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American Native Press Archives and Sequoyah Research Center |
"An Oklahoman Abroad" from Sturm's Oklahoma Magazine (Jan. Feb 1911), A Selected Edition [a machine-readable transcription] |
By Carrie LeFlore Perry
By Carrie LeFlore Perry
Carrie LeFlore Perry was born about 1874 at Boggy Depot, Choctaw Nation, the daughter of Forbis LeFlore (Choctaw) and his third wife, Anne Marie Maurer, whose father, like Forbis LeFlore's, was born in France. LeFlore, a well-known and respected leader in the Choctaw Nation, served as superintendent of Choctaw schools, as a tribal judge, and as a representative for the Choctaw Nation in Washington. Marie LeFlore, according to family tradition, was the granddaughter of one of Napoleon's bodyguards. Carrie, the youngest child of their marriage, grew up in a cosmopolitan, Catholic household in which French was often spoken.
Carrie LeFlore was educated in the convent schools of the Sisters of the Sacred Heart, which were considered premier schools for well-bred young ladies. She first attended the Sacred Heart mission school in the Potawatomie reservation in Oklahoma Territory and later graduated from Maryville College in St. Louis.
In 1896, she married Adolphus Edward Perry, a Canadian-born entrepreneur, who was set on making his fortune in Indian Territory. As an intermarried white citizen of the Choctaw Nation, Perry could thereafter conduct business as any native Choctaw could. But as a permitted resident in the Choctaw Nation, he had already established himself in the business community by the time they married. Born in 1867, Perry had moved with his family at age twelve to Denison, Texas, where he obtained his early education, which was continued under the Jesuits at Montreal. He began his career as a "drummer," spending his vacations in the Indian Territory, where he made friends among influential people such as Douglas Johnston and the Colbert and Love families of the Chickasaw Nation; Robbert L. Owen of the Cherokee Nation; and Choctaws such as Green McCurtain, Peter Hudson, and Charles LeFlore, Carrie's half brother. In 1888 he moved to Atoka, Choctaw Nation, where he entered the general mercantile trade with his brother. After a year, the Perrys moved their business to Cottonwood, which later became Coalgate, where they continued in the mercantile trade and began mining coal. Apparently backed by his father, the contractor who had overseen construction of the Missouri, Kansas & Texas Railroad, Perry flourished. Except for a period after 1891, when he attended Holy Cross College in Worcester, Massachusetts, Perry remained at Coalgate until he and Carrie LeFlore married.
For a year after their marriage, Perry managed a ranch at Citra, Choctaw Nation, before returning to Coalgate, where he began to expand his enterprises. He remained in the mercantile business, developed his mining operations, and entered the real estate business. By 1905 he had amassed enough capital, influence, and confidence to offer the government $15 million for the segregated coal and asphalt lands of the Choctaw Nation, an offer the Secretary of the Interior refused.
The wealth amassed by Perry provided his wife with the life style of a typical well-to-do woman of the late Genteel Period. Always referring to herself as Mrs. A. E. Perry, she entertained, traveled frequently to St. Louis, Kansas City, or elsewhere to visit friends, and, with her mother, spent time at Lake Michigan to escape the heat of the summer months. After more than a decade of marriage, her husband said of her, "She is the loveliest and sweetest of women. We are very fond of each other and are exceedingly congenial. We are almost always together." And, he said, "She is very retiring and dislikes notoriety."
By the time he made these comments, Edward Perry was a well-known politician, whose own notoriety certainly eclipsed his wife's. As Oklahoma statehood approached, he had become active in Republican politics and had earned the nickname "Dynamite Ed" as a result of having tossed lighted sticks of dynamite from a moving excursion train to call attention to his political cause. In 1907 he served as chairman of the Oklahoma Republican Campaign Committee and the following year ran for chairman of the Oklahoma Republican Party. He lost but was rewarded with an appointment as vice-chairman. In the latter year, perhaps seeking relief from a difficult political season, Ed and Carrie Perry went on an extended tour of Europe. During their tour, Carrie wrote frequently to her mother, Anne Marie LeFlore, sometimes daily.
The Perrys remained in Coalgate until 1920. After a year in Texas, they moved to Oklahoma City, where Ed tried the real estate and oil businesses before becoming president of the Concho Sand and Gravel Company, which position he held until he retired. He had continued to dabble in politics until 1926, when he withdrew from the lieutenant governor's race because the state would not allow him to appear on the ballot as "Dynamite" Ed Perry. Throughout this period, Carrie Perry faded from public view. Ed died while they were on vacation in Colorado in 1939. She lived on until July 27, 1966, her life all but obscured from public view.
Despite her reticence, Carrie LeFlore Perry apparently had literary aspirations. As a student at Sacred Heart Mission, she had published a series of stories and narratives, for the most part related to Choctaw history and lore before Choctaw removal to the West. In 1905, she became a writer for the newly established Sturm's Oklahoma Magazine, publishing a piece on Choctaw and Chickasaw history. It was the publisher, O. P. Sturm, who in 1910 and 1911 published her 1908 series of letters to her mother as "An Oklahoman Abroad." Her last piece of writing, which appeared in 1928, was a biographical essay on her father, Forbis LeFlore.
After Sturm called her an Indian when he introduced the series of letters in 1910, he received expressions of surprise from Easterners "that she could have manifested such vivacity, enthusiasm and intelligence as mark her articles." Sturm answered one stereotypical view with another, apparently believing it necessary to denigrate her Choctaw heritage: "With her mother the daughter of one of Napoleon's ‘Old Guard,' and her father Col. Forbis Le Flore, youngest brother of the first governor of the Choctaws, is it any wonder that Mrs. A. E. Perry should find that she is dominated by the hot blood of the French, only to be bewitched now and again by the call of the wild, and again that she often arises to the heights of her dignity through her English ancestors?. . .Like a large per cent of her people in Oklahoma, Mrs. Perry's Indian blood is the smallest of the strains; but her French blood not only dominates her physically but intellectually, and both evidence a high degree of culture." In reality, much of Carrie LeFlore Perry's writing is typical of that done by tribal writers, especially women, of the Five Civilized Tribes during the closing years of the nineteenth and early decades of the twentieth centuries. Possessed of a romantic, nostalgic, patriotic attachment to the past, they set about writing the folklore and history of their tribes, the subjects of the largest number of Perry's published works. Thus "An Oklahoman Abroad" is the odd work among her writings.
Do you think this is truly your "little girl" who is on her way to Europe? I feel like Cinderella doubtless felt when she entered the coach, "mighty queer and somewhat unbelievin'."
I shall send a letter from the cities we visit and I promise to "do my best" to let you know if the reality equals the dream. As I do not remember to have included Chicago in my dreams, I shall pass her by.
We have decided to go by way of Niagara Falls and the St. Lawrence river to Quebec and there board the express. As we go the extreme northern route it will be cold; I am shivering in anticipation, think how glorious to freeze in warm sunshiny June.
Mother, how did we ever make our way in those awful streets? Is it possible that we, unassisted by man, actually found life enjoyable there? I am helpless. Ed pokes much fun at me but I care not, I cling to him! He declares I am "truly savage" hence my dislike to this hustling city.
This afternoon was spent shopping. As we were preparing to return to the hotel we saw a man struck by an auto. Of course we remained to see the "after doin's." Fortunately the man was very slightly injured but what a spectacle of abject fright he presented! I was disgusted, you expect a woman to do the "fainting Araminta" part, but a man should brace up.
