



Produced by Charlene Taylor, Melissa McDaniel and the
Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
(This file was produced from images generously made
available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)







Transcriber's Note:

  Inconsistent hyphenation and spelling in the original document have
  been preserved.  Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.

  Italic text is denoted by _underscores_ and bold text by =equal
  signs=.

  Page 51:  "_Aa_leck not El-eck" might have a diacritical mark over
            the a.
  Page 63:  "I've 'earn tell" possibly should be "I've 'eard tell".
  Page 261:  The frontispiece cited was not included in this printing.
  Page 318:  "caller" possibly should be "calmer".
  Page 326:  "Frith" possibly should be "Firth".


      AN
      AMERICAN FOUR-IN-HAND
      IN BRITAIN

      BY
      ANDREW CARNEGIE

      NEW YORK
      CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
      1899.




      COPYRIGHT, 1883, 1886, BY
      CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS.

      Press of J. J. Little & Co.
      Astor Place, New York




      I DEDICATE THESE PAGES
      TO
      MY FAVORITE HEROINE,
      My Mother.




_PREFACE._


_The publication of this book renders necessary a few words of
explanation. It was originally printed for private circulation among a
few dear friends--those who were not as well as those who were of the
coaching party--to be treasured as a souvenir of happy days. The house
which has undertaken the responsibility of giving it a wider circulation
believed that its publication might give pleasure to some who would not
otherwise see it. It is not difficult to persuade one that his work
which has met with the approval of his immediate circle may be worthy of
a larger audience; and the author was the more easily induced to consent
to its reprint because, the first edition being exhausted, he was no
longer able to fill many requests for copies._

_The original intent of the book must be the excuse for the highly
personal nature of the narrative, which could scarcely be changed
without an entire remodelling, a task for which the writer had neither
time nor inclination; so, with the exception of a few suppressions and
some additions which seemed necessary under its new conditions, its
character has not been materially altered. Trusting that his readers may
derive from a perusal of its pages a tithe of the pleasure which the Gay
Charioteers experienced in performing the journey, and wishing that all
may live to see their "ships come home" and then enjoy a similar
excursion for themselves, he subscribes himself,_

      _Very Sincerely,_
      _THE AUTHOR_
      _New York, May 1, 1883._




      AN AMERICAN FOUR-IN-HAND
      IN BRITAIN.


Long enough ago to permit us to sing, "For we are boys, merry, merry
boys, Merry, merry boys together," and the world lay all before us where
to choose, Dod, Vandy, Harry, and I walked through Southern England with
knapsacks on our backs. What pranks we played! Those were the happy days
when we heard the chimes at midnight and laughed Sir Prudence out of
countenance. "Dost thou think, because thou art virtuous, there shall be
no more cakes and ale?" Nay, verily, Sir Gray Beard, and ginger shall be
hot i' the mouth too! Then indeed

                  "The sounding cataract
      Haunted me like a passion; the tall rock,
      The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood,
      Their colors and their forms, were then to me
      An appetite; a feeling and a love
      That had no need of a remoter charm,
      By thought supplied, or any interest
      Unborrowed from the eye."

It was during this pedestrian excursion that I announced that some day,
when my "ships came home," I should drive a party of my dearest friends
from Brighton to Inverness. Black's "Adventures of a Phaeton" came not
long after this to prove that another Scot had divined how idyllic the
journey could be made. It was something of an air-castle--of a
dream--those far-off days, but see how it has come to pass!

  [Sidenote: _Air-Castles._]

The world, in my opinion, is all wrong on the subject of air-castles.
People are forever complaining that their chateaux en Espagne are never
realized. But the trouble is with them--they fail to recognize them when
they come. "To-day," says Carlyle, "is a king in disguise," and most
people are in possession of their air-castles, but lack the trick to
see 't.

Look around you! see Vandy, for instance. When we were thus doing Merrie
England on foot, he with a very modest letter of credit stowed away in a
belt round his sacred person--for Vandy it was who always carried the
bag (and a faithful treasurer and a careful one too--good boy, Vandy!);
he was a poor student then, and you should have heard him philosophize
and lord it over us two, who had been somewhat fortunate in rolling
mills, and were devoted to business. "Great Caesar! boys, if I ever get
fifteen hundred dollars a year income!" (This was the fortune I was
vaguely figured up to be worth under ordinary conditions.) "Great Caesar!
boys"--and here the fist would come down on the hard deal table,
spilling a few drops of beer--"fifteen hundred dollars a year! Catch me
working any more like a slave, as you and Harry do!" Well, well, Vandy's
air-castle was fifteen hundred dollars a year; yet see him now when
thousands roll in upon him every month. Hard at it still--and see the
goddess laughing in her sleeve at the good joke on Vandy. He has his
air-castle, but doesn't recognize the structure.

