FIRST TRAVEL ARTICLES
For Richard these first years in New York were filled to
overflowing with many varied interests, quite enough to
satisfy most young men of twenty-seven. He had come and seen
and to a degree, so far as the limitation of his work would
permit, had conquered New York, but Richard thoroughly
realized that New York was not only a very small part of the
world but of his own country, and that to write about his own
people and his own country and other people and other lands he
must start his travels at an early age, and go on travelling
until the end. And for the twenty-five years that followed
that was what Richard did. Even when he was not on his
travels but working on a novel or a play at Marion or later on
at Mount Kisco, so far as it was possible he kept in touch
with events that were happening and the friends that he had
made all over the globe. He subscribed to most of the English
and French illustrated periodicals and to one London daily
newspaper which every day he read with the same interest that
he read half a dozen New York newspapers and the interest was
always that of the trained editor at work. Richard was not
only physically restless but his mind practically never
relaxed. When others, tired after a hard day's work or play,
would devote the evening to cards or billiards or chatter,
Richard would write letters or pore over
some strange foreign magazine, consult maps, make notes, or
read the stories of his contemporaries. He practically read
every American magazine from cover to cover — advertisements
were a delight to him, and the finding of a new writer gave
him as much pleasure as if he had been the fiction editor who
had accepted the first story by the embryo genius. The
official organs of our army and navy he found of particular
interest. Not only did he thus follow the movements of his
friends in these branches of the service but if he read of a
case wherein he thought a sailor or a soldier had been done an
injustice he would promptly take the matter up with the
authorities at Washington, and the results he obtained were
often not only extremely gratifying to the wronged party but
caused Richard no end of pleasure.
According to my brother's arrangement with the Harpers,
he was to devote a certain number of months of every year to
the editing of The Weekly, and the remainder to travel and
the writing of his experiences for Harper's Monthly. He
started on the first of these trips in January, 1892, and the
result was a series of articles which afterward appeared under
the title of "The West from a Car Window."
January, 1892.
(Some place in Texas)
I left St. Louis last night, Wednesday, and went to bed
and slept for twelve hours. To-day has been most trying and I
shall be very glad to get on dry land again. The snow has
ceased although the papers say this is the coldest snap they
have had in San Antonio in ten years. It might have waited a
month for me I think. It has been a most dreary trip from
a car window point of view. Now that the snow has gone, there
is mud and ice and pine trees and colored people, but no
cowboys as yet. They talk nothing but Chili and war and they
make such funny mistakes. We have a G. A. R. excursion on the
train, consisting of one fat and prosperous G. A. R. the rest
of the excursion having backed out on account of Garza who the
salient warriors imagine as a roaring lion seeking whom he may
devour. One old chap with white hair came on board at a
desolate station and asked for "the boys in blue" and was very
much disgusted when he found that "that grasshopper Garza" had
scared them away — He had tramped five miles through the mud
to greet a possible comrade and was much chagrined. The
excursion shook hands with him and they took a drink together.
The excursion tells me he is a glass manufacturer, an owner of
a slate quarry and the best embalmer of bodies in the country.
He says he can keep them four years and does so "for
specimens" those that are left on his hands and others he
purchases from the morgue. He has a son who is an actor and
he fills me full of the most harrowing tales of Indian warfare
and the details of the undertaking business. He is
so
funny
about the latter that I weep with laughter and he cannot see
why — Joe Jefferson and I went to a matinee on Wednesday and
saw Robson in "She stoops to Conquer." The house was
absolutely packed and when Joe came in the box they yelled and
applauded and he nodded to them in the most fatherly, friendly
way as though to say "How are you, I don't just remember your
name but I'm glad to see you — " It was so much sweeter than if
he had got up and bowed as I would have done.