I shall send this tonight as tomorrow we are off. I do not think I shall pine to return here, I like my ease too well. I like to make haste slowly.
It is good to know that in your dear heart, absence cannot dim the fire of love.
We are really beginning our journey! I am so elated that I simply must write to you, although writing aboard a train was never my best. This train is in a hurry, going at an unholy pace and to my sorrow, the scenery is being whisked past at greater speed than a moving picture show, therefore I cannot truthfully state I am enraptured. We have just passed Michigan City[1], with its mountains of white sand, "Hoosier slide." The train obligingly remained at a standstill for at least three minutes and we dashed madly out, gazed, and rushed back. From the porter I learned that the sand is piled two hundred feet high, and is owned by the U.S. government. What a delightful place for children to play! I am going to curl up in a seat and dream in this growing twilight.
How would you like to be here in this Mecca of lovers, the true honeymoon city? We arrived here early this morning almost earlier than even old Gabriel would care to blow his trumpet, and after finding a suitable hotel we started out merrily to view the mighty falls, even my voluble French blood found not a word to express my feelings. I stood there entranced, listening to the voices of the gods. I heard their silver, sweet calling, calling, every calling, beneath the wild waves of sound and I know why many have cast themselves into the foaming water. They heard the voices and could not resist.
Tell the boys, Auntie has been in Rainbow Land, and yet missed the pot of gold! We went on this wonderful journey in a little boat, the "Maid of the Mist."[2] Ed declares she must be an old maid, as he trod her decks many, many years ago, but what of that? She rode the waves quite youthfully. We were enveloped in rubber by a very obliging lad, and then sought a chair on the deck. We plunged through the blinding spray and were soon within Rainbow Land! Such a cruel rainbow, it tossed our little Maid again and yet again until I was so sick I could hardly watch the colors come and go; just as I felt the ride on that particular rainbow was too rich, we fell off and then mounted another! Oh, yes, it was beautiful beyond expression but I would have enjoyed it far more had we been less buffeted by the waves. The reason I missed the gold was because when we were at the proper place I was too seasick to grab it!
The woods are so beautiful, we have walked miles and miles I know, and at every turn we found the water rushing, ever rushing. Does it never tire?
Surely the Great Spirit must have created the falls to over-awe the souls of men. I am sending you a descriptive pamphlet of the trolley ride, now one of the features of the resort. Following the advice of a friend, we crossed and went down the Canadian side and up the American. Why do they think it necessary to make this magic place useful? Surely a little beauty that "toils not, neither doth it spin" would not be amiss in this too prosaic world of ours.
Do you recall a tale of my father's, running thus:
Long, long years ago, just as the warm winds from the Southland kissed the flowers into radiant beauty, the Great Spirit sent his angel and bore away the soul of the young bride of a chieftain of our clan. In the sighing breezes, in the waving grasses, in the nodding flowers from dawn until dusk, from dusk into day, he heard her voice calling, every calling: "Follow, follow me." Unable longer to bear the agony he besought his people to release him from duty that he might seek the voice. With sad misgivings, the permission was granted and the young lover-husband began his quest of days, weeks and months over hill and dale, ever hearing the silvery "follow, follow me." At last a day dawned in autumn splendor and he stood beside the roaring waters of the great fall. He bent to listen; hark, clearer and every clearer, high and sweet above the awful roar: "Come, my beloved, oh come; here at last is rest." One eager look, one plunge and the beplumed warrior found his bride! When the marvelous joy of this place unfolded itself to me this day, I no longer wondered that the over-wrought, untutored soul thought that here he would find her with the gods.
As the car wound in and out, following the canyon, now we saw the foaming hissing water, madly falling over gigantic rocks in its haste to reach the sea; again it flowed calmly, sanely, as if it was pleased to dally between frowning banks; again it paused to retrace its steps, and then as if in anger at the delay, churning, boiling, raging in its wrath, it leaps high in the air, and tumbling, twisting like a mad thing, returns again to its seaward course.
One must be a dreamer of dreams, mother mine, to see the true beauty of this place, and then the gods let its true grandeur sink so deeply within your soul one aches with the anguish of it, yet it is given to but few to express the visions vouchsafed. I am not one. I can only throb with the glory of it, and sob with the pain!
Did I ever complain of the cold? Well Heaven forgive me, for now I must cry out against the heat, that even the night does not drive away! Oh, for only a little breeze; the nights in Oklahoma are cool. An amusing incident occurred at our table this evening; a foreign gentleman and his wife were striving to make the ebon-hued waiter comprehend that they wished dinner served in courses; he, not knowing how to serve, a la American, in many little dishes!
After a very unsatisfactory repast of which they expressed their opinion in voluble French, thus giving much pleasure to Ed, they left the dining room, disgusted with American ways. As we now had the undivided attention of the waiter, Ed casually inquired, "Pretty hard time you were having, John. What was the trouble?" " ‘Fore Gawd, mister, but I never seed such orderin' one thing at a time, clean plate, knife and fork every time! Them furriners don't know nothin'."
In a very few days we will be "furriners"; what will be the verdict of the waiters over there?
A very peaceful day, truly a Sabbath; the divine service in the little church overshadowed by giant trees was so restful. I enjoyed the sermon very much. We were greatly amused when the contribution box was passed, for a man accompanied the collector and appeared to record amount placed therein! Ed whispered he was the auditor. If the congregation is no more blessed with worldly goods than one I know in the far West, that auditor is not needed. We have spent the afternoon strolling leisurely about the little islands and enjoyed the glimpses of honey-mooners who, thinking themselves hidden, have betrayed their newness to matrimony. Ed teases me, because I insist that I am glad that we leave here tomorrow morning, but I am so weary of the "ever-never" of the water I cannot rest, for its ceaseless roar unnerves me. Just suppose that Indian ancestor of mine should rise up and beckon! Do not be uneasy. I'll wager my French blood would come gallantly to the rescue, with, "Pardon, monsieur, I dare not intrude."
Good night, mother mine, it is almost as hot as my idea of Hades, but I shall "woo sweet slumber."
1. Michigan City is on the shores of Lake Michigan in Indiana. Nearby are dunes of white sand built up by wave, ice and wind actions.
2. "Maid of the Mist" boats have been in operation at Niagara Falls since 1846 with tours leaving both the United States and Canadian side of the falls. It has the distinction of being the oldest tourist attraction in North America. Mrs. Perry and her husband took the tour of the falls on the American side.
Out of the United States! We passed across the lake from Lewiston to Toronto and finding a couple of hours at our disposal, we proceeded to "do" the town. I cannot say it is especially interesting; it is clean and hustling, but too much like an American city to please me. You see, I am looking for the old, the beautiful and the picturesque, not the new and practical. The night was so cool I slept like a child and awoke at five-thirty ready to enjoy the Thousand Islands. I think a picture of an openmouthed rustic and a whole row of exclamation points would give you a better idea of my state this morning than words. Island after island, bearing homes of splendor, then dear little wooded spots with an unpretentious cottage peeping from the trees; again, a monster club house and magnificent grounds, just one continuous picture of homes and places of pleasure. Many of the houses crowning the islands were such monster affairs the lawns were lost in the river! Do they have babies in those homes? If so, how do they keep them out of the water? Ed chuckled with pleasure over the mental picture of you, on a little pocket-handkerchief lawn, with those irrepressible boys, in a wild endeavor to keep them out of the St. Lawrence!