There is Miss Fashion. How fascinating she was when she descanted on her
air-castle--then a pretty cottage with white and red roses clustering
beside the door and twining over it in a true-lover's knot, symbolizing
the lover's ideal of mutual help and dependence--the white upon the red.
No large establishment for her, nor many servants! One horse (I admit it
was always to be a big one), and an elegant little vehicle; plenty of
garden and enough of pin money. On this point there was never to be the
slightest doubt, so that she could really get the best magazines and one
new book every month--any one she chose. A young hard-working husband,
without too much income, so that she might experience the pleasure of
planning to make their little go far. Behold her now! her husband a
millionaire, a brown-stone front, half a dozen horses, a country place,
and a box at the opera! But, bless your heart! she is as unconscious of
the arrival of her castle as she is that years creep upon her apace.

The Goddess Fortune, my friends, rarely fails to give to mortals all
they pray for and more; but how she must stand amazed at the blindness
of her idolators, who continue to offer up their prayers at her shrine,
wholly unconscious that their first requests have been granted! It takes
Fortune a little time to prepare the gifts for so many supplicants--the
toys each one specially wants; and lo and behold! before they can be
delivered (though she works with speed betimes) the unreasonable mortals
have lost conceit of their prizes, and their coming is a mockery; they
are crying for something else. If the Fates be malignant, as old
religions teach, how they must enjoy the folly of man!

Imagine a good spirit taking Fortune to task for the misery and
discontent of mortals, as she gazes with piteous eyes upon our
disappointments, our troubles, and, saddest of all, our regrets,
charging her with producing such unhappiness. "Why have you done this?"
would be the inquiry. Listen to the sardonic chuckle of the Fate: "Hush!
I've only given them what they asked (chuckle--chuckle--chuckle)! Not my
fault! See that unhappy wretch, sleeplessly and feverishly tossing on
his pillow, and in his waking hours absorbing all his lofty faculties in
gambling at the Stock Exchange--wife, children, home, music, art,
culture, all forgotten. He was once a bright, promising, ingenuous
youth. He was born among trees and green fields, spent the morn of life
in the country, sensitive and responsive to all nature's whisperings;
lay in cool, leafy shades, wandered in forest glades, and paddled in
the 'complaining brooks which make the meadow green.' Nay, not many
years ago he returned at intervals to these scenes, and found their
charm had still power over him--felt the truth of the poet's words, that

      "'To him who in the love of nature holds
      Communion with her visible forms, she speaks
      A various language; for his gayer hours
      She has a voice of gladness, and a smile
      And eloquence of beauty, and she glides
      Into his darker musings, with a mild
      And healing sympathy, that steals away
      Their sharpness, ere he is aware.'

"He asked for enough to live honorably upon among his fellows,"
continues the Fate, "and to keep his parents comfortable in their old
age--a matter of a few hundreds a year--and I gave him this and
thousands more. Ha, ha, ha! Silence! Look at him; he doesn't see the
joke. Oh yes, you may try to tell it to him, if you like. He has no time
to listen, nor ears to hear, nor eyes to see; no, nor soul to understand
your language. He's'short' on New Jersey Central or 'long' on Reading,
and, bless you! he must strain every fibre if he would save himself from
ruin.

"He could commune with you in your youth, you say; he had your language
then. No doubt! no doubt! so did he then know his Latin and whisper his
prayers at his mother's knee. The Latin has gone; his praying
continues--nay has increased, for his fears and selfish wants have
multiplied since he was an innocent, ignorant child, and he has much
more to ask from God for his own ends, now that he is a wise man and is
supposed to know much (chuckle--chuckle--chuckle).

