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Carrie
LeFlore Perry
From: Sturm's Oklahoma Magazine (Jan. Feb 1911)
A Selected
Edition By Amanda L. Paige
London
My Mother: Here we are, once more in the city of London!
The journey from Paris to Dieppe, again filled me with regret, you see we are
returning, without seeing anything of provincial France. I have long dreaded the
channel, but this time my good angel got in a little work and the voyage was
ideal, just like a “painted ship on a painted ocean.”1 I went below
soon after leaving Dieppe and slept until Ed called me to see the chalk cliffs
of Albion. Mr. B. attended to the examination of the baggage, so we were quite
untroubled.
While we awaited his return, Ed handed the train guard a
bit of silver, and in a confidential whisper, asked if Cook had reserved a
sufficient number of compartments, for him to occupy one alone with a lady? The
guard assured him that his desire could be easily granted, and thus we passed
in, cheered by our merry party, the man convinced he had assisted a “honeymoon
couple.” The country through which we passed, is exquisitely pastoral, one
immense park harbored so many pheasants that Ed almost tumbled out of the door
in his excitement.
I like England very much. Ed likes it too, yet he is rather like the boy who
returns to the farm after many years in a city. “How can any one live in such a
poky land? No chance for ‘Dynamite Ed’2 over here. I would yawn
myself to death.” I insist that after a time he would adjust himself to business
methods and even think these the best. He laughingly replies that he expects to
be a long time dead, and thus now prefers to live.
We are in an elegant hotel near Victoria street, with all
conveniences and many luxuries, yet ice water is not one of them. This is a
decided contrast to the Paris hotel, Ed says Thos. Cook and Sons are trying to
efface the memory of that!
After dinner, Ed suggested a bus ride; several of the
ladies joined us, and soon we “were up on high.” Piccadilly circus, for a penny,
then on and on until we were “lost in London.” The bus drivers vouchsafed much
information, and a fellow traveler seemed to take great interest in our party,
even assisting us to transfer to a line, where the streets were more
“picturesque.” Ed asked him if he was English, he replied Canadian, thus
explaining his unusual loquacity and kindly feeling. We were quite sorry that Ed
said it was “time for bed.” Just think, mother there is a great tub of hot water
awaiting me, that is one thing I like over in London, the hotels have such
immature seas for their patrons. Good night I must hasten.
August 13th
Only Ed’s encouraging remarks, enabled me to leave my bed
this morning, it was a pleasure to see him enjoy the “English breakfast;” for my
part I enjoy the continental kind. Mine was not the only weary face at this
table, we attributed our lassitude to the change of climate. Ed declared it was
nature crying out, after the sleepless weeks in Paris. Doubtless he is correct.
Shortly after breakfast the English guide appeared, and we clambered into that
clumsy conveyance, a spring wagon has that vehicle beat a mile! I wish Cook
would use rubber tires and cushions, thus he would save the voice of the guide,
the temper of the passenger, and rest bones, weary indeed after a jaunt over the
continent. I do not like the guide; he has shown a decided tendency to jibe at
America and Americans, perhaps he is trying for revenge, yet it shows poor
judgement to antagonize people you are paid to entertain. Did I hear you laugh
at my inconsistency? Only a few days since, I wrote that it was a pleasure to
berate Uncle Sam, and yet at the first sneer from English lips, I am up in arms!
Oh, well I can abuse my own, but woe betide the stranger who tries!
We commenced the sight-seeing from Ludgate Circus, where we were obligingly
taken to enable us to cash checks, etc. First the sight of the old Fleet prison
and several anecdotes concerning it, then Holburn Viaduct to Smithfield, the
celebrated fair grounds; here a memorial stone records that it is the place of
several Protestant martyrdoms, it was also the place of execution of William
Wallace.
I did not see any roast pig, but the mention of that
delicacy led to the meat supply of London, and the guide assured us that much of
it came from the U.S., remarking that our meat scandal greatly hurt London. The
Church of St. Sepulchre is noted for being the place of burial of John Smith of
Pocahontas fame and Roger Ascham, the tutor of Elizabeth. I cannot mention
one-third of the places shown, yet Ed bade me not omit Billingsgate, he plans to
return there, and gain a little instruction in the art of Vituperation!
When we reached the Tower of London the guide declared as
follows: I requested him to repeat slowly, so here it is verbatim: “The Pyramids
are of infinitely greater age, St. Peter’s at Rome of greater magnificence, the
Mosque of Sancta Sophia of greater splendor; but, in vivid interest, in the
enduring impression of the story its stones record, it stands alone.”
Before entering the inner gateway we were requested to
deposit with the man in the office, all hand bags, umbrellas, parcels, extra
wraps, etc. we were also advised to leave our jewelry, because of pickpockets.
My purse was so small and so empty that Ed slipped it in his pocket. We had not
advanced far when an argus-eyed policeman spied it and told Ed to return and
leave it. It seems such precaution is deemed necessary, since a crank gaining
admission, fired a building, completely destroying it and endangering several.
In some way I became separated from my lord and also the party, and as I was
endeavoring to push my way through the crowd, a giant policeman touched me and
in true Cockney English asked: “Where is the man who took the watch?” My me, I
was frightened, yet I managed to say “How should I know?” and tried to pass on,
another guardian of the law said “Where is the man?” I was sorely distressed,
surely they regarded me as the companion of a man who had evidently stolen a
watch! Just then, seven burly fellows surrounded me, then I was “all in.” I
could see myself in a London jail. “Where lady, is the man who took the watch?”