The early morning light added to the magic beauty of the scene, yet I shall be disappointed if the Rhine is not more entrancing.
The castles are too new, the homes do not show the caress of time; it is like our entire country, great and beautiful, but so new, so palpably new. We were from six to ten-thirty passing through this wonderful bit of the St. Lawrence, and like unto children, we were quite sure the island of the moment was the most fair.
We were told that there were 1,642 in all, and I do not doubt the statement after this morning. Leaving Prescott where we changed to a smaller boat, we were soon passing the numerous rapids. They increased in wonder until the Lachine Rapids were entered, and there we were truly amazed! A lady friend had informed me that I would be greatly disappointed with the rapids, as they were very peaceful, like unto soap bubbles! My comment is this: I would not wish that brand of soap turned loose in my vicinity if I were boating. Do you recall the legend of the Indian, who, for telling a lie, was doomed by the Great Spirit to ever wander by streams with his canoe upon his back in a fruitless search for a place to launch it? I wonder if he ever tried the Lachine Rapids? If he did I'll venture the Great Spirit had to hurry to save man and canoe. When we reached Cornwall, we found the bridge had fallen, blocking the canal, and learned our boat would be the last to Montreal for several days. You see the vessels go down the river but up the canal, because of the rapids. I am so thankful we did not miss our river trip.
We are staying at a quaint old hotel, in the French part of the city, very near the cathedral where Ed was christened. You need a guide in the hotel; it is a succession of up you go and down you come! There is an air of age and an odor too, about the rooms and corridors. We were told the present King[1] stayed here, when he visited Canada as Prince of Wales, and I feel sure there has been little change since then! We have a monster apartment lined with mirrors and such massive furniture I feel oppressed. I tried to find the office before commencing this letter, and landed in an unknown hall. Seeing a chambermaid I inquired the way to the elevator, and was told something like this: Up two stairs, around a corner, down three steps, a long corridor, up three, then up two, across a hall, and enter the elevator and I would soon find myself opposite the office! I appreciated her directions but begged her to escort me to room 45 as I would defer the excursion until my husband returned.
I wish I could find my way to the hall of the lion; it is rather exciting to press a button, see the monster tongue loll out, and then a stream of ice water. Would not the boys drink to repletion?
Mother, Ed came in just as I was finishing the above paragraph, and with his assistance I found the lion and also enjoyed a street car ride. Today we have been "sight-seeing." Right here I wish to say that Ed would be a capital guide, he will even sacrifice truth to interest if he is not sure of his data. You would never suspect it, but I have a lurking suspicion that I have been told many dream tales, although what of it? May not a man romance of his home city? The very first thing we did was to make our way across the historic Place D'Armes Square into the old cathedral. It is a place of shadows, where prayer comes easily to the heart; beneath the giant crucifix of our Lord thereon, the soul is melted with tenderness.
I did so wish to examine the records and see his name there, as a tiny infant, but we were too early, and later in the day we would be elsewhere. We had decided to have breakfast in the Café A--, where Ed assured me the delicacies offered were beyond compare, and the room a little palace. Ah, the eyes of childhood! When we entered the small place, Ed with a twinkle said: "My dear, this place has grown smaller; I assure you it used to be the size of the cathedral!" Dear old café, perhaps it had seen better days; I know I have never seen a poorer breakfast. I drank to the King, in a cup of awful liquid called English Breakfast tea. Heaven pity the subjects of King Edward if they drink that decoction frequently! After a most unsatisfactory repast Ed said: "Now we will buy the very finest peppermints in the world; the kind I used to eat." Alas for the dreams of childhood, the candy was the "last straw." When we reached the street it was my turn and I said, "Let us buy presidents at a baker shop, you know dear, the kind you used to buy in old Montreal." You see I was determined to finish the "dream" right then and there. Cruel of me, I hear you say? Do believe me, that pastry was delicious, the very best every; I shall urge all my friends to visit Montreal and eat "Presidents." We walked on old Bleury Street to the Jesuit College where his young ideas were encourage to burst into bloom, and there I met an old priest who knew Ed as a boy, and had the pleasure (?) of teaching him. He assured me that Ed's ideas were always ready to bloom and ofttimes the flowers were startling.
No one feared he would die early because of his angelic goodness, but they often expected him to enter the pearly gates in a violent manner. He was permitted to lead me through his former class room, recreation room, and out-door play grounds; it was quite interesting to see the places and hear his animated tales of old school days.
From the College to Mount Royal on the cars it is but a little time, and there we were high above the city, enjoying the wondrous panorama. Ed pointed out all the historic houses and thus I have learned my Montreal fairly well, even if here but a day. This is a city of churches and charitable institutions, if we had more time we would surely visit many of them; I am not fully content with a "bird's eye view." When we returned to the hotel, while I rested Ed went out to see a college chum who is now a dignified attorney; he must have had a jolly time as he was quite late returning to the hotel for me, and our little excursion to the Convent of the Ladies of the Sacred Heart[2] was begun as the afternoon was almost ended.
The trolley ride was so cool and through such fine country I was rather sorry when the convent cross appeared. Madame K.,my old teacher, gave us welcome and showed us the many beauties of the place. It was such a comfort to talk with dear Madam, I felt that she was truly interested in all that concerned me. After a pleasant hour, we turned our faces towards Montreal; the lamps were glowing when we reached the city and thus our pleasure was enhanced, it lies so quaint and queer under the gleaming lights. After a dinner--not at the Café A.--we strolled along the streets of the French town and Ed aired his mother-tongue with the many children scampering here and there in the joys of hide and seek. Thus ends our day in Montreal; we are true birds of passage, in twenty minutes we leave for Quebec, and until then you will have peace.
1. King Edward VII was the King of England at this time. Edward VII ruled England upon the death of his mother, Queen Victoria, in 1901 until 1910.
2. Mrs. Perry had been educated at one of the convent schools run by the Ladies of the Sacred Heart. These schools were noted for their education for young women.
We arrived here at the early hour of six-thirty, entered a cab and were driven up, up, almost to heaven! The streets were in gala attire, banners of the saints hanging everywhere. We just missed the religious celebration in honor of the ter-centenary of Quebec. In the morning light the ancient city looked her best, and the drive to the Chateau Fontenac was filled with interest. There is a magnificent hotel built on the site of Chateau St. Louis, of historic associations. There is nothing ancient about this hostelry. It is a place of beautiful nooks and corners, wide spaces and sunshine. Far below lies the old town, and high above frowns the famous citadel.
The Dufferin Terrace, two hundred feet above the St. Lawrence, is the pride of Quebec, and here you see the beauty and chivalry ever promenading. We followed it for quite a distance, then I desired to reach the top of the fortress crowned rocks that we retraced our steps, and finding a street car, were soon at our goal. The view is beyond description, and had I not felt time was passing we would have lingered there for hours. Of course we were on the heights of Abraham, where Wolf died and Montcalm was mortally wounded. Do you remember as a child I used to be disconsolate because I knew not which hero I should mourn--whether I should rejoice with the English or weep with the French? Well, Dear, I felt just the same this sunshiny morn.