"There is another mortal," we hear the Fate saying to the Good Fairy.
"Look at her, decked out in all the vagaries of changeable Fashion; note
her fixed-up look, her conventional air, her nervous, unmeaning,
simpering smile--the same to-day, yesterday, and forever--something to
all men, much to none. See her at home in her chamber! Why mopes she,
looking so haggard, with features expressionless and inane? What worm
gnaws at her heart and makes her life so petty? She, too, came into the
world a bright and happy thing, and grew up fond of music and of birds,
and with a passion for flowers and all of Nature's sweets; so careful,
too, of mother and of father, the very embodiment of love to all around
her. You should have seen her in her teens, a glorious ray from
heaven--'making a sunshine in a shady place'--so natural, so hearty,
with a carolling laugh like the falling of waters. In her most secret
prayers she asked only for a kind lover with a fair competence, that
they might live modestly, without ostentation. She was a good girl and I
granted her wish and more," says Fate. "Her air-castle was small, but I
sent her a magnificent one. She is courted, flattered, has every gift in
my power to bestow; yet she pines in the midst of them. The fruits of
her rare gardens have no flavor for her--Dead Sea fruits indeed, which
fall to ashes on her lips. She has entered for the race of Fashion, and
her soul is absorbed in its jealousies and disappointments. You may
speak to her as of old; tell her there is something noble in that domain
of human life where duties grow--something not only beyond but different
from Fashion, higher than dress or show. She understands you not.

"Hand her a bunch of violets. Does she learn their lesson with their
odor (which her dog scents as well as she)? Comes there to her the inner
meaning, the scent of the new-mown hay that speaks of past hours of
purity, of the fresh breeze that fanned her cheek in childhood's halcyon
days, the love of all things of the green earth and the sense of the
goodness of God which his flowers ever hold within their petals for
those who know their language? 'They will decorate me to-night for the
ball!' That is the be-all and the end-all of her ladyship's love for
flowers.

"Show her a picture with more of heaven than earth in it, and glimpses
of the light that never shone on sea or shore. If the artist be in
fashion she will call it 'pretty,' when it is grand. Give her music. Is
it the opera? Oh yes, she will attend. It is the fashion. But place
within her reach the soul-moving oratorio (with more religion in it than
in twenty sermons) or the suggestive symphony. No, a previous
engagement prevents. Why, just think of it--_one can't talk there!_ Yet
this woman could once play with feeling and sing with expression,
delighting her young companions. Of her one could truly say,

      "'Oh! to see or hear her singing! scarce I know which is
        divinest--
      For her looks sing too--she modulates her gestures on the tune;
      And her mouth stirs with the song, like song; and when the notes
        are finest,
      'Tis the eyes that shoot out vocal light, and seem to swell them
        on.'

And now she has fallen to this!"

"Has she children?" inquires the Good Spirit.

"No," says Fate, "we are not altogether relentless. How could we give
such a woman children and look you in the face? It is sometimes thought
necessary even to go as far as this, but in such cases we commend the
poor infants to the special care of the great Father, for mother they
have none. But look! there is a man now who did so pray for a son and
heir that we gave him one, and yonder goes the result. God in heaven!
why are men so rash in their blindness as to pray for anything! Surely
'Thy will be done' were best."

I am as bad as Sterne in his "Sentimental Journey," and will never get
on at this rate. I started to argue that the Fates were too kind instead
of not kind enough; at least, my air-castles have ever been mere toys
compared with the realities, for never did I dream, in my wildest days,
that the intended drive through Britain would assume the princely
proportions of a four-in-hand, crowded with a dozen of my dearest
friends. A modest phaeton or wagonette with a pair of horses was the
extent of my dream, but the Fairy sent me four, you see, and two friends
for every one I had pleased myself with imagining as sure to take the
journey with me.

  [Sidenote: _Embarkation._]

But now to a sober beginning of the story of the coach. It was in the
leafy month of June--the very first day thereof, however--in the year of
our Lord 1881, that the good ship Bothnia (Cunard Line, of course),
Captain McMicken (a true Scot and bold British sailor), steamed from the
future Metropolis of the World for the shores of Merrie England. She had
many passengers, but among them were eleven who outranked all others, if
their respective opinions of each other were to be accepted as the true
standard of judgment. I had received for many months before the sweetest
pleasure imaginable in startling first one and then another with
requests to report at headquarters, Windsor Hotel, New York, May 31st,
prepared to embark. It was on St. Valentine's Day that the Prima Donna
received a missive which caused her young heart to flutter. What a
pretty reply came! Here is a short extract:

      "Three months to dream of it; three months to live in it;
      and my whole lifetime afterward to think it over. I am the
      happiest girl alive, only sometimes I can't believe it's
      all going to happen."