SAN ANTONIO
I knew more about Texas than the Texans and when they
told me I would find summer here I smiled knowingly — That is
all the smiling I have done — -Did you ever see a stage set for
a garden or wood scene by daylight or Coney Island in
March — that is what the glorious, beautiful baking city of San
Antonio is like. There is mud and mud and mud — in cans, in
the gardens of the Mexicans and snow around the palms and
palmettos — Does the sun shine anywhere? Are people ever
warm — It is raw, ugly and muddy, the Mexicans are merely
dirty and not picturesque. I am greatly disappointed. But I
have set my teeth hard and I will go on and see it through to
the bitter end — But I will not write anything for publication
until I can take a more cheerful view of it. I already have
reached the stage where I admit the laugh is on me — But there
is still London to look forward to and this may get better
when the sun comes out — -I went to the fort to-day and was
most courteously received. But they told me I should go on to
Laredo, if I expected to see any campaigning — There is no
fighting nor is any expected but they say they will give me a
horse and I can ride around the chaparral as long as I want.
I will write you from Laredo, where I go to-morrow, Saturday —
DICK.
At Laredo Richard left the beaten track of the traveller,
and with Trooper Tyler, who acted as his guide, joined Captain
Hardie in his search for Garza. The famous revolutionist was
supposed to be in hiding this side of the border, and the
Mexican Government
had asked the United States to find him and return him to the
officials of his own country.
In Camp, February 2nd.
[DEAR MOTHER: — ]
We have stopped by the side of a trail for a while and I
will take the chance it gives me to tell you what I have been
doing. After Tyler and I returned to camp, we had a day of
rest before Captain Hardie arrived. He is a young,
red-moustached, pointed — bearded chap with light blue eyes,
rough with living in the West but most kind hearted and
enthusiastic. He treats me as though I were his son which is
rather absurd as he is only up to my shoulder. It is so hot I
cannot make the words go straight and you must not mind if I
wander. We are hugging a fence for all the shade there is and
the horses and men have all crawled to the dark side of it and
are sleeping or swearing at the sun. It is about two o'clock
and we have been riding since half-past seven. I have had a
first rate time but I do not see that there has been much in
it to interest any one but myself and where Harper
Brothers
or the "gentle reader" comes in, I am afraid I cannot see, and
if I cannot see it I fear he will be in a bad way. It has
pleased and interested me to see how I could get along under
difficult circumstances and with so much discomfort but as I
say I was not sent out here to improve my temper or my health
or to make me more content with my good things in the East.
If we could have a fight or something that would excuse and
make a climax for all this marching and reconnoitering and
discomfort the story would have a suitable finale and a raison
d'etre. However, I may get something out of it if only to
abuse the
Government for their stupidity in chasing a jack rabbit with a
brass band or by praising the men for doing their duty when
they know there is no duty to be done. This country is more
like the ocean than anything else and drives one crazy with
its monotony and desolation. And to think we went to war with
Mexico for it — To-day is my tenth day with the troops in the
camp and in the field and I will leave them as soon as this
scout is over which will be in three days at the most. Then I
will go to Corpus Christi and from there to the ranches but I
will wait until I get baths, hair cuts and a dinner and cool
things to drink — One thing has pleased me very much and that
is that I, with Tyler and the Mexican Scout made the second
best riding record of the troop since they have been in the
field this winter. The others rode 115 miles in 32 hours,
four of them under the first Sergeant, after revolutionists,
and we made 110 miles in 33 hours. The rest of the detachment
made 90 miles and our having the extra thirty to our credit
was an accident. On the 31st Hardie sent out the scout and
two troopers, of which Tyler was one, to get a trail and as I
had been resting and loafing for three days, I went out with
them. We left at eight after breakfast and returned at seven,
having made thirty miles. When we got in we found that a
detachment was going out on information sent in while we were
out. Tyler was in it and so we got fresh horses and put out
at nine o'clock by moonlight. That was to keep the people in
the ranch from knowing we were going out. We rode until
half-past three in the morning and then camped at the side of
the road until half — past six, when we rode on until five in
the afternoon. The men who were watching to see me give up
grew
more and more interested as the miles rolled out and the First
Sergeant was very fearful for his record for which he has been
recommended for the certificate of merit. The Captain was
very much pleased and all the men came and spoke to me. It
must have been a good ride for Tyler who is a fifth year man
was so tired that he paid a man to do his sentry duty. We
slept at Captain Hunter's camp that last night and we both
came on this morning, riding thirty miles up to two o'clock
to-day. From here we go on into the brush again. I am very
proud of that riding record and of my beard which is fine. I
will finish this when we get near a post-office.
DICK.