Desperately I protested my complete lack of knowledge. I was not believed, one
fellow muttering that he saw me with the man! Catching a glimpse of Ed afar in
the throng, I called despairingly “Ed, oh Ed.” Well, dear, there was something
doing then; he came through without ceremony, and in a moment I was clinging to
his arm unable to speak! Oh, he was furious; angrily demanding what they meant
by frightening me. One spoke up, “What did you do with the watch?” Said Ed,
“Here it is, I was on my way to the desk, when I heard my wife scream! Now
explain yourself quickly.” The policemen apologized for alarming me, said they
were only following instructions, as all found objects must be turned in. All
this was Sanscrit to me, yet I was satisfied. I knew Ed would make all things
right and I was saved from that horrid jail! The tale told to me afterward was
this: Mrs. B. of Denver, saw a little silver watch on a step, picked it up and
then handing to Ed requested him to turn it in at the “found desk,” he accepted
it, and turned to do so, finding me missing thought first to search for me, and
as the policeman had watched the transaction, yet did not hear the words, and
saw him lose himself in the throng, hence the hub-bub. My morning was spoiled,
truly, if it had not appeared childish I would have entered a cab and returned
to the hotel. The others called it “an adventure.” I called it a “fright;”
perhaps I’ll enjoy it when I am in the U.S.A.
The “beef eaters” engaged Ed’s admiration, he thinks he
will recommend the uniform to Governor H. 3 for the state guard.
The old gate with its queer portcullis was pointed out, it
is said to be the site where the two princes were murdered; we passed on to the
White Tower and here at the foot of the narrow staircase which leads to the
Ancient Chapel of St. John, we saw the brass plate that records this, as the
spot where in the reign of Charles II the bodies of the murdered princes were
found. The banqueting hall is now a museum, of weapons and armor, here we saw
the coronation robes of Edward VII and Alexandra; they are greatly trimmed, the
queen’s being extremely ornate. I was interested in the cloak of Gen. Wolfe,4
as we so shortly left the scene of his victory and death.
In the court yard we stood above the place of execution,
while the guard pointed out the rooms in the adjoining houses, where once
royalty dwelt, and told grewsome[sic] tales of the days of Henry VIII, when this
spot was often wet with blood. The crown jewels are exposed in Wakefield Tower.
I liked the ruby of the Black Prince and the sapphire of Edward, the confessor;
the Kohinoor5 is immense, yet I did not admire it. I greatly prefer
the Cameo of Marie Antoinette. The salt dishes and spoons of the present King
and Queen are handsome things.
Leaving the Tower we sought St. Paul’s, that largest Protestant church in the
world, visited the tombs below, where rest Nelson and Wellington with many
lesser dead. We marveled at the thickness of the walls and the beauty of the
structure. The London fog is rapidly destroying the stone, and to preserve it
for future generations, it is to be covered with mosaics; some portions of the
interior are completed.
An English rain has been falling all the afternoon, yet what of it. London would
be strange without rain. First we visited the Wallace collection, said to be a
gift unequalled from a man to a nation. The rooms were almost empty, so we had
excellent opportunity to enjoy all. Ed said the Royal snuffboxes were so
gorgeous, he longed for the delicacy! So many master pieces! The “Laughing
Cavalier,” by Hals pleased me, so did several by Meissonier, and one by Landseer
yet remains within my memory. It was “the Mare and Foal.” The animals were so
life-like. Sir Walter Raleigh’s smoking set is shown, also a lovely miniature
of Mary Queen of Scots.
In the British museum we waded in antiquities. Ed feels he
is the reincarnation of an Egyptian deity. I told him his coloring must have
faded. The Elgin marbles rebuilt for us the Parthenon, and we were greatly
interested in the remains of the mausoleum erected by the loving Aretemisia over
her beloved spouse. Wonder where his dust is? Does it “stop a crack to keep the
wind away?” In the Egyptian rooms we saw mummies, beetles etc., but I was more
interested in the array of surgical instruments. Ed said the cooking utensils
and facial helps were more interesting. I said “no” for common sense would tell
you that where there were men, cooking vessels would be plentiful and where
there were women, helps to beauty would be found, but it was a genius who
invented tools to carve mankind and then convinced them that such carving was
necessary. At the extreme end of the Egyptian galleries, the famed “Rosetta
stone” rests upon a kind of table, one corner is missing, and thus a portion of
the hieroglyphics.
The manuscript room proved to me that it was not necessary
to be a fine penman, to excel as an author. My chief complaint against Thos.
Cook and Son, is this, the time passes too rapidly! Why can they not a way to
hobble the sun? Have the no Joshua in their employ?
We thought of the theatre after dinner, then decided that a rest would be more
satisfactory. The service is excellent at this hotel, the maids courteous and
obliging. Quite different from those of the “land of the free.” Yet I feel sorry
for these girls. They are so sadly overworked. I wish a happy medium could be
struck in this servant problem. Until tomorrow, good night my mother.
Friday, Aug 14th.