To Davenport, Iowa, went another invitation. In due time came a return
missive from the proud City of the River:

      "Will I go to Paradise for three months on a coach? Agent
      of Providence, I will!"

Isn't it glorious to make one's friends so happy?

       *       *       *       *       *

      HARBOR OF NEW YORK, June 1, 1881.}
      On board Steamer Bothnia.        }

Call the roll.

Queen Dowager, Head of the Clan (no Salic Law in our family); Miss J. J.
(Prima Donna); Miss A. F. (Stewardess); Mr. and Mrs. McC. (Dainty
Davie); Mr. and Mrs. K. (Paisley Troubadours); Mr. B. F. V. (Vandy); Mr.
H. P., Jr. (Our Pard); Mr. G. F. McC. (General Manager); ten in all,
making, together with the scribe, the All-coaching Eleven.

Ting-a-ling-a-ling! The tears are shed, the kisses ta'en. The helpless
hulk breathes the breath of life. The pulsations of its mighty heart are
felt, the last rope that binds us to land cast off; and now see the
hundreds of handkerchiefs waving from the pier fading and fading away.
But note among the wavers one slight graceful figure; Miss C. of our
party, present in spirit if bodily absent on duty, much to the regret of
us all. The wavings from deck to shore tell our friends

          "how slow our souls sailed on,
      How fast our ship."

  [Sidenote: _On the Bothnia._]

The Bothnia turned her face to the east, and out upon old ocean's gray
and melancholy waste sailed the Gay Charioteers. As we steamed down the
bay three steamers crowded with the most enterprising of Europe's people
passed us, emigrants coming to find in the bounteous bosom of the Great
Republic the blessings of equality, the just reward of honest labor. Ah,
favored land! the best of the Old World seek your shores to swell to
still grander proportions your assured greatness. That all come only for
the material benefits you confer, I do not believe. Crowning these
material considerations, I insist that the more intelligent of these
people feel the spirit of true manhood stirring within them, and glory
in the thought that they are to become part of a powerful people, of a
government founded upon the born equality of man, free from military
despotism and class distinctions. There is a trace of the serf in the
man who lives contentedly in a land with ranks above him. One hundred
and seventeen thousand came last month, and the cry is still they come!
O ye self-constituted rulers of men in Europe, know you not that the
knell of dynasties and of rank is sounding? Are you so deaf that you do
not hear the thunders, so blind that you do not see the lightnings which
now and then give warning of the storm that is to precede the reign of
the people?

There is everything in the way one takes things. "Whatever is, is
right," is a good maxim for travellers to adopt, but the Charioteers
improved on that. The first resolution they passed was, "Whatever is, is
lovely; all that does happen and all that doesn't shall be altogether
lovely." We shall quarrel with nothing, admire everything and everybody.
A surly beggar shall afford us sport, if any one can be surly under our
smiles; and stale bread and poor fare shall only serve to remind us that
we have banqueted at the Windsor. Even no dinner at all shall pass for a
good joke. Rain shall be hailed as good for the growing corn; a cold day
pass as invigorating, a warm one welcomed as suggestive of summer at
home, and even a Scotch mist serve to remind us of the mysterious ways
of Providence. In this mood the start was made. Could any one suggest a
better for our purpose?

Now comes a splendid place to skip--the ocean voyage. Everybody writes
that up upon the first trip, and every family knows all about it from
the long descriptive letters of the absent one doing Europe.

When one has crossed the Atlantic twenty odd times there seems just
about as much sense in boring one's readers with an account of the trip
as if the journey were by rail from New York to Chicago. We had a fine,
smooth run, and though some of us were a trifle distrait, most of us
were supremely happy. A sea voyage compared with land travel is a good
deal like matrimony compared with single blessedness, I take it: either
decidedly better or decidedly worse. To him who finds himself
comfortable at sea, the ocean is the grandest of treats. He never fails
to feel himself a boy again while on the waves. There is an exultation
about it. "He walks the monarch of the peopled deck," glories in the
storm, rises with and revels in it. Heroic song comes to him. The ship
becomes a live thing, and if the monster rears and plunges it is akin to
bounding on his thoroughbred who knows its rider. Many men feel thus,
and I am happily of them, but the ladies who are at their best at sea
are few.