February 4th — We rode forty miles through the brush
but saw nothing of Garza, who was supposed to be in it. But
we captured 3 revolutionists, one of whom ran away but the
scout got him. Hardie, Tyler, who is his orderly, and the
scout and I took them in because the rest of the column was
lagging in the rear and the Lieutenant got bally hooly for it.
Tyler disarmed one and I took away the other chaps things.
Then we took a fourth in and let them all go for want of
evidence and after some of the ranch men had identified them.
CORPUS CHRISTI, February 6.
We ended our scout yesterday, and camped at Captain
Hunter's last night — Mother can now rest her soul in peace as
I have done with scoutings and have replaced the free and easy
belt and revolver for the black silk suspenders and the fire
badge of civilization. I am still covered with 11 days dirt
but will get lots of good things to eat and drink and smoke
at Corpus Christi to night, where I will stay for two days. I
am writing this on the car and a ranger is shooting splinters
out of the telegraph poles from the window in front and has a
New York drummer in a state of absolute nervous prostration.
I met the Rangers last night as we came into camp and find
them quite the most interesting things yet. They are just
what I expected to find here and have not disappointed me.
Everything else is either what we know it to be and know all
about or else is disappointingly commonplace. I mean we know
certain things are picturesque and I find them so but they
have been "done" to death and new material seems so scarce. I
am sometimes very fearful of the success of the letters —
However, the Rangers I simply loved. They were gentle voiced
and did not swear as the soldiers do and some of them were as
handsome men as I ever saw and
so big. And such children.
They showed me all their tricks at the request of the Adjutant
General, who looks upon them as his special property. They
shot four shots into a tree with a revolver, going at full
gallop, hit a mark with both hands at once, shot with the
pistol upside down and the Captain put eight shots into a
board with a Winchester, while I was putting two into the
field around it. We got along very well indeed and they were
quite keen for me to go back and chase Garza. They are sure
they have him now. I gave the Captain permission to put four
shots into my white helmet. He only put two and the rest of
the company thinking their reputations were at stake whipped
out their guns and snatched up their rifles and blazed away
until they danced the hat all over the ranch. Then remorse
overcame them and they proposed taking up
a collection to get me a sombrero, which I stopped. So Nora's
hat is gone but I am going to get another and save myself from
sunstroke again. The last part of the ride was enlivened by
the presence of three Mexican murderers handcuffed and chained
with iron bands around the neck, that is Texas civilization
isn't it —
I have had my dinner and a fine dinner it was with fresh
fish and duck and oysters and segars which I have not had for
a week. I am finishing this at Constantine's and will be here
for two days to write things and will then go on to King's
ranch and from there to San Antonio, where I will also rest a
week. I will just about get through my schedule in the ten
weeks at this rate. I had a good time in the bush and am
enjoying it very much though it is lonely now and then —
Still, it is very interesting and if the stories amount to
anything I will be pleased but I am constantly wondering how
on earth Chas stood it as he did. He is a hero to me for I
have some hope of getting back and he had not — He is a
sport — How I will sleep to night — a real bed and sheets and
pajamas, after the ground and the same clothes for eleven
days.
Lots of love.
DICK.
While Richard was travelling in the West, his second
volume of short stories, "Van Bibber and Others," was
published. The volume was dedicated to my father, who wrote
Richard the following letter:
PHILADELPHIA, February 15, 1892.
[MY DEAR OWN DICK:]
I have not been the complete letter writer I should have
been, as I told you on Saturday, but I know you
will understand. Your two good letters came this evening,
one to Mamma and one to Nora. They were a good deal to us
all, most, of course, to your dear mother and sister, who have
a fond, foolish fancy or love for you — strange — isn't it?
Yes, dear boy, I liked the new story very, very much. It was
in your best book and in fine spirit, and I liked, too, the
dedication of the book — its meaning and its manner. I am glad
to be associated with my dear boy and with his work even in
that brief way. You may not yet thought about it after this
fashion, but I have thought a good deal about it. Reports
come to me of you from many sources, and they are all good,
and they all reflect honor upon me — Upon me as I'm getting
ready to salute the world, as our French friends say. It is
very pleasant to me as I think it over to feel and to know
that my boy has honored my name, that he has done something
good and useful in the world and for the world. I have
something more than pride in you. I am grateful to you. If
this is a little prosie, dear old fellow, forgive it. It is
late at night and I am a little tired, and being tired stupid.