Another morning in Westminster Abbey! No, I am not going to
rhapsodize over it. You were given it pretty thoroughly in a letter during our
previous stay in London. After the noon hour we visited the National gallery, as
Ed said “just to see a few paintings, this trip has been so lacking in art
galleries?” He is only joking, for unlike the man from K.C., of the party, he
really enjoys the works of art, indeed he now insists he is so familiar with
“light and shade” has seen so many Rafaels, Rembrandts, Murillos, Del Sartos,
Botticellis, etc., that his future will be devoted to lectures on art as seen by
a Cook tourist! The Dutch painters called forth his admiration, because of their
infinite capacity to take pains with tiny things. We were told to particularly
observe Hel-beins,6 “The Ambassadors,” as it is one of the important
pictures of the collection. The real treasure is the Rafael “Madonna and Child,”
the most valuable and said to be the most perfect picture in the world. I know
not if it is, yet I can say, I did not tire of contemplating it; Murillo’s “Holy
Family,” Guido Reni’s “Ecco Homo” and Reynold’s “Heads of Angels” looked like
old friends.
Do you know mother, I have looked upon so many canvases of
Reynolds, Turner, Gainsborough, Greece, etc., that I seem to walk in a blaze of
color. Poor Del Sarto, what a sad face he had, if his portraits depict him
truly. “Chas I,” by Van Dyck is a very large canvas and shows the martyred king
at his best. I cannot tell you all, but Ed has a fine scheme, he purchased a
book at the entrance, with cuts of the celebrated paintings. As we inspected
them, he wrote opposite the cut, his valuable opinion, that is to be mailed to
you, and thus you can follow us easily!
I wish I could say the usual drive was one of unalloyed pleasure. Like George
Washington, “I cannot tell a lie.” The absence of decent springs and cushions
destroyed my delight, the sight of Dorchester house, now the residence of
Whitelaw Reid, the palace built for Barney Barnato, or even Chesterfield House,
could not compensate for the racking of my bones.
We stopped at Old Curiosity Shop, one of the Dickens’
shrines yet remaining, it is soon to be demolished to make way for modern
buildings. Oh, the ruthless spirit of twentieth century progress!
I was too tired for our usual walk or drive after dinner,
so I urged Ed to leave me. He went off with the Prof. and Mr. F. the timid man,
to further investigate a queer street near Victoria that had greatly interested
us during our previous visit. When they returned they told us of “a near
adventure." They passed the region of shops and saloons penetrated so far that
the lights were few, and the alleys rather frightful in consequence, seeing a
couple of vicious looking fellows following, they turned, sought the middle of
the street, and preparing for an attack, came toward Victoria, the thugs
following. Ed declared he was never so glad to see a policeman in his life, as
when he reached Victoria. The hotel clerk who had been listening, remarked that
they had reason to be afraid, and should be thankful they escaped injury, as
that is considered one of the worst slums in London, the police never enter
unless in squads, then selecting the daylight! Think of it, so near to
Buckingham Palace and the very wealth of this vast city! The only reason Ed and
I did not penetrate beyond the first few blocks, was because I objected to the
odors. One good mark for my nose, eh? Mother, this day is ended and it is not
Rome but England, so I shall kiss you “good” night.
Sunday, Aug. 16
A letter from you mother, has added greatly to my
happiness, to hear from you, is like a whiff of violets in spring time. This is
Sunday, a true day of rest, for as I told you before, England believes in
keeping the seventh day holy. We spent yesterday in a very delightful way. I did
wish to go on an excursion to Canterbury, but Ed very sensibly vetoed the
proposition, asserting that I needed a rest, so he has been my guide. We used a
cab for the morning excursion, Ed telling the driver to “show us the sights.”
We drove along the embankment, then of course to Buckingham
palace, as if we had not already seen that place many times. We enjoyed seeing
the outside of Marlborough House, the present home of the Prince of Wales, and
it goes without saying that the Athenaeum Club was interesting because of its
“shining lights” and the qualifications demanded of its would-be members. In St.
James park, the ducks especially interested me, and I did so long to see them.
They are said to be descended from those once fed by Charles II. The Victorian
Memorial at the West End will be a gorgeous affair, when it is completed. The
Albert Memorial is very ornate, yet I did not fancy it particularly. Our
luncheon was obtained in a queer café where a sign announced “American ices and
drinks.” I called for ice tea, the waiter said they did not have it, then in a
burst of inspiration offered to bring me a pot of hot tea and a bucket of ice!
The afternoon we spent on the top of a bus, stopping where ever fancy dictated,
then on again. Today we arose just in time to attend the last mass at
Westminster Cathedral, thus we had breakfast and luncheon at the same time. The
remarkable weather for London, sunshine you know has continued over today, so
the chug-chugging of a motor tempted us to seek a suburb and again enjoy an
English lane. Mother, mother, come over here and help me dream! How can I
believe it is August when the trees are so fresh, and dewy green, the grass so
luscious, the flowers so fragrant! Of course there is not the wealth of bloom of
early July, but it is heavenly to eyes accustomed to the parched fields and
gardens of Oklahoma in the month of August. There was an air of repose over the
lanes, children were here and there but not engaged in boisterous play. We
passed many orphans, so said the driver. Their queer old style dresses and
pinafores, recalling to my mind Jane Eyre: American orphans are more tastefully
attired. Poor little tots, how my heart aches for them. They appeared so wan and
dismal, it is not surprising in those awful funeral garments.