The travellers, however, bore the journey well, though one or two proved
indifferent sailors. One morning I had to make several calls upon
members below and administer my favorite remedy; but pale and dejected
as the patients were, not one failed to smile a ghastly smile, and
repeat after a fashion the cabalistic words--"Altogether lovely."

  [Sidenote: _The Atlantic._]

He who has never ridden out a hurricane on the Atlantic is to be pitied.
It seems almost ridiculous to talk of storms when on such a monster as
the Servia. Neptune now may "his dread trident shake" and only give us
pleasure, for in these days we laugh at his pretensions. Even he is fast
going the way of all kings, his wildest roar being about on a par with
the last Bull of the Pope, to which we listen with wonder but without
fear.

In no branch of human progress has greater advance been made within the
past twenty years than in ocean navigation by steam; not so much in the
matter of speed as in cost of transport. The Persia, once the best ship
of the Cunard Line, required an expenditure of thirty-five dollars as
against her successors' one dollar. The Servia will carry thirty-five
tons across the ocean for what one ton cost in the Persia. A revolution
indeed! and one which brings the products of American soil close to the
British shores. Quite recently flour has been carried from Chicago to
Liverpool for forty-eight cents (2_s._) per barrel. The farmer of
Illinois is as near the principal markets of Britain as the farmer in
England who grows his crops one hundred miles from his market and
transports by rail; and, in return for this, the pig-iron manufacturer
of Britain is as near the New York market as is his competitor on the
Hudson.

Some of the good people of Britain who are interested in land believe
that the competition of America has reached its height. Deluded souls,
it has only begun!

One cannot be a day at sea without meeting the American who regrets that
the Stars and Stripes have been commercially driven from the ocean. This
always reminds me of a fable of the lion and the turtle. The lion was
proudly walking along the shore, the real king of his domain, the land.
The turtle mocked him, saying, Oh, that's nothing, any one can walk on
land. Let's see you try it in the water. The lion tried. Result: the
turtle fed upon him for many days. America can only render herself
ridiculous by entering the water. That is England's domain.

      "Her home is on the mountain wave,
      Her march is o'er the deep."

  [Sidenote: _The American Navy._]

We are talking just now about building some ships for a proposed
American Navy, which is equivalent to saying that we are going to
furnish ships to the enemy, if we are ever foolish enough to have
one--for it takes two fools to wage war. Unless America resolves to
change her whole policy as a republic, teaching mankind the victories of
peace, far more renowned than those of war, and goes back to the ideas
of monarchical governments, she should build no ships of war; but if she
will leave her unique position among the nations, and step down to the
level of quarrellers, let her beat the navies of Britain and France, for
the ships of a weak naval power are the certain prey of the stronger in
time of war. In peace they are useless.

In thinking of the real glories of America, my mind goes first to
this--that she has no army worthy of the name, and scarcely a war ship
of whose complete inefficiency in case of active service we are not
permitted to indulge the most sanguine anticipations.

What has America to do following in the wake of brutal, pugilistic
nations still under the influence of feudal institutions, who exhaust
their revenues training men how best to butcher their fellows, and in
building up huge ships for purposes of destruction! No, no, let
monarchies play this game as long as the people tolerate it, but for the
Republic "all her paths are peace," or the bright hopes which the masses
of Europe repose in her are destined to a sad eclipse.

Travellers know the character and abilities of the men in charge of a
Cunard ship, but have they ever considered for what pittances such men
are obtained? Captain, $3,250 per annum; first officer, $1,000; second,
third, and fourth officers, $600. For what sum, think you, can be had a
man capable of controlling the ponderous machinery of the Servia? Chief
engineer, $1,250. You have seen the firemen at work down below, perhaps.
Do you know any work so hard as this? Price $30 per month. The first
cost of a steel ship--and it is scarcely worth while in these days to
think of any other kind--is about one-half on the Clyde what it is on
the Delaware. Steel can be made, and is made, in Britain for about one
half its cost here. Not in our day will it be wise for America to leave
the land. It is a very fair division, as matters stand--the land for
America, the sea for England.

       *       *       *       *       *

      FRIDAY, June 10, 1881.

  [Sidenote: _Ireland._]

Land ahoy! There it was, the long dark low-lying cloud, which was no
cloud, but the outline of one of the most unfortunate of lands--unhappy
Ireland, cursed by the well-meaning attempt of England to grow
Englishmen there. England's experience north of the Tweed should have
taught her better.