The street car rides are delightful; you are in such unexpected places, now in a broad, modern thoroughfare, and then into a tiny street where children, chickens, dogs and cats scamper into doorways to escape the car, which I assure you fully occupies the street and even extends over the narrow sidewalk. Ed was determined that I should visit the fish market. I cannot say I desired it, but of course I followed him. The place was filled with queer fish and I am glad I saw it, yet I shall not visit another. It is too "smelly" for me.
As we were turning down a little street, not far from the market, Ed saw a sign, "Dressmaking," and shouted: "Hurrah, come on, C.; this is where we get your dress altered." To explain, Mother, my suit in which I expected to travel all over Europe came from the maker too large and I did not have time to have it made smaller, and this appeared to Ed, "the time, the place and the woman."
We entered the shop and a French lady of imposing dimensions assured him that her time was fully occupied, but that she knew of a seamstress who would gladly effect the change. We were to go up one block, then turn north, walk two, and half way of the next block we would see a stairway, walk up, and there we would find her. We started. The street was like the road to heaven, narrow, steep, and beset with pitfalls. We boldly opened the outer wicket of the stairway into a dark passage, age old, up a flight, into Stygian blackness and the odor of the grave. I saw a door on a little landing and knocked. Hearing a voice, I opened, and imagine my consternation when I caught a glimpse of a man and woman seemingly engaged in preparing dinner. The man turned a scowling face and I quickly closed the door, caught Ed's hand and pulled him helter skelter down the musty, dusty stair into God's sunlight. My dress shall await a London tailor. We hailed a cab and drove to the city walls, and into all sorts of nooks and corners. After luncheon we decided to take a car for Montmorency Falls and the shrine of St. Anne de Beaupre. The Falls are exquisite, so foamy and milky white. We were told they were far higher than Niagara, but they are not so awe-inspiring--you can laugh and chatter without feeling that you are misbehaving in church. We entered a cage and were drawn to the plateau above the falls where we drank tea on the veranda of Kent House, once the home of the grandfather of Edward VII. and wandered at will in the zoological garden kept up there by the big fur establishments of Quebec.
The water power is utilized for many purposes. You see the spirit of commercialism is even invading this delightful spot. We barely caught the car to St. Anne's we remained so long. The little French villages nestling beside the hills, with the river flowing peacefully towards the sea, are very picturesque. The houses are all of the same type, be they old or new, just as much alike as peas in a pod, all with dormer windows and an outside stairway. The farms are so tiny not like a farm out our way. In Oklahoma a tenant would expect you to allow him that amount of land rent free, for a garden.
The place of the shrine is a village with an air of the medieval ages. The chapel is ancient, but the Basilica with its twin towers and colossal statue of St. Anne, is of comparatively recent date. Such faith as is evinced here! How can it be, in this material age of ours? I knew of St. Anne's, but I never conceived of anything like unto this. We talked long with the priest in charge and he told us of cures at which we marveled greatly. It is a place of many miracles, judged by the number of crutches, canes, etc., left by cured supplicants.
Oh, dear, we are hurried. Hardly do we become fairly interested when we must move on. We did not reach the city until nightfall and thus once more enjoyed a Canadian twilight. Glimpses of the inhabitants engaged in evening chores, laughing children, green fields, and the lights on the river gave to all an air most enthralling. Surely this must be like your beloved France, for it is not English nor American.
This evening we have witnessed a Canadian political celebration, watched a procession, listened to speeches and enjoyed the music.
The city is brilliantly illuminated and Dufferin Terrace is aglow with handsomely gowned women. I do not feel that I could have done dear, dear old Quebec even scant justice, and I could find it in my heart to wish the boat did not sail so soon. We are going to the Empress in a caleche,[1] so, as Ed declares I may have a foretaste of a ship at sea. Mother, I have your last letter to solace me when I am far from my "ain countree" but oh, dear, I do feel such a clutch at my heart when I think of the vast sea so soon to separate us. --Why can we not have pleasure without pain?
Good night and good-bye until we land on the shores of Albion. Can you wait that long?
June 26--Off at last! We came early to the vessel and were comfortably settled before we left Quebec. Our state rooms leave nothing to be desired. Ed says we have 1,910 passengers aboard; would be quite a large town in Oklahoma. Little book, do you think I'll often write on your nice white pages?
27th--Away out somewhere on the broad bosom of the St. Lawrence. We anchored at Rimouski[1] for twelve hours awaiting the mail. I am feeling a little queer; surely I am not to be ill on this placid river?
28th--Sunday, up at seven-thirty. I am feeling like a new person. Assisted at mass this morning at ten-thirty; now I am writing this in a sheltered nook away up stairs. It is very, very cold. We are passing the bleak coast of Labrador, and whales and icebergs are enchanting all of us. The sun shining on the wonderful masses of ice renders them like fairy castles. I am feeling very, very dizzy.
11 P.M. --My wife is very ill, but wishes this little book kept up. Sea a little rough. What should I put in here?
29th--Doctor here to see my wife; high fever; feed her chipped ice all the time! Phew! I am freezing; glad I am not obliged to eat this ice. Wish I had my winter clothes. Poor little woman, the sea is not kind to her.
30th--I am uneasy, wife very ill, begging to go home. This voyage not turning out well.
July 1st --Thank goodness. Wife is better, fever gone. Sea very smooth. Day very long, not dark at eleven and day at three. Always something doing, but I have been too much occupied to enjoy myself.
2nd--Hurrah! Wife much better. Land will surely complete the cure. Saw whales today, many porpoises and thousands of ducks. Heavy fog off north coast of Ireland; ship delayed several hours.
July 3rd--Wife spent miserable night, but the sight of land this morning helped her greatly. We are nearing Liverpool. I have my wife ready to leave. She is very weak, but insists upon leaving for London on the fast express at three-thirty. We land at one-thirty.
Good bye, old ocean; you are grand, but I know someone who does not love you.
1. Rimouski is a city on the south shore of the St. Lawrence.
I enclose you a page from my note book to explain why I do not enthuse concerning the ocean. I know for my punishment in purgatory I will be tossed for years and years on a stormy sea!
How beautiful the coast of England and what a desirable city Liverpool appeared. To be candid, I think a desert island would have been to me a bit of paradise, I so longed for solid earth beneath my feet. How we did rush to get off on the three-thirty express only to learn later that another train left at four o'clock. Ed succeeded in convincing an inspector that it would be a splendid thing for him to get busy; then he grabbed a porter who grabbed the trunks and we made a rush for the train; I was thrown aboard, Ed jumped after, but the porter was too slow. Ed tossed him a bit of silver, yelled, "London," and we were gone. I was quite sure I had seen the last of my possessions, but the guard assured us that the trunk would reach London thirty minutes after our arrival. And so it did. Can you imagine a bit of baggage being so transported in our country, if left in the hands of an unknown? You do not check over here, just toss it in the van labeled your destination, and claim it when you reach that place. I think our system better, but of course they could not change over here.
I was too weak from my long fast to enjoy the scenery had the speed of the train permitted. As it was we rushed through the green fields of England so rapidly that I almost shared the fears of the American who wished the train to slow down before it ran off the pesky little island. We awaited the next train from Liverpool, claimed our baggage, and with it tucked away were driven rapidly to this hotel. We are conveniently located under the shadows of Westminster Abbey; the very heart of historic London; within a few blocks of Buckingham palace and not far from Regent street. From my window I look into the dearest little garden beside an ivy-covered church, and Big Ben booms for me the hours.