I have truly rested these two days, and I am feeling so
much more like enjoying the fleeting hours. The small remnant of Tour No.—met in
the parlor after dinner. We are all so busy trying to miss nothing that we do
not often meet. Even song at Westminster Abbey, we listened only to the music,
then slipped away. We retire early in England dear, trying to make up for the
hours of sleep squandered on the continent. Of course Ed is not truly tired, but
he is so thoughtful of me, and pretends he too needs the rest, thus persuading
me to “take it easy.” Do you know mother, I am inclined to think London errs as
greatly as Paris in her conception of how to keep Sunday, the former too strict,
the latter too lenient. Why do they not go to Oklahoma and find out the best
way! We know how to do everything, at least that is what the Democratic party
avers. Well, well; let us hope for the best, although candidly, mother I think
you Democrats are breaking the speed laws, and if you do not soon apply the
brake, the twentieth century chariot of state will lose a wheel, perhaps be
badly battered.
I love you dearly, even if you are a “benighted Democrat.”
I’ll dream you have seen the “error of your ways” and become a good Republican!
Monday Aug.17th
Think of waking up to realize that only a few hours are
yours in which to enjoy a blessed treat. I have felt so blue, thus bidding a
“long farewell” to the beloved spots of London town. In the early, early morning
we walked out, told Westminster Abbey, fair St. Margaret’s, the house of
parliament, and the dear old Thames that we must leave them for the golden west,
where history is yet a youngster and we are helping to develop him!
After breakfast, one glimpse of the horse guards, then world known Downing
street, a last goodbye to Charles I where he stands so sadly looking down upon
the place of his execution! I felt inclined to week when my lions passed from
sight, far on the Strand, then Fleet street! That thoroughfare, so easily
peopled, if you have imagination, with glittering pageants, kings and queens,
lords and ladies, courtiers and fools! Back to Regent and Bond just a little
goodbye shopping, you know. At one shop we were shown some linen bearing the
monogram of Edward VII. The salesman informed us that the house was over two
hundred years in business and often furnished linen to royalty. Perhaps it is an
advertising scheme, yet the linen was fit for a king.
We dined in a café, where I know not, then we walked gazing with pleasure in the
gorgeous windows. The glove shops are numerous and now I know that English
gloves are heavy, French gloves medium and Roman gloves very light. I have been
told the last are very poor material. I am bringing you the dearest, an all wool
shawl, just like a cobweb. Ed saw if first and called my attention to it, then
of course it was purchased, for it looks just like my dearie.
A fruit store on Regent street displayed such gorgeous
apples, peaches, etc., we entered and inquired as to prices. We were overcome,
all the fruit is grown in hot-houses, hence the extraordinary beauty and fancy
prices. By the way, the melons on the continent and in England are such tiny
things, wish they could see some of ours. They would by ashamed of their poor
make believe melons! The carrots here, beat ours. I have found them most
excellent. Cannot say I fancy the potatoes served at the hotels. Our Colorado
ones are very superior. As I have remarked before, the cress is heavenly! What a
dissertation in garden vegetables.
Another drive of a couple of hours, and we were not ready,
but obliged to return to the hotel for the day was ended. Mr. B. has shown the
young lady London in a “rushing” way. I wonder if it is to be “German-American
alliance” or just a plain international flirtation? I am inclined to believe
the latter.
We went to Shepherd’s Bush this evening to the Franco-British Exposition,7
and just prided ourselves on the fact that the St. Louis Fair surpassed it
unmeasurably. I told Ed we were allowing our Americanism to crop out dreadfully
these last few days, yet we are sensible we do not openly criticize—just think,
you know.
Mother, mother, I cannot say “good bye” to “London town.”
Let me take it home with me. When I am with you, let us pretend we are here, and
we two, will wander hand in hand, where the history of the world has often been
made.
Goodbye to you, until another city is our stopping place.
Lovingly,
C.
My Dear Mother: Not for Tour No.—today, the ordinary
compartments; we travel in a private car, it is a third cousin to a Pullman
with a tiny observation compartment. Do you see it from my description?
Our first stop was at Oxford, a surprise planned by our Mr. B. as it is not in
the itinerary, we called it our “reward of merit.” Not many hours were at our
disposal, yet as a carriage met the train, with the usual guide, we were soon
seeing the University City. The very streets have a learned air, and the trees
whisper in dead languages!
Do the students ever wildly carouse? I cannot believe it.
At Christ Church College we entered and were given a tantalizing glimpse of “old
Ben,” first cousin to “Big Ben” of London, gave us the hour. The ancient
stair-case, was called to our attention as we walked up it, and just as we were
“oh’ing” in the proper manner, Ed exploded a dynamite cap, which some un-loving
youth had placed on a step! The party was rather demoralized. The Hall is
interesting for its portraits of former students and masters: then we sought
the kitchens far below. They are just as they were in the days of the great
Wolsey, of course modern conveniences are used, but they have been so arranged
they do not detract from the ancient air. We “rubbered” at the rooms once
occupied by Balfour, Salisbury and other: the chapel was worthy of admiration,
yet I have seen so many churches, I can no longer enthuse. We were informed
that “ Old Ben” is kept five minutes ahead of the chapel clock, thus enabling
the students to escape a tardy mark, if they delay arising until, “Old Ben”
strikes the hour, for in five minutes much may be accomplished!
In a drive, we were given fleeting glimpses of All Souls,
with her twin towers; St. Margaret’s, ancient Baliol [sic], and the church of St
Mary the Virgin, peculiarly an academic place of worship. A precious
twenty-minute stop in the Bodleian Library, where I tell you candidly, I tried
so hard to use every second that I overdid the act, and there remains to me only
a blurred picture and a “booky” smell! Yet, I do not complain, many of the party
did not even carry away that much! We were hurried to a little inn and quickly
served an excellent luncheon. Think of servants knowing how to hustle over here.