Conquerors cannot rule as conquerors a people who have parliamentary
institutions and publish newspapers; and neither of these can ever be
taken away from Ireland. They always come to stay. You may succeed in
keeping down slaves for a while, but then you must govern them as
slaves, and the Irish people have advanced beyond this. Just in
proportion as they do grow less like serfs and more like men, the
impossibility of England's governing Ireland must grow likewise. I hear
some Americans reproaching the Irish people for rioting and fighting so
much; the real trouble is they don't fight half enough. Take my own
heroic Scotland; let even Mr. Gladstone, one of ourselves and our best
beloved, send an Englishman as Lord Advocate to Scotland, and let him
dare pass a measure for Scotland in Parliament against the wishes of the
Scotch members, and all the uprisings in Ireland would seem like farces
to the thorough work Scotland would make of English interference. She
would not stand it a minute. Neither should Ireland. If she has the
elements of a great people within her borders, she will never submit. In
less than a generation Ireland can be made as loyal a member of the
British confederacy as Scotland is; and all that is necessary to produce
this is that she should be dealt with as England has to deal with
Scotland. Let the Emerald Isle, then, fight against the attempted
dominion of England, as Scotland fought against it, and may the result
be the same--that Ireland shall govern herself, as Scotland does, through
her own representatives duly elected by the people. "To this complexion
must it come at last," and the sooner the better for all parties
concerned.

We reached Liverpool Saturday morning. How pleasant it is to step on
shore in a strange land and be greeted by kind friends on the quay!
Their welcome to England counted for so much.

Mr. and Mrs. P. had been fellow passengers. A special car was waiting to
take them to London, but they decided not to go, and Mr. P. very kindly
placed it at the disposal of Mr. J. and family (who were, fortunately
for us, also fellow-passengers) and our party, so that we began our
travelling upon the other side under unexpectedly favorable conditions.

To such of the party as were getting their first glimpse of the
beautiful isle, the journey to London seemed an awakening from happy
dreams. They had dreamed that England looked thus and thus, and now
their dreams had come true. The scenery of the Midland route is very
fine, much more attractive than that of the other line.

The party spent from Saturday until Thursday at the Westminster Hotel,
in monster London, every one being free to do what most interested him
or her. Groups of three or four were formed for this purpose by the law
of natural selection, but the roll was called for breakfasts and
dinners, so that we all met daily and were fully advised of each other's
movements.

  [Sidenote: _House of Commons._]

The House of Commons claimed the first place with our party, all being
anxious to see the Mother of Parliaments. It is not so easy a matter to
do this as to see our Congress in session; but thanks to our friend Mr.
R. C. and to others, we were fortunate in being able to do so
frequently. Our ladies had the pleasure of being taken into the Ladies'
Gallery by one of the rising statesmen of England, Sir Charles Dilke, a
Cabinet Minister, and one who has had the boldness, and as I think the
rare sagacity, to say that he prefers the republican to the monarchical
system of government. The world is to hear of Sir Charles Dilke, if he
live and health be granted him, and above all, if he remain steadfast to
his honest opinions. So many public men in England "stoop to conquer,"
forgetting that whatever else they may conquer thereafter they never can
conquer that _stoop_; that "drags down their life"!

We really heard John Bright speak--the one of all men living whom our
party wished most to see and to hear. I had not forgotten hearing him
speak in Dunfermline, when I was seven years of age, and well do I
remember that when I got home I told mother he made one mistake; for
when speaking of Mr. Smith (the Liberal candidate) he called him a
_men_, instead of a _maan_. When introduced to Mr. Bright I was
delighted to find that he had not forgotten Dunfermline, nor the
acquaintances he had made there.

  [Sidenote: _Temperance._]

A grand character, that of the sturdy Quaker; once the best hated man in
Britain, but one to whom both continents are now glad to confess their
gratitude. He has been wiser than his generation, but has lived to see
it grow up to him. Certainly no American can look down from the gallery
upon that white head without beseeching heaven to shower its choicest
blessings upon it. He spoke calmly upon the Permissive Liquor Bill, and
gave the ministerial statement in regard to it. All he said was good
common sense; we could do something by regulating the traffic and
confining it to reasonable hours, but after all the great cure must come
from the better education of the masses, who must be brought to feel
that it is unworthy of their manhood to brutalize themselves