten path. As I could hardly stand I took the guide's arm, and when we

reached the bottom two donkeys were in readiness to take us to the

hotel.

We did not recover from the fatigue of that expedition in several days,

and we made no more experiments of exploring strange places without

guides. We learned, too, that mountains are not so hospitable as they

seem nor so gently undulating as they appear in the distance, and that

guides serve other purposes besides extorting money from travelers. If,

under their guidance, we had gone up and down easily, we should always

have thought we might as well have gone alone. So our experience gave us

a good lesson in humility. We had been twelve hours on foot with nothing

to eat, when at last we reached the hotel. We were in no mood for

boasting of the success of our excursion, and our answers were short to

inquiries as to how we had passed the day.

Being tired of traveling and contending about woman's sphere with the

Rev. John Scoble, an Englishman, who escorted Mr. Birney and Mr. Stanton

on their tour through the country, I decided to spend a month in Dublin;

while the gentlemen held meetings in Cork, Belfast, Waterford, Limerick,

and other chief towns, finishing the series with a large, enthusiastic

gathering in Dublin, at which O'Connell made one of his most withering

speeches on American slavery; the inconsistency of such an "institution"

with the principles of a republican government giving full play to his

powers of sarcasm. On one occasion, when introduced to a slaveholder, he

put his hands behind his back, refusing to recognize a man who bought

and sold his fellow-beings. The Rev. John Scoble was one of the most

conceited men I ever met. His narrow ideas in regard to woman, and the

superiority of the royal and noble classes in his own country, were to

me so exasperating that I grew more and more bellicose every day we

traveled in company. He was terribly seasick crossing the Channel, to my

intense satisfaction. As he always boasted of his distinguished

countrymen, I suggested, in the midst of one of his most agonizing

spasms, that he ought to find consolation in the fact that Lord Nelson

was always seasick on the slightest provocation.

The poverty in Ireland was a continual trial to our sensibilities;

beggars haunted our footsteps everywhere, in the street and on the

highways, crouching on the steps of the front door and on the

curbstones, and surrounding our carriage wherever and whenever we

stopped to shop or make a visit. The bony hands and sunken eyes and

sincere gratitude expressed for every penny proved their suffering real.

As my means were limited and I could not pass one by, I got a pound

changed into pennies, and put them in a green bag, which I took in the

carriage wherever I went. It was but a drop in the ocean, but it was all

I could do to relieve that unfathomed misery. The poverty I saw

everywhere in the Old World, and especially in Ireland, was a puzzling

problem to my mind, but I rejected the idea that it was a necessary link

in human experience--that it always had been and always must be.

As we drove, day by day, in that magnificent Phoenix Park, of fifteen

hundred acres, one of the largest parks, I believe, in the world, I

would often put the question to myself, what right have the few to make

a pleasure ground of these acres, while the many have nowhere to lay

their heads, crouching under stiles and bridges, clothed in rags, and

feeding on sea-weed with no hope, in the slowly passing years, of any

change for the better? The despair stamped on every brow told the sad

story of their wrongs. Those accustomed to such everyday experiences

brush beggars aside as they would so many flies, but those to whom such

sights are new cannot so easily quiet their own consciences. Everyone in

the full enjoyment of all the blessings of life, in his normal

condition, feels some individual responsibility for the poverty of

others. When the sympathies are not blunted by any false philosophy, one

feels reproached by one's own abundance. I once heard a young girl,

about to take her summer outing, when asked by her grandmother if she

had all the dresses she needed, reply, "Oh, yes! I was oppressed with a

constant sense of guilt, when packing, to see how much I had, while so

many girls have nothing decent to wear."

More than half a century has rolled by since I stood on Irish soil, and

shed tears of pity for the wretchedness I saw, and no change for the

better has as yet come to that unhappy people--yet this was the land of

Burke, Grattan, Shiel, and Emmett; the land into which Christianity was

introduced in the fifth century, St. Patrick being the chief apostle of

the new faith. In the sixth century Ireland sent forth missionaries from

her monasteries to convert Great Britain and the nations of Northern

Europe. From the eighth to the twelfth century Irish scholars held an

enviable reputation. In fact, Ireland was the center of learning at one

time. The arts, too, were cultivated by her people; and the round

towers, still pointed out to travelers, are believed to be the remains

of the architecture of the tenth century. The ruin of Ireland must be

traced to other causes than the character of the people or the Catholic

religion. Historians give us facts showing English oppressions

sufficient to destroy any nation.

The short, dark days of November intensified, in my eyes, the gloomy

prospects of that people, and made the change to the _Sirius_ of the

Cunard Line, the first regular Atlantic steamship to cross the ocean,

most enjoyable. Once on the boundless ocean, one sees no beggars, no

signs of human misery, no crumbling ruins of vast cathedral walls, no

records of the downfall of mighty nations, no trace, even, of the mortal

agony of the innumerable host buried beneath her bosom. Byron truly

says:

"Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow--

Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now."

When we embarked on the _Sirius_, we had grave doubts as to our safety

and the probability of our reaching the other side, as we did not feel

that ocean steamers had yet been fairly tried. But, after a passage of

eighteen days, eleven hours, and fifteen minutes, we reached Boston,

having spent six hours at Halifax. We little thought that the steamer

_Sirius_ of fifty years ago would ever develop into the magnificent

floating palaces of to-day--three times as large and three times as

swift. In spite of the steamer, however, we had a cold, rough, dreary

voyage, and I have no pleasant memories connected with it. Our

fellow-passengers were all in their staterooms most of the time. Our

good friend Mr. Birney had sailed two weeks before us, and as Mr.

Stanton was confined to his berth, I was thrown on my own resources. I

found my chief amusement in reading novels and playing chess with a

British officer on his way to Canada. When it was possible I walked on

deck with the captain, or sat in some sheltered corner, watching the

waves. We arrived in New York, by rail, the day before Christmas.

Everything looked bright and gay in our streets. It seemed to me that

the sky was clearer, the air more refreshing, and the sunlight more

brilliant than in any other land!