You saw
The Atlantic notice of your work. I wish you
could
have heard Nora on the author of it, who would not have been
happy in his mind if he had unhappily heard her. She went for
that Heathen Chinee like a wild cat. No disrespect to her,
but, all the same, like a wild cat. To me it was interesting.
I did not agree with it, but here and there I saw the flash of
truth even in the adverse praise. I should have had more
respect for the author's opinion if he had liked that vital
speck, Raegen. If he could not see the divine, human spark in
that — a flash from Calvary, what is the use of considering
him? My greatest pride in
you, that which has added some sweetness and joy to my life,
has been the recognition that something of the divine element
was given you, and that your voice rang out sweet and pure at
a time when other voices were sounding the fascinations of
impurity. That, like Christ, you taught humanity. Don't be
afraid of being thought "fresh," fear to be thought "knowing."
Life isn't much worth at best, — it is worth nothing at all
unless some good be done in it — -the more, the better. Don't
make it too serious either. Enjoy it as you go, but after a
fashion that will bring no reproach to your manhood. Don't be
afraid to preach the truth and above all the religion of
humanity. Good night, dear boy. I'm a little tired to night.
With great love,
DAD.
ANADARKO-February 26th, 1892.
[DEAR FAMILY: — ]
I could not write you before as I have been traveling
from pillars to posts, (a joke), in a stage, night and day. I
went to Fort Reno from Oklahoma City where they drove me crazy
almost with town lots and lot sites and homestead holdings.
It was all raw and mean, and greedy for money and a man is
much better off in every way in a tenement on Second Avenue
than the "owner of his own home" in one of these mushroom
cities — So I think. I went to Fort Reno by stage and it
seemed to me that I was really in the West for the first
time — The rest has been as much like the oil towns around
Pittsburgh as anything else. But here there are rolling
prairie lands with millions of prairie dogs and deep canons
and bluffs of red clay that stand out as clear as a razor
hollowed and carved
away by the water long ago. And the grass is as high as a
stirrup and the trees very plentiful after the plains of
Texas. The men at Fort Reno were the best I have met, indeed
I am just a little tired of trying to talk of things of
interest to the Second Lieutenant's intellect. But I had to
leave there because I had missed the beef issue and had to see
it and as it was due here I pushed on. This post is very
beautiful but the men are very young and civil appointments
mainly, which means that they have not been to West Point but
had fathers and have friends with influence and they are
fresh. But the scenery around the post is delightfully wild
and big and there is an Indian camp at the foot of the hill on
which the fort is stuck. Mother, instead of going to Europe,
should come here and see her Indians. Only if she did she
would bring a dozen or more of the children back with her.
They are the brightest spot in my trip and I spend the
mornings and afternoons trying to get them to play with me.
They are very shy and pretty and beautifully barbaric and wear
the most gorgeous trappings. The women, the older ones, are
the ugliest women I ever saw. But the men are fine. I never
saw such color as they give to the landscape and one always
thinks they have dressed up just to please you. I have spent
most of my time and money in buying things from them but they
are very dear because the Indians take long to make them and
do not like to part with them. I have had rough times lately
but I think I would be content to remain in the west six
months if I could. It is the necessity of leaving places I
like and pushing on to places I don't, I dislike. Reno was
fine with a band and lots of fine fellows. This post is not
so queer but they are so young — It makes a great bit of color
though with
the yellow capes of the cavalry and the soldiers wig — waging
red and white flags at other soldiers eight miles away on
other mountains and the Indians in yellow buckskin and
blankets and their faces painted too. I went to the beef
issue to-day — it was not a pretty sight and most barbarous and
cruel. I also went to a council at which the chiefs were
protesting against the cutting down of their rations which is
Commissioner Morgan's doing and which it is expected will lead
to war — We went in out of curiosity and without knowing it
was a Council and were very much ashamed when one of the
Chiefs rose and said he was glad to see the officers present
as they were the best friends the Indians had and the only men
they could respect in times of peace as a friend, or in times
of war as an enemy. At which we took off our hats and sat it
through. Mother's blood would rise if she could hear the
stories they tell, and they are so dignified and polite. They
have an Indian troop here, like the one described in
The
Weekly, which you should read and the Captain told them I was
a great Chief from the East, whereat all the soldiers who were
of noble lineage claimed their privilege of shaking hands with
me, which had a demoralizing effect upon the formation and the
white privates were either convulsed with mirth or red with
indignation. But you cannot treat them like white men who do
not know their ancestors — Dad's letter was the best I have
ever got from him and he had always better write when he is
tired. I will always keep it.
DICK.
DENVER — March 7, 1892.
[DEAR FAMILY:]
I arrived in Denver Friday night and realized that I was
in a city again where the more you order people
about the more they do for you, being civilized and so
understanding that you mean to tip them. I found my first
letter on the newsstand and was very much pleased with it, and
with the way they put it out. The proof was perfect and if
there had been more pictures I would have been entirely
satisfied, as it was I was very much pleased. My baggage had
not come, so covered with mud and dust and straw from the
stages and generally disreputable I went to see a burlesque,
and said "Front row, end seat," just as naturally as though I
was in evening dress and high hat — and then I sank into a
beautiful deep velvet chair and saw Amazon marches and ladies
in tights and heard the old old jokes and the old old songs we
know so well and sing so badly. The next morning I went for
my mail and the entire post office came out to see me get it.
It took me until seven in the evening to finish it, and I do
not know that it will ever be answered. The best of it was
that you were all pleased with my letters. That put my mind
at rest. Then there was news of deaths and marriages and
engagements and the same people doing the same things they did
when I went away. I did not intend to present any letters as
I was going away that night to Creede, but I found I could not
get any money unless some one identified me so I presented one
to a Mr. Jerome who all the bankers said they would be only
too happy to oblige. After one has been variously taken for a
drummer, photographer and has been offered so much a line to
"write up" booming towns, it is a relief to get back to a
place where people know you. — I told Mr. Jerome I had a letter
of introduction and that I was Mr. Davis and he shook hands
and then looked at the letter and said "Good Heavens are you
that Mr. Davis"
and then rushed off and brought back the entire establishment
brokers, bankers and mine owners and they all sat around and
told me funny stories and planned more things for me to do and
eat than I could dispose of in a month.
I am now en route to Creede. Creede when you first see
it in print looks like creede but after you have been in
Denver or Colorado even for one day it reads like C R E E D E.
All the men on this car think they are going to make their
fortunes, and toward that end they have on new boots and
flannel shirts, and some of them seeing my beautiful clothing
and careful array came over and confided to me that they were
really not so tough as they looked and had never worn a
flannel shirt before. This car is typical of what they told
me I would find at Creede. There are rich mine owners who are
pointed out by the conductor as the fifth part owner of the
"Pot Luck" mine, and dudes in astrakan fur coats over top
boots and new flannel shirts, and hardened old timers with
their bedding and tin pans, who have prospected all over the
state and women who are smoking and drinking.
I feel awfully selfish whenever I look out of the car
window. Switzerland which I have never seen is a spot on the
map compared to this. The mountains go up with snow on one
side and black rows of trees and rocks on the other, and the
clouds seem packed down between them. The sun on the snow and
the peaks peering above the clouds is all new to me and so
very beautiful that I would like to buy a mountain and call it
after my best girl. I will finish this when I get to Creede.
I expect to make my fortune there.
DICK.
CREEDE, March 7.
A young man in a sweater and top boots met me at the
depot and said that I was Mr. Davis and that he was a young
man whose life I had written in "There was 90 and 9." He was
from Buffalo and was editing a paper in Creede. He said I was
to stop with him — Creede is built of new pine boards and lies
between two immense mountains covered with pines and snow.
The town is built in the gulley and when the spring freshets
come will be a second Johnstown. Faber, the young man, took
me to the Grub State Cabin where I found two most amusing
dudes and thoroughbred sports from Boston, Harvard men living
in a cabin ten by eight with four bunks and a stove, two
banjos and H O P E. They own numerous silver mines, lots, and
shares, but I do not believe they have five dollars in cash
amongst them. They have a large picture of myself for one of
the ornaments and are great good fellows. We sat up in
our
bunks until two this morning talking and are planning to go to
Africa and Mexico and Asia Minor together. — Lots of love.
DICK.
Very happy indeed to be back in his beloved town, Richard
returned to New York late in March, 1892, and resumed his
editorial duties. But on this occasion his stay was of
particularly short duration, and in May, he started for his
long-wished-for visit to London. The season there was not yet
in full swing, and after spending a few days in town,
journeyed to Oxford, where he settled down to amuse himself
and collect material for his first articles on English life as
he found it. In writing of this visit to Oxford, H. J.
Whigham, one of Richard's oldest friends, and who afterward
served with him in several campaigns, said:
"When we first met Richard Harding Davis he was living,
to all practical purposes, the life of an undergraduate at
Balliol College, Oxford. Anyone at all conversant with the
customs of universities, especially with the idiosyncrasies of
Oxford, knows that for a person who is not an undergraduate to
share the life of undergraduates on equal terms, to take part
in their adventures, to be admitted to their confidence is
more difficult than it is for the camel to pass through the
eye of a needle or for the rich man to enter heaven. It was
characteristic of Davis that although he was a few years older
than the average university "man" and came from a strange
country and, moreover, had no official reason for being at
Oxford at all, he was accepted as one of themselves by the
Balliol undergraduates, in fact, lived in Balliol for at least
a college term, and happening to fall in with a somewhat
enterprising generation of Balliol men he took the lead in
several escapades which have been written into Oxford history.
There is in the makeup of the best type of college
undergraduate a wonderful spirit of adventure, an unprejudiced
view of life, an almost Quixotic feeling for romance, a
disdain of sordid or materialistic motives, which together
make the years spent at a great university the most golden of
the average man's career. These characteristics Davis was
fortunate enough to retain through all the years of his life.
The same spirit that took him out with a band of Oxford youths
to break down an iron barrier set by an insolent landowner
across the navigable waters of Shakespeare's Avon carried him,
in after years, to the battlefields where Greece fought
against the yoke of Turkey, to the insurrecto camps of Cuba,
to the dark horrors of the Congo, to Manchuria, where gallant
Japan beat back the overwhelming power of Russia, to Belgium,
where he saw the legions of Germany trampling over the
prostrate bodies of a small people. Romance was never dead
while Davis was alive."
That Richard lost no time in making friends at Oxford as,
indeed, he never failed to do wherever he went, the following
letters to his mother would seem to show:
OXFORD — May, 1892.
[DEAR FAMILY:]
I came down here on Saturday morning with the Peels, who
gave an enormous boating party and luncheon on a tiny little
island. The day was beautiful with a warm brilliant sun, and
the river was just as narrow and pretty as the head of the
Squan river, and with old walls and college buildings added.
We had the prettiest Mrs. Peel in our boat and Mrs. Joseph
Chamberlain, who was Miss Endicott and who is very sweet and
pretty. We raced the other punts and rowboats and soon, after
much splashing and exertion, reached the head of the river.
Then we went to, tea in New College and to see the sights of
the different colleges now on the Thames. The barges of the
colleges, painted different colors and gilded like circus
band-wagons and decorated with coats of arms and flying great
flags, lined the one shore for a quarter of a mile and were
covered by girls in pretty frocks and under-grads in blazers.
Then the boats came into sight one after another with the men
running alongside on the towpath. This was one of the most
remarkable sights of the country so far. There were over six
hundred men coming six abreast, falling and stumbling and
pushing, shouting and firing pistols. It sounded like a
cavalry charge and the line seemed endless. The whole thing
was most theatrical and
effective. Then we went to the annual dinner of the
Palmerston Club, where I made a speech which was, as there is
no one else to tell you, well received, "being frequently
interrupted with applause," from both the diners and the
ladies in the gallery. It was about Free Trade and the way
America was misrepresented in the English papers, and composed
of funny stories which had nothing to do with the speech. I
did not know I was going to speak until I got there, and
considering the fact, as Wilson says, that your uncle was playing
on a strange table with a crooked cue he did very well. The
next morning we breakfasted with the Bursar of Trinity and had
luncheon with the Viscount St. Cyres to meet Lord and Lady
Coleridge. St. Cyres is very shy and well-bred, and we would
have had a good time had not the M. P.'s present been filled
with awe of the Lord Chief Justice and failed to draw him out.
As it was he told some very funny stories; then we went to tea
with Hubert Howard, in whose rooms I live and am now writing,
and met some stupid English women and shy girls. Then we
dined with the dons at New College, so — called because it is
eight hundred years old. We sat at a high table in a big hall
hung with pictures and lit by candles. The under-grads sat
beneath in gowns and rattled pewter mugs. We all wore evening
dress and those that had them red and white fur collars.
After dinner we left the room according to some process of
selection, carrying our napkins with us. We entered a room
called the Commons, where we drank wines and ate nuts and
raisins. It was all very solemn and dull and very dignified.
Outside it was quite light although nine o'clock. Then we
marched to another room where there were cigars and brandy
and soda, but Arthur Pollen and I had to go and take coffee
with the Master of Balliol, the only individual of whom Pollen
stands in the least awe. He was a dear old man who said, "O
yes, you're from India," and on my saying "No, from America";
he said, "O yes, it's the other one." I found the other one
was an Indian princess in a cashmere cloak and diamonds, who
looked so proud and lovely and beautiful that I wanted to take
her out to one of the seats in the quadrangle and let her weep
on my shoulder. How she lives among these cold people I
cannot understand. We were all to go to a concert in the
chapel, and half of the party started off, but the Master's
wife said, "Oh, I am sure the Master expects them to wait for
him in the hall. It is always done." At which all the women
made fluttering remarks of sympathy and the men raced off to
bring the others back. Only the Indian girl and I remained
undisturbed and puzzled. The party came back, but the Master
saw them and said, "Well, it does not matter, but it is
generally done." At which we all felt guilty. When we got to
the chapel everybody stood up until the Master's party sat
down, but as it was broken in the middle of the procession,
they sat down, and then, seeing we had not all passed, got up
again, so that I felt like saying, "As you were, men," as they
do out West in the barracks. Then Lord Coleridge in taking
off his overcoat took off his undercoat, too, and stood
unconscious of the fact before the whole of Oxford. The faces
of the audience which packed the place were something
wonderful to see; their desire to laugh at a tall, red-faced
man who looks like a bucolic Bill Nye struggling into his
coat, and then horror at seeing the Chief Justice in his
shirt-sleeves, was a
terrible effort — and no one would help him, on the principle,
I suppose, that the Queen of Spain has no legs. He would have
been struggling yet if I had not, after watching him and Lady
Coleridge struggling with him, for a full minute, taken his
coat and firmly pulled the old gentleman into it, at which he
turned his head and winked.
I will go back to town by the first to see the Derby and
will get into lodgings there. I am having a very good time
and am very well. The place is as beautiful as one expects
and yet all the time startling one with its beauty.
DICK.
When the season at Oxford was over Richard returned to
London and took a big sunny suite of rooms in the Albany.
Here he settled down to learn all he could of London, its ways
and its people. In New York he had already met a number of
English men and women distinguished in various walks of life,
and with these as a nucleus he soon extended his circle of
friends until it became as large as it was varied. In his
youth, and indeed throughout his life, Richard had the
greatest affection for England and the English. No truer
American ever lived, but he thought the United States and
Great Britain were bound by ties that must endure always. He
admired British habits, their cosmopolitanism and the very
simplicity of their mode of living. He loved their country
life, and the swirl of London never failed to thrill him.
During the last half of his life Richard had perhaps as many
intimate friends in London as in New York. His fresh point of
view, his very eagerness to understand theirs, made them
welcome him more as one of their own people than as a
stranger.
LONDON, June 3, 1892.
[DEAR FAMILY:]
I went out to the Derby on Wednesday and think it is the
most interesting thing I ever saw over here. It is so
like these people never to have seen it. It seems to be chiefly
composed of costermongers and Americans. I got a box-seat on
a public coach and went out at ten. We rode for three hours
in a procession of donkey shays, omnibuses, coaches,
carriages, vans, advertising wagons; every sort of conveyance
stretching for sixteen miles, and with people lining the sides
to look on. I spent my time when I got there wandering around
over the grounds, which were like Barnum's circus multiplied
by thousands. It was a beautiful day and quite the most
remarkable sight of my life. Much more wonderful than
Johnstown, so you see it must have impressed me. We were five
hours getting back