I was astonished, do you suppose the University boys have taught them the art? I
left my dessert untasted to purchase a spoon. I have one all covered with
markings, the man kindly furnished a key to the puzzle, so in my leisure moments
I’ll study it out. When Stratford was called, we almost fell from the car in our
eagerness to save all the precious minutes given us, to view the birthplace of
the “Immortal Will.” It was a short walk from the station to his home, and we
reveled in the shaded streets and sleepy stillness. Ed whispered to me that the
village was a myth, we were all dead and in the land of eternal silence! We lost
that feeling when we entered Shakespeare’s house, for here the custodian made us
shiver with disgust at his loquaciousness. He, at least was very much alive,
worse luck. Now a little conversation, a little explanation, is all right, but
deliver me from a man, who would be “the whole show and then some” even
attempting to be witty. Do you know he even gave us that old gag about Henry
VIII starting the first “Woman’s Exchange.” I know Shakespeare’s ghost does not
wander in that house, he would be raving in a few short hours. The building
contains none of the original furniture, one portion is a kind of a museum. I
recall a glass jug used by Garrick at the jubilee in 1769, a signet ring bearing
the monogram W.S., some deeds relating to the family and numerous portraits,
also a desk from the ancient grammar school, said to have been used by the poet.
The garden is quaintly arranged, containing only the flowers and fruit mentioned
by Shakespeare in his works. We left it to pursue our way through the deserted
streets to Trinity church. Prof. H., regrets he did not leave London for this
place, and sleep until we came for him. Truly it is an ideal place to rest, if
you are weary of noises. I do not believe that babies ever cry here, or the
children laugh. Can you conceive of the stillness? The church stands in an elm
grove on the banks of the Avon, and the bard is thus lulled by the flowing
waters and the songs of birds. I was fearful that here too we would find a guide
who loved the sound of his own voice, but fate was kind, the clergyman fully
understanding the value of silence and we walked in undisturbed calm. We stood
before the tomb and the low-voiced clergyman told us that the slab, now above
the bard is not the original, that becoming worn was removed, for the present
one. He regretted to state that the original was thrown away. Perhaps, mother,
it is now a doorstep for some humble cottage. The colored bust of Shakespeare
was duly inspected, the story of its restoration quite interesting. I will tell
you of it as related by the guide, when I am home. If solitude is required to
develop the best in man, then it is little wonder the great Shakespeare
delighted and delights the world, for surely here he found the real article.
From his tomb to the handsome memorial building, here we entered a library, with
numerous cases filled with manuscripts relating to Shakespeare; then the art
gallery, with its many canvases depicting his heroes and heroines, or actors and
actresses, who delighted to represent his characters. The theatre is well
appointed, and will seat about eight hundred, the seats are in great demand on
the annual festival, and actors and actresses desire the honor of appearing
before its footlights.
From an upper window we looked upon the monument of the man
to whom all this offers homage, and we thanked God for his genius. We wafted him
a message from his admirers from “over the seas.” I like to think he often
returns to wander beside the stream “which makes sweet music, with the enameled
stones, giving a gentle kiss to every sedge, He overtaketh on his pilgrimage.”8
The country through which we sped is marvelously well kept. Can you imagine
fields without one weed, forests not showing a broken twig, a railroad
right-of-way, like a well kept lawn? Of course you cannot, I could not, I
always thought the descriptions exaggerated. Everywhere sleepy cattle, and the
sheep of the story book, then a little canal, with its boat ladened with
freight, and the boy on the well-beaten path. Little villages, all one long
street, old stone houses with chimney pots, then behind a tiny garden all one
blaze of color. I shudder when I think of our western villages, with their pine
shacks, and formidable array of tin cans, not even a flower to cheer the eye. O,
well this is the result of centuries, and we are so young, our life is all
before us. Future tourists will admire us, for surely in a few decades we too,
will commence to build for posterity. We did not stop in Warwick and barely
caught a glimpse of the famous castle, as we were bemoaning this, that
irresponsible husband of mine produced a postcard, advised us to study that, and
then we could converse intelligently concerning it. You see he had not shown me
the card, as I have positively refused to purchase a view of something not
visited. Mr. B. telegraphed to Manchester to have dinner served us there, the
answer came “o.k.;” alas, when we hurried to the dining hall we were met with
blank looks, not a thing prepared. Mr. B. was greatly incensed, after much
conversation a very indifferent repast was served and we returned to our car
hungry. When we were leaving the lights of the city far behind, a chicken and
other eatables which we had last seen adorning the side-board of the
inhospitable inn, appeared from mysterious hiding places. Ed did wonders in
carving with a pocket knife, and we ate with a relish, not inquiring as to the
manner in which the articles were obtained, just heaping blessing upon our
benefactors. It was late when we reached this city and the hotel appeared a
haven of refuge. We are rather sad tonight. This is the very last of the trip.
Tomorrow is the day of parting. Of course ever since leaving Italy we have been
losing members, but this is the great finale. Mr. B. will return to London and
another tour; we, to our widely separated homes, perhaps never more to meet, we
are just “ships that pass in the night, and salute each other in passing.” Good
night, good night.
On board train to Liverpool.—Mother, a little more to this
letter; you see there is not a word in it of Chester, and that must not be. We
arose quite early, and to our surprise were served an American breakfast. To
explain the phenomenon; we noticed a tall gentleman evidently very much at home
in the hotel, English in appearance, yet American in manner, who bestowed upon
Ed many glances. Ed leaned over to ask if there was anything wrong with his
attire, when the gentleman approached and with an apology offered Ed a little
case containing a card. Bless me, it was a membership ticket of the B.P.O.E.