I was very hungry, but in the dining room were so many gorgeous gowns I could hardly find time to eat. Such low necked frocks, Mother, I was honestly surprised, although I have always heard of the vast expanse exposed to view. Candidly, some of them could have been rendered only by removing the belt. I can understand why a woman would show a beautiful neck and shoulders but a skinny neck and a knotted backbone is beyond my idea of the fitness of things.
This morning we arose with the lark, only to find we were decidedly unique. Even the elevator boy was not on duty. We were afterwards informed the hotel is not officially awake until eight o'clock.
We found Victoria street wrapped in sleep, not a café open, although Big Ben proclaimed the hour of six-thirty. A couple of policemen eyed us suspiciously as we walked towards Westminster Abbey. Our first view of England's pride was thus obtained in the early morning light, when the sun had not yet dispersed all the shadows of night. Beyond loomed the Houses of Parliament, making a picture to carry with one a lifetime, and even after. I confess I breathed in exclamation points and my thoughts tumbled over each other in their mad effort to obtain the recognition. Ed removed his hat and whistled in the intensity of his feelings. Not being able to whistle, I could not thus relieve my wrought-up self. We walked and walked, always finding a more entrancing view. I wished to sit on the curbing and meditate, but Ed declared the two policemen were following and would surely run us in.
We crossed the Thames and gazed from the other side, looked up the river and down. It was worth the early rising to get such a glorious impression of this modern Babylon. We loitered until the sun was high and the increasing traffic assured us London was awake.
We found a little café just at the foot of the bridge on the Parliament House side of the river. The waiter appeared surprised, but hastened to seat us in the yet empty room with many a "thank you."
Oh, for a cup of uncolored Japan tea! I am so tired of this cloying English Breakfast, I would just as soon drink coffee. Westminster Abbey is not open to the public until about ten o'clock so we decided a bus ride would fill in the time. The great double-deck affairs are queer and antiquated, but oh, so comfortable away on top, and such a fine place from which to view the houses and streets. I know I shall contract the bus habit. We sat next to the driver and a bit of silver turned him into a most affable guide, with an interesting accent.
Down the Strand into Fleet street. I cannot describe that ride as I should; I am too English, you know. A penny will take you quite a distance, but in America you can ride much farther for less money, as the conductor collects a penny here when you have traversed a certain number of miles. We are just becoming acquainted in a business way with this money and it is not easy counting. Why does England use such a complicated system? When the conductor approached with "tup-pence, thank you, sir," Ed looked at me, and I returned the look, then he drew out a handful of copper cart wheels and gravely remarked in approved western style, "Stranger, you look honest to me, help yourself." The conductor with equal solemnity selected a large copper and said, "Thank you, sir, this is tup-pence." Then and there Ed had him give him a lesson in the value of the money and I know a tiny bit more than I did before.
The word circus over here does not denote a show or collection of wild animals, but it is used where many streets center. Thus Piccadilly circus and Ludgate circus are places where several streets begin or end. At Ludgate circus we left our accommodating driver and climbed aboard another bus returning to Victoria street. The conductor thanked us for entering his car, the driver thanked us for a coin, and we thanked Providence for the day, so we were quite a thankful party.
I cannot tell you very much of our homeward trip, if ever I am to reach the Abbey. Ed says I must tell you of how I tried to hurl myself off the bus when the "thank you" driver said: "Downing street, sir, thank you." He declares that but for his timely aid I would have been rolling wildly towards the home of the Prime Minister.
The very names of the streets bring up such visions of the past the present is often obscured. Trafalgar Square looked so familiar to me. Even the lions were as old friends, and I could hardly believe that was my first introduction to the square and to them. The murky city is gay with blossoms. From the strange little iron balconies hang magnificent vines and pots of gorgeous bloom are everywhere. The glimpses of the parks made me long for more--the grass so green, the flowers so brilliant, so fragrant.
This is the Fourth of July, and from the number of flags seen there are many Americans in London. From the United States headquarters on Victoria street, Old Glory is floating in the breeze and from every corner peeps a tiny emblem. I cannot believe this is the Fourth; where are the fireworks and the orators?
Westminster Abbey was wide open, and many passing in and out. The main body of the edifice is free to the people, but a small fee is charged for admission to the chapels and royal tombs. You know with what a spirit of reverence I trod those aisles, hallowed by the dust of heroes, saints, poets, kings and queens. All my days I had dreamed of this hour. We walked slowly, not as tourists, but as if we had the leisure of years to view it all. In the poet's corner we loitered until a glance at my watch made me exclaim, "Oh, Ed, let us hasten to enter the chapels." One guide, a clergyman, I presume, from his attire, was a very encyclopedia but his voice sorely lacerated my nerves. Do you know I had fully believed the tale that all English voices are pleasing, and my very first day I am listen to one far worse than any I have heard in Yankeeland.
Elizabeth and Mary await here the judgment day. I am glad to say their bones are in different chapels, hence perhaps they can escape that final meeting face to face. I wonder if Elizabeth knows Mary has the finer place of repose?[1] Poor old Cromwell's tomb is vacant. He could usurp a throne but not a grave beside kingly dead, and he waits the resurrection, heaven only knows where! The tomb of Edward the Confessor is said to rest upon earth from the Holy Land. I wonder if his sleep is sweeter because of it? After viewing tombs of great men and women, of kings and queens who were not at all great, it is like finding a blossom in a crowded, dusty street to come upon the tombs of the little Princes of the Tower and the babes of James the First. Dean Stanley very appropriately named this Innocent's Corner.
The coronation chair and the stone of Scone greatly interested Ed, and he asked if Jacob had left a sign on the stone whereby they were sure of its authenticity. The clergyman was rather inclined to be indignant, but Ed looked so innocent he answered his question at length, being convinced that a true desire for information prompted it. From what I heard Jacob neglected to send his autograph down the ages. From the chapel we passed to the great cloister and walked over the grave of many an abbot of the ages when Roman Catholicism swayed England. Only the prosaic pangs of hunger and the thoughts of another day drew us from the open pages of history.
At lunch we discovered that bread and butter does not accompany a meat order. Indeed, there is a fixed fee for everything except the tip, and even that is regulated for an Englishman, but for the American is just so large as the waiter can by his look induce you to make it. We also found that ice water is not an usual beverage over here, and you can only obtain it by rising in wrath. Then you are labeled by the waiter as a crazy American. Even the beer is served lukewarm. Will you try to imagine that dose?
The afternoon found us occupying a bus seat on the way to the general post office. I hugged your letter to my heart. It was like a bit of your mothering; a glimpse of your face. We were on Cheapside, historic Cheapside, and I was determined to go further to the church of St. Mary le Bow and listen to the bells saying "turn again, Dick Whittington, thrice Lord Mayor of London." The new chimes are said to be the old metal recast after the great fire. I am sure they ring out the self-same words of encouragement to the youth of London if they would listen.
We only indulged in a little glimpse of St. Paul's; by the time we reached it the afternoon had almost slipped away, but we shall go another day and offer homage to the shades of Nelson and Wellington. At five o'clock we were being jostled by the crowds on Cheapside, buying useless toys and fragrant roses. Beside a fountain congregate the flower girls with numberless blooms. Ed bought until my arms were laden and I was intoxicated by their dewey sweetness.
At last we pulled ourselves from fascinating Cheapside and for a change entered a bus going on Regent street. A nice English rain was falling. How could Kipling call it "the blasted Henglish drizzle?" We rode quite a distance and truly enjoyed it. After dinner, to finish this strenuous first day in London, Ed suggested the Franco-British Exposition. By this hour the rain was descending in torrents; and we mounted the bus, wrapped in oil covers provided by the thoughtful company, opened umbrellas and proceeded to enjoy London at night-time in a pouting rain. The streets were gleaming, slippery things and a haze enveloped all. The exposition is doubtless beautiful, but did not show up well in the rain. The illuminations were poor. We returned on the "tup-penny tube," which is English for subway. I am so tired I am falling asleep over this. Good night, dear. What will Sunday in England be like?
Sunday--Now I can answer my question of last night. It is a day of rest, a calm, peaceful, church bell ringing and church going, too, if the crowds entering the places of worship in this vicinity are a fair average. We learned this day that in England the established church is called Catholic, and we are only Roman Catholics. A kind clergyman informed us of this and then directed us to the Roman Catholic Westminster Cathedral. We reached there in time for a high mass with many dignitaries of the church, in cloth of gold, filling the sanctuary. The choir was divine. How can such little terrors as boys usually are make such angelic music? The cathedral will be magnificent some day; at present it is only massive. There are no pews. You can, if you wish, use a chair. At the entrance two boys stood shaking tin boxes and calling in a dead level voice, "pitty pen, pitty pen." After careful consideration I decided that they thought they were saying "Peter's pence." After mass we walked over to the Westminster Abbey hoping to enter and thus get a glimpse of the Episcopal ministers now in convention here, but there was not even standing room inside. So we stood with many others on the square and awaited the dispersing of the congregation. The clergymen were a fine body of men, and if a good appearance and well-doing go hand in hand, England should be proud of them.
This afternoon we rode for hours and hours, changing from bus line to bus line as the fancy willed. If I had not been accustomed to long drives over rough roads in Oklahoma, I suppose these cobble stones would have finished me. We reached the Oratory on Brompton Roads just in time for the four o'clock sermon. The church is a credit to English Catholics and of course they are proud of it. Ed induced the sacristan to give us two rosaries. I am keeping mine for you, dear. We managed to enter the Abbey for even-song and found the music simply grand. The sermon may have been excellent, but as the voice of the speaker did not reach us, we soon left and sought a place to dine. We had another struggle for ice water and when Ed told the "thank you" man to bring a second glass, he could hardly conceal his astonishment. Ed says he arraigned us far more severely than were the "furriners" at Niagara Falls. The waiter was talking in French with the head waiter and took it for granted that "American" was our only tongue.
I wish you could taste the water cress over here, it is simply delicious; indeed, I can complain of nothing except the tea. Mother, I am going to bed this very moment and dream I lived when all maidens were fair and knights were brave.
Monday--Mother, do we appear changed this day? We should, for we are no longer lone Oklahomans, we are nice little "Cookies," ready to "do Europe" and thus be "crisp brown Cookies" in a few short weeks. Ed asked me if I would object to a continental tour with a party, and of course I did not. You know Ed loves mankind and would never wish to be alone; then, again, I believe he wishes to escape responsibility.
He met an American yesterday who told a woeful tale of his travels while on the Continent with wife and daughter. His days were chiefly spent in hunting baggage, buying tickets, looking up trains, securing guides, etc. Ed immediately decided to shift his burden to the shoulders of Thomas Cook and Sons. We joined them at Antwerp Thursday and follow just about the same route we had planned
We have arranged to leave the party at Mayence and proceed alone to St. Croix, your birthplace, and rejoin them at Bale. Do you know I wish we could have visited your village first, Mother, as I shall always be thinking of that and perhaps miss a little of the beauty of the trip.
After leaving Cook's office we sought the gates of Buckingham palace to await the outgoing of the king. We had heard he held a levee at St. James at the hour of eleven-forty and would leave Buckingham in semi-state. Finding ourselves opposite the entrance to the royal stables Ed decided to ask several questions of the man at the gate. We learned that permission from Lord Somebody would enable us to view the horses. Ed assured the man that Lord--would be only too glad to give us the order but we did not have the time at our disposal to visit him.
Fearing the crowd would be large, we early made our way to the main entrance and stood beside a giant policeman on the very front row. With his usual skill Ed soon had the bluecoat chatting amicably. As he did not appear to wear a pistol, Ed could not resist asking him where he carried it. Imagine our surprise when he pulled it from his trousers leg. Ed told him how western men kept it in a handier place. The man smiled a British smile and said: "Has 'ow I doubt 'is drawin' hit quicker than me."
He was sure his way was best, for have not British policemen always carried it thus? At last the coach containing Edward VII. appeared. There was little demonstration, but when he passed us he knew at least one man was glad to see him. Ed waved his hat wildly and shouted: " Hurrah for King Edward," in true Oklahoma style, and His Majesty gave him a broad smile and a bow. I was disappointed at the lack of enthusiasm shown, and when the queen appeared on a little balcony, and not a voice raised to salute her, I could hardly credit my ears and eyes. I asked the policeman if the lady was really the queen. He assured me she was. Then I asked: "Why do not the people cheer her? At home a crowd like this would make the heavens tremble with their wild hurrahs." He replied, without a movement of his face, "So hi 'ave 'eard," then contemptuously added--"hover 'ere we would run 'em hin hif they made such noises." It is their business, yet I wish I could inoculate these people with a little American "hip, hip, hurrah!"
We lunched in a café where they cater to middle class English customers, not to tourists. The prices were lower; we did not enjoy the cooking nor the serving. This afternoon we devoted to exploring the shopping district--Regent street, you know. The stores are not like ours. They are truly traps for the unwary. Little wonder a polite "thank you" man conducts you from department to department, otherwise you would be inevitably lost, there are so many steps, so many corners, so many dark places. Such obsequious salesmen.
You cannot purchase in a hurry; too much time is used by the clerks in saying "thank you." Something like this occurs when you enter: A man approaches, bowing and saying, "thank you, sir, any thing you wish sir?" you state your desires. "Thank you, sir, this way, sir." On to another, same formula, and this continues until you fear old age will overtake you before you reach the article you desire. About this time you are turned over to a clerk who produces it. If you are not too worn out you purchase it; if you do not the man looks sad and says, " I am sorry," thanks you limply, and you depart, much older and oh, so careworn. In one of the turnings Ed caught a glimpse of a linen room after our little parcel was duly tied up with a neat little loop to carry on my finger he asked to be returned to that department. We were comfortably seated and a linen shower commenced. Ed became "daffy" he was so pleased, so I just turned the purchasing over to him and proceeded to enjoy myself. The linen was exquisite. Ed has a supply to last us until we "shuffle off this mortal coil." He shops to the manner born from the way the clerks try to please him. In the land of the free the salesman would not half try to please you if you used the tone employed over here. I am afraid I shall require time to learn that it is not good form to thank a servant for a service rendered. Here they thank you for the permission to be of use to you. I am learning to say "I am sorry" in the true British tone, not expressing anything in particular but everything in general. The man who jostles you in the crowded street, the clerk who cannot find the article you wish, the maid, the boy, the high, the low, monotonously repeat,
Shopping in Regent street is soul-satisfying, but shopping in Cheapside is far more fun, of that I am convinced. I assisted Ed for the first time in our married life to select his apparel. He has ordered two suits and the tailor promised an American cut. I'll wager the result is a remarkable hybrid. I wish you could glance in the windows of the jewelers on Regent and Bond streets. I prefer the outside to the inside of the shops for you are made to feel that the inside is only free to customers. Ed rather enjoys the scowls of the clerk when he leaves without a purchase; I always feel guilty of a misdemeanor.
We hailed a cab to return to the hotel and enjoyed a little spin on the Embankment, then caught a glimpse of the frowning Tower of London, crossed the famous bridge, whereon Ed insisted on stopping the cab and singing: "London bridge is falling down," saying that in his childhood he dreamed of saying that ditty on London bridge--and wished it to come true. I do not believe him; I am sure he concocted the tale that very moment. After dinner we joined the throngs on Piccadilly circus, but were soon overjoyed to climb on a bus and view the crowds from above. We seem never able to get way from Trafalgar Square; from whatsoever direction we start we eventually find ourselves facing the lions. Today we tried to lose them but always the bus we selected returned us there. We are in early tonight as I admitted to being very tired. We go to Hampton Court early in the morning. I am pining for a glimpsed of you, mother. These voluminous letters are my safety valves; I pretend I am really talking with you.
Dear Mother, I wish I could write verse, only rhythmical lines could do justice to this day. The drive to Hampton was a succession of such delights I feel as if I had attended a concert where all the singers were artists. We left Ludgate circus at nine-thirty, fourteen in the coach, and a guide. We soon reached Victoria Embankment, followed it to Westminster Place, then turned entering very shortly St. James Park. The glimpse of Belgravia recalled my youthful days, my attempts to escape your watchful eye and peruse the entrancing works of "the Duchess." There was not a moment when the interest flagged. If I named a third of the places passed it would require pages and you would think I was compiling a guide book. Cook's man was a veritable book of information and Ed whispered to me that he would make a dandy book agent. At Cheyne Walk, the most memory-haunted portion of London, the horses barely walked. The guide had pages of history he deemed it necessary to recite and although I did not listen to him I found all I desired.
At Putney we stopped to rest the horses and give the driver an opportunity to get a glass. It is the starting point of the races on the river and thus attractive because of the present as well as the past.
The boats are so tiny and the oarsmen are little burdened with clothes. Like the American Indians of yore, in his frail craft on the bosom of the Mississippi, they are dressed for speed. The inn where we alighted is kept by a former champion and he showed to us many trophies. I liked best the visit to the champion polo ponies; they were little beauties and seemingly so full of knowledge. After leaving Putney we soon entered our first English Lane, Roehampton, and then I knew the fairies had me. Fine old mansions, trees whose every limb betokened loving care, flowers, flowers, everywhere. I was filled with a desire to leave the coach and live there ever and forever. I exclaimed, "this must be the loveliest lane in England." Said the guide, "No indeed, we pass through a far more beautiful one before reaching Hampton Court." Away off the distance shone the convent of the Ladies of the Sacred Heart, and how I wished for the time to visit it. You see, Mother, I have not the days in which to see even half the interesting places. Through the Clarence Gate into Richmond Park. We were told it comprised two thousand one hundred acres, being larger than the combined parks of London. It is so beautiful, natural, yet showing the hand of man. Little wonder the people rebelled when the daughter of George III. endeavored to deprive them of their ancient right of entrance. Deer, deer everywhere and undisturbed by our approach, like ours, they regard mankind as friends.
After passing White Lodge, the girlhood home of the Princess of Wales, we left the park by Kingston gate and in a few moments were in one of the oldest towns in England, Kingston-on-Thames, the city of Saxon kings. We could not linger here, only a glimpse was given us the coronation stone in the market place. At Kingston Bridge the guide pointed to the ancient dunking place where scolding women were given a kind of water cure, not always effectual, I have been told.
Oh, that lane; I sigh with pleasure as I write of it. It was of incomparable beauty. It was so ideal, the voice of the guide ceased, and we passed in a stillness broken only by the call of the driver to his horses and the laughter of children at play. Giant limbs interlaced above our heads, roses rioting, flowers peeping coyly from the deep shadows, and the smell of new mown hay wafted on the breeze.
We did not reach the village of Hampton until the hour of noon, so we were served in a quaint little inn overlooking the river before going to Hampton Court. The Thames is thronged with houseboats at this portion, all worthy of praise for their freshness and flowers, yet one stately boat stood out beyond all others, covered with blooms, and high above floated Old Glory and the Union Jack.
Our first view was of the west front of Wolsey's Palace; the chimneys are so unique, no two of the same design; think of the ingenuity displayed. Ed liked the gargoyles and bemoaned that he did not see them when a boy, as his command of ugly faces in school would have been greatly increased.
The noble staircase and the great hall of Henry VIII. are truly regal, a fit setting for royal pomp. The tapestries are the treasures of the palace; you would have appreciated them, dear, I could only enjoy. The great astronomical clock of Henry VIII. gave me a crick in my neck from the endeavor to see all the remarkable points designated by the man from Cook's. The state apartments were a revelation of bygone ages, yet I am wondering how they kept them warm. I prefer less state, more comfort. Think of the many, many things that have transpired in Hampton Court since Wolsey incited the jealousy of the King by his magnificence. What tales the walls could tell if they might speak, of love and hate, of chivalrous deeds and black intrigue. Perhaps it is best they are doomed to silence. Some episodes of the reign of Charles II. would doubtless prove too racy for twentieth century ears. Lely's court beauties look down with glances of honey-sweetness. Did he do full justice to their languishing beauty? There are many pictures of historic value in the Queen's audience chamber, but as works of art they are not highly rated. Poor Queen Anne, dying all alone upon her crimson velvet bed, did she her father and her young brother in her last moments?
When the little feet of Pocahontas[2 ]echoed in those halls, did her timid heart fret at the golden chains and long for the limitless forests of her father's domain, the wild, free life of her childhood?
After all this glitter and gold, this curious commingling of beauty and ugliness, visions of the pure and the true, of the wicked and the corrupt, I welcomed the gardens, bathed in the golden sunlight.
Mother, if only you have been beside me in that enchanting land. Imagine long stretches of greensward, ponds covered with plants of tropical splendor, trees of wondrous girth, roses form the purest white to deepest crimson, playing fountains and singing birds. I was here and there, the voice of the guide often warned me that I might be lost in that fairy land. Ah me! Just to sit in the sunken garden hours and hours, with quietly folded hands, dreaming of the past, weaving bright fancies of the future. Queen Mary's Bower must have been designed by an artist who had seen the New Jerusalem. The great vine planted in 1728 is quite worth of note. Our guide said "all the grapes produced by this vine are consumed by the King alone. In one season it has borne two thousand pounds." Ed whistled expressively, "Say, but isn't Edward the champion grape eater?" I know that Englishman is even now wondering why Ed thought so.
The return drive was by a different route, equally fraught with interest. We saw where "the little gentleman in gray" threw the horse of William III. causing the death of that king and for a time reviving the hope of the Jacobite party. The mile long triple avenue of horse chestnuts is of a magnificence not expressible, yet we were told that to obtain the best of it we should see it when the trees are in bloom. Past the site where once stood the home of Pope, a glimpse of Twickenham Ferry down the narrow old lanes, just tantalized by a tiny bit of an historic house on the Kew road to the Royal Botanic Garden. Here we left the coach and visited the palm houses, strolled beneath ancient trees, and listened to the tales of the guide. On Kew green lived the three brothers of George IV. who, according to the story he told, married within eight days, each hoping to produce the heir to the throne. The late Queen Victoria was the first child. Outside the park we entered an old fashioned garden sloping towards the Thames, sat at little tables beneath giant trees, with roses shedding perfume all around. Quiet voiced thank you men served us with delicious tea and the many sounds of the busy street came to us as a far-off murmur. It was easy there to forget that a new world existed to believe that time had ceased, therefore the coach in waiting was long unheeded. We left the party at High Holburn as Ed was bent on seeing diamonds and sought and found the number given. It was such an unspeakably dingy house I could not believe it was the place of a diamond merchant. Ed pressed a button, a voice called, "what business?" He answered, "diamonds." Again the voice, "open the door; walk up." At the top of the stairs a man met us, opened a door which clanged ominously behind us, through a passage, then into a room all hung in black with many mirrors; as the door clicked suggestively behind us I turned and tried the knob. We were locked in! The man smiled and I laughed outright, it gave me such a shivery feeling to know all the means of exit were closed. The proprietor or general manager now appeared, and when he found out Ed was an American gentlemen, not a diamond merchant, he was inclined to be angry, and in a curt manner he observed that "time is money over here; I do not care to sell to Americans." Ed said: "Is that so? I thought it was said only of the United States that her business men where too busy to learn good manners. Good day." We turned to leave but the man evidently regretted his outburst for he offered to show us gems.
Ed assured him that we did not care to trouble him, yet the wares were displayed. I was truly bored after the first look, you know I have never cared for the glittering baubles. When the man saw my indifference he seemed determined to interest me, showing superb tiaras of diamonds, chains and rings. Ed thoroughly enjoyed himself and I believe the grouchy manager found a pleasure in showing his beautiful stones to such an appreciative audience. I saw several eyes behind the hangings. We were not to escape with jewels; locked doors, mirrors and gleaming eyes protected them. I would not have missed the sensation, I assure you. Ed thanked the man courteously and believe me, the once cross man accompanied us, smiling, to the end of the bolted passage.
I was so tired when we reached the hotel I had barely the energy to summon the maid and order a hot bath prepared. Mother, the tubs here are pools. I am afraid each time I venture in, as you know I cannot swim. This evening Ed is smoking all alone. After I finish my conversation with you I shall sleep the sleep of the thoroughly tired. By the way, I have lost six pounds; are you surprised? Tomorrow we leave London. We have hardly turned a page of this fascinating book and we must leave it. Dear, if these numerous letters give to you half the pleasure in perusing they have afforded me to write, then I am satisfied. Ed has sent you cards every day and sometimes twice per day, so how can you be lonely?
July 8--We were up early, this our last day, and hailing a bus were soon far down the Strand. It was fun to be abroad before the shops were open and to see the market wagons filled with fruit, flowers and vegetables. At Covent Garden we bought a basket of the loveliest raspberries, of delicate bloom and sweet aroma. The flower girls were arranging their blossoms. We chatted pleasantly, buying huge roses all glorious with dew. From a dear little girl we learned of a restaurant near by where a simple breakfast could be obtained.
The tiny room was so clean--highly scrubbed tables and a neat little waitress; I was much pleased with it. We were told that all dishes were served in penny portions. We ordered rolls and coffee and gave to the girl our berries, requesting her to prepare and serve with cream. She assured us of her willingness but could not serve cream as penny portions do not call for that luxury. Ed gave her a sixpence, and in short while she returned with a pot of delicious golden cream; thus we dined royally even if the board was bare and the china not of the egg-shell variety.
We have spent this day as fancy dictated, loitering in parks, jostled in crowded streets, driving in a cab, looking from the top of a bus; indeed our pleasures were as varied as the year book of a woman's club in our own country. We peeped into St. George's, Hanover Square, visited St. Martin in the Fields, where Nell Gwynn sleeps the sleep that knows no wakening, down Pall Mall and into many a queer and out of the way corner. Perhaps the hours could have been passed with greater benefit under the care of a guide, but our pleasures could not have been enhanced. I almost neglected to write of our visit to a cat store, pussies of high and low degree, all beautiful, all long-haired. I did so wish I could take two home with me and thus increase my cat farm in Oklahoma. To please Ed we entered a dog store, and now he feels that life has ill treated him because as yet he has not owned an English bull dog. A dear little Pomeranian came beseechingly to me. I managed to stroke it, but not with pleasure; I am always afraid the petted dog will bite me.
A great orange cat lived here, lord and master over all. He was very gracious to me, sitting on my lap, purring contentedly and slapping vigorously the dog who ventured near.
We are packed and ready to leave, and I am hurriedly finishing this lengthy epistle, as we wish to mail it from here. I have not eaten since my early breakfast and I feel rather weak; I am hoping to prevent a ghastly attack of seasickness tonight. We are going farther from you, Mother mine; good-bye until we reach Antwerp.
Leaving Harwick the boat glided from the harbor so gently I became poetical and exclaimed, "How I shall enjoy the faint new moon glimmering and gleaming o'er the water of the deep." The lights on the shore were not dimmed by distance when my enemy gripped me. The night might have been worse but I thank heaven it was not. When we arose the boat was entering the harbor at Antwerp. Ed made me comfortable in a secluded corner of the deck, then went in search of his breakfast. I could not eat so I sat there communing with myself and sipped ginger ale; perhaps the shores were interesting but all my attention was demanded elsewhere.
Quite a little time was consumed in the examination of our baggage, the inspector was inclined to believe Ed's London suit was too new, and perhaps for sale. Let me whisper, I believe Ed would gladly have sold it to the inspector, as it is neither American nor English in appearance. We were driven to the hotel behind the finest cab horses I have seen, perfect beauties and absolutely matched. We passed many fine horses to carts, wagons and cabs. The drivers manage them with one small line. The shaded streets were at their best and I responded quickly to the spirit of repose, yet how short was my pleasure in Antwerp.
At the hotel we were informed that Tour No.--left on an early train for Brussels, so we hurried to the station, a mad race to purchase tickets, have trunks weighed, and get off on the train, then ready to leave. After we were seated the guard informed us that we were on a local, the express did not leave for two hours. That was the last straw. My vaunted stoicism availed me little in that hour. I sank upon my suit case and wept aloud. Poor Ed was so upset, his world was topsy turvy, and he besought me to tell him where I pained. I wailed, "We will not overtake them, we will go through Europe just one day behind." He tried to console me, but I was too far gone.
At last he confined himself to this: "Do let me get you a sandwich." I continued to cry, he continued to urge a sandwich, I promised not to move, and off he started to obtain his panacea. Many gazed curiously at the "weeping lady." I cried unrestrainedly and even defiantly, with a naughty desire to make faces at the onlookers.
Just as I was thoroughly enjoying myself I saw Ed approaching with two young men, and I lifted a woebegone face. "Now don't cry any more, dear, here are two boys also seeking Tour No.--. Ed evidently believed the old adage, "misery loves company," and having found if for me, was sure I would recover. The gentlemen, one a professor from Montreal, the other a Harvard student, were gaily encouraging, and assured me the three of them would stop Tour No.--in Brussels or greatly distur