9
In the conversation which ensued; we were informed that he was an American
citizen of Cincinnati, but the recent death of his father had called him to
Chester, the affairs of the estate required time to adjust, and he was compelled
to remain. The gentleman said he was quite longing for the U.S.A., the quietude
of Chester was unbearable, so we said “Hooray for Uncle Sam,” and wished him a
speedy return to the “Buckeye state.”
We rode to the Cathedral on the upper deck of the street
car, thus fully enjoying the streets; this city dates from the Roman conquest,
and is said to have the only Roman wall extant. In the church, the clergyman
guide proudly pointed to a bit of flooring and commenced “this is from the floor
of Solomon’s Temple, brought to—” when he reached that, my laughter checked him;
oh, he was mortally offended. Truly, mother, I could not help the outburst. Ed
whispered to me, “Say, old Sol’s temple was not destroyed, those smart Jews
carted it over to Europe and sold it as souvenirs.” I tried to apologize, but
the man was implacable assuring me that my incredulity was uncalled for, as the
remnant was authentic. Think of it, over in Italy the guide would have looked
reproachful and said “accept the beautiful wherever you find it, why doubt, it
might have come from the temple. Do not be so prosaic as to demand the proof.”
We strolled on the ancient wall, until I felt sure the
train to Liverpool would leave us, and thus many lose the homeward bound
vessels. Just as we entered the station I remembered that the spoon was
forgotten. Off dashed Ed and as the train was preparing to depart, he appeared,
bearing aloft the desired article. It is another beauty, he refused to tell me
how much he paid for it. You see I have a limit, and I know he exceeded it.
I am writing this, and trying to listen to the conversation
about me—all are trying to talk at once, as there are so many things to say and
so few hours in which to say them!
You must excuse me, mother, mine, I must join in the last
fun of Tour No.—. We have three days before our boat sails, where we shall spend
them I know not; so good-bye until we reach our unknown destination.
Lovingly,
C.
My Dear Mother: Do please exclaim with surprise at the
post-mark of this letter, surely you did not expect me to “take the high-road,
and be in Scotland afore ye?” When we bade Tour No.—, farewell at Liverpool
ferry, Ed rushed me to Cook’s office and there he learned that we could, with
ease take the express to Edinburgh and have twenty-four hours in that city, so
off we hustled. I was so surprised, so delighted, that I did not recover during
the journey!
The country is unlike southern England, more rugged you
know; the heather-covered hills and stone fences, very picturesque. It was dark
when we reached Edinburgh, so we missed the approach. We hurried to a hotel to
find it was filled, the proprietor sent us here, and thus we have a charming
room in a semi-private house; we are enjoying the change from hotels. Last
evening we looked up Mr. R., our minister friend from Montreal, and today he has
been our guide. When we awoke we found a rain falling, not in the half-hearted
fashion of London. This was a regular western affair. We were undaunted and were
soon walking east on Princess street, positively enjoying the downpour; you know
I have always delighted in a rainy day and Ed also enjoys the “splashing.” Mr. R
was clad in a tan rain coat, and was far from clerical figure. I asked him when
he intended to don his priestly garb—he replied, “when in the pulpit,” then
informed us of a recent encounter with the archbishop of Y. That reverend
gentleman, objected to his attire and said if he belonged to his diocese such
latitude in dress would instantly be checked. Mr. R. assured him that he was
quite well pleased with his superior the Archbishop of Montreal, and did not
contemplate a change of residence.
The monument of Sir Walter Scott loomed mistily; we
thoroughly inspected it, while Mr. R read from a guide book. I only recall that
the designer was a working mason, and that one dark night ’ere the monument was
completed, he fell into a canal and was drowned. You realize from the statue
that the poet-novelist was not handsome.
At one point, where Edinburgh lay before us, Mr. R burst
forth with,
“St. Margaret what sight is here
Long miles of masonry appear
Scott’s Gothic pinnacles arise
And Melville’s statue greets the skies.”
The church of St. Giles with its many aisles opened to
receive us; we were shown the spot where stood the clergyman, at whom Jenny
Goddes flung the stool, in her resentment at the introduction of the Episcopal
form of service. The very weapon is kept in a nearby museum. I refused to seek
it, as nothing of such recent date can give me a thrill. I want things from
Adam’s hour.
We stopped before the house of John Knox, and although I would not do as the
Calvinist of our party, did, when before the Vatican, “Shake my fist with
wrath,” yet I did affirm that I did not consider all I would see therein worth
the expenditure of six pence entrance fee. Mr. R laughed with joy, but I told
him that I did not object to his mirth, for I knew he had not visited the home
of that great nonconformist, and do you know, he had not!
We leisurely gained the great gates of the castle and
entering, looked over the ramparts, examined the cannon, delighted in the
barelegged Scotch regiment, listened to the screeching, wailing bag-pipes as the
band practiced gloomily in a turret chamber, inspected the ancient Scottish
regalia, and visited Queen Margaret’s chapel whose eight hundred years endeared
it to my mind. When we considered our work well done for surely we had
accomplished quite as much as a Cook party. We decided to walk to Holy Rood on
the very street down which pageants of Mary’s reign, always passed. It is not
now the main thoroughfare, it is given over to the very poor. At one corner, a
wheezy organ was giving forth melody and slum children were gaily dancing. We
stopped for quite a while, the men keeping up the fun, by the judicious use of
coppers. At least I rebelled at the delay and offered to return for them after I
visited the palace.
The soldiers on guard are so young, and their bare knees are so comical, Ed said
I hurt their feelings by my smiles; I trust not, but bare knee is so ugly.
The Abbey founded by King David for the Augustinians, has
crumbled to dust. Only the ruins of the Chapel Royal remain. Many notables of
Scotland repose here, and it was within these walls, Mary was married. Darnley
sleeps well I hope. I do not think his ghost would care to walk, his cowardice
was too pronounced. If he had been “half a man” perhaps history would have been
far different. How could the peerless Mary care for such a figure head?
From the portraits of Scottish sovereigns I do not think
there were noted for good looks. If so then a wholesale slaughter of the
painters would have been justified. In the apartments of Queen Mary we lingered.
I could almost hear the voice of the implacable John Knox as he severely berate
the half-smiling Mary. Her bedroom, once a model of luxury, would be considered
quite bare in these days. Her dressing room was not built for a modern beauty.
The supper room where Rizzio was so foully murdered, is not much larger than a
modern bath room and a back stair opens into it. After he was once within he
could not leave without passing through the queen’s apartments. Poor
pleasure-loving Mary, her youth spent in the Court of the de Medici, where
luxury reigned supreme, her young womanhood in cold, frozen Scotland, where even
ordinary comforts and amusements were regarded as displeasing to God. Is it a
wonder that she rebelled, that the untamed bird beat her tiny wings against the
bars of her cage?
The morning was gone, and as Mr. R was to leave on an afternoon train for
Melrose, we accompanied him to a café, and from thence to the station. After his
departure Ed decided to visit the great bridge over the Firth of Forth. As it
was about nine miles out from Edinburgh we had quite a drive. No lack of
children in Scotland. We were followed by a yelling cart-wheel-turning bunch
that rivaled the kids of Italy in effrontery. Ed had a hilarious time, the boys
thoroughly enjoying his badinage and his pennies. We stopped a scant five
minutes at the ancient bridge, where Scotland’s king was attacked by robbers,
and of course our driver “attacked and demolished” a glass of whiskey, that
being the true reason of our delay. The coachmen over in Europe must have a
drink about every hour.
I shall not attempt to describe that bridge. Ed is writing you a letter, so
filled with figures it looks like a page from an Arithmetic. How you enjoy all
that. I am a great grief to him, because of my inability to delight in length,
breadth, heighth, etc.
My me, it was cold—we chased madly up and down to keep
warm. We had a goodly number of youngsters to amuse us. They brought us
treasures from the sea, and tried to get me to eat a few slimy creatures.
Such rosy cheeks, why I would give a goodly sum to sport such color. Ed teased
the little girls by pretending to rub off the paint with his handkerchief. The
return drive was facing a rain-storm. Of course we could not see, and I was
chilled to the very bones of me. When we reached our hotel I cuddled up in bed
for an hour, and then felt equal to a visit to the exposition grounds, but Ed
said no, so we walked over to the hotel, found Mr. R had returned from Melrose,
and before a cheerful fire, spent the evening. The two men regaled me with tales
of Montreal in winter. According to them it is paradise.
We reluctantly bade Mr. R a final good bye. Tomorrow he is
off for Ireland, and we return to Liverpool and embark for America. Oh that
ocean voyage, I dare not think of it. I am longing to see you dearest and best,
yet how I dread those days. Oh well I’ll cheer up. I am sure it will not be so
bad as I anticipate.
I send you all dear messages the heart can devise.
Lovingly, C.
Melrose
My Mother: I cannot pass by, the opportunity to send you a
few lines from Melrose. We have just dined in this old inn, “King’s Arms” and
must await the express to Liverpool. A conveyance was at the station when our
train arrived, and with several other tourists, we were quickly whisked the
three miles to Abbottsford. At the lodge gates the vehicle halted and we entered
the grounds on foot. Just inside we found heather tied in little bunches, and
sign “Take one, leave a penny.” Novel way to sell. The visitors here must be
very honorable.
The home is well back in the exquisitely kept garden, and
the slope is gently towards the Tweed. It is just the spot I would have known
Scott would select for his home, on the borderland of ruggedness and sensuous
beauty.
A side door gave entrance into a room evidently a curio shop. We bought several
volumes of the poet’s works, bound in the plaids of the clans. Then a woman with
tickets appeared; we purchased them a shilling each; these we were requested to
deposit in a box as we passed up the stairway. The woman in charge was our
guide, and heaven save the mark, where are the low, sweet English voices? My
ears are yet tingling from the hideous din, and why did she go, on and on,
“world without end, amen?” My me, two places where I have anticipated heavenly
visions, the “quiet English” have prevented them by their loquacity. Thank
heaven, not many American voices, if any, surpass hers in disagreeable tones. We
were first shown the room with its well-worn books and easy chair, where Sir
Walter Scott did his work, then the well-appointed library where his friends
were wont to gather. In a cabinet beside a window overlooking the Tweed we saw
many relics collected by the poet. I recall Rob Roy’s purse, Bobby Burns’
tumbler, Cardinal Mezofanti’s Cap, Mary Queen of Scots’ cross, Napoleon’s
blotting book found in a carriage at Waterloo, Flora McDonald’s purse, a lock of
Bonnie Prince Charlie’s hair. There were many other things which have escaped my
memory. In an adjoining room we saw Rob Roy’s gun, Napoleon’s pistols, Genevra’s
chest brought from Florence, and Marie Antoinette’s clock, thus before we left
the house I lost the feeling that it was once the home of my poet novelist; it
was a museum of interesting objects. To do justice to all here shown would
require hours; we just glanced here and there. Truly though, I could not long
endure that raucous voice, those rambling tales! O Scott, immortal Scott, come
back to your home and frighten the good woman into silence!
The rain was falling fast when we drove to Melrose, thus our visit to the Abbey
was “dampening.” We could not “view fair Melrose by moonlight,” so we viewed it
in an almost misty rain. I wish you, too, could see its broken columns, its
spires worn by years, lifting their dismantled heads heavenward, its crumbling
wall eloquent of the days when it was Melrose Abbey the magnificent. The heart
of Bruce is here interred and flowers there attest some loyal Scottish heart. We
loitered in the ancient church yard unmindful of the rain, deciphering
long-forgotten names and oft glancing with awe at the superb ruins towering
near. When at last we were satisfied to leave the memory-haunted place we found
the conveyance gone. We did not grieve it was only a short walk to this inn, and
from here to the station is but a step.
That “step” must be taken now. Ed is calling, so farewell
to Sir Walter and his “Fair Melrose.”
Once again the word good bye.
Lovingly,
C.
Mother dear, there is a feeling within me that,
“Only resembles sorrow
As the mist resembles the rain.”
I dread to say “good-bye sweet summer good-bye;” it has
been of such unalloyed pleasure charming companions, agreeable conductor,
historic places; oh do you wonder I pay the tribute of a sigh.
Soon we will be tossed on the “briny deep” and I shall
be—no, please do not mention it.
Come mother, with your dear hand in mine, let us give to
England, to Europe, one last farewell. A word that must be, and hath been. A
sound which makes us linger yet—farewell.
We do not belong here, the west is calling her children
home,
Until the “Stars and Stripes” no more words.
Lovingly,
C.
New York, U.S.A.
My Dearest Mother:--
”Breathless there the man with soul so dead,
Who never to himself hath said,
This is my own my native land!
Whose hearth hath ne’er within him burn’d
As home his footsteps he hath turn’d
From wandering on a foreign strand!”
Hurrah for the United States; other lands are beautiful but this is home, Ed
says he took me away, a stoney-hearted rebel, and brings me home a loyal child
of Uncle Sam.
I fully expected to write you pages of the pleasure of
ocean travel on board a big liner, but, alas and alack! I went to bed even
before England was far behind, and remained there until we passed the Statue of
Liberty. How is that for a sailor? Oh, well, I gave the ship doctor a few
interesting days, he was fully convinced that I was suffering from appendicitis.
Think of it, dearie, a trip to England and appendicitis the same summer. I
assured him as valiantly and frequently as I did, he too, would have had a
soreness. He told me of my supposed malady, when we were three days from land;
if I had been easily frightened Ed would have reported “one wife missing” and I
should have missed living again in “God’s Country.” I smiled and “lay low.” I
am rather “wobbly” in my gait, as my diet has been strictly “bland,” just ginger
ale and ice water.
Pray do not rave to me of Neptune’s fair realm; wish the old fellow would have
an attack of mal-de-mer; I’ll venture he would give his trident to the fishes
and “hie for the tall timber.”
Do not speak to me of a “life on the ocean wave”; yes “roll on, thou deep blue
ocean,”10 but please do not ask me to roll with you. I feel in my
bones that “it’s a comin’ my way” in the hereafter; then I shall toss and roll
until I am “whiter than snow.” Until that day, pass me by old ocean I pray you.
Our visit to New York is to be deferred; of course we are here, but as I am only
the wraith of the lady who left Liverpool. Perhaps Ed is right to forbid me the
attractions of “little old New York.” He says Broadway is not healthy for
ghosts; home is the place for this one. This letter leaves tonight, we rest
until tomorrow at 5:30, then over the New York Central, to our beloved west.
Tell the boys we are coming; open wide your doors; smile
mother darling, we are almost home. Shine out fair sun; in Oklahoma, the grand,
blow breezes blow, the summer is ended, the holidays are past and every day life
is beckoning! What care I?
I shall soon see you, and home.
Your happy though shadowy daughter,
C.
THE END
- This is from Rime of the Ancient
Mariner by Samuel Coleridge.
- Adolphus Edward Perry was better known as
“Dynamite Ed” Perry in Oklahoma’s political circles. Adolphus Edward Perry was
a leader of the Republican Party in Oklahoma.
- Governor H. here refers to the first
governor of the state of Oklahoma, Charles Nathaniel Haskell.
- General Wolfe was an English general
during the French and Indian War. He died at the Battle of the Plains of
Abraham, a battle which won control of Quebec for the British. Quebec was a
city the Perrys had visited.
- The Kohinoor diamond from India is a 106
caret diamond. It has been in the British Crown Jewels collection for 150
years.
- Hel-beins is a misspelling of Holbein.
Hans Holbein painted “The Ambassadors.”
- The Franco-British Exposition was the
name of the World’s Fair held in 1908.
- This is from William Shakespeare’s The
Two Gentlemen of Verona.
- B.P.O.E stands for the Benevolent and
Protective Order of Elks.
- This is from Lord Byron’s Childe
Harold’s Pilgrimage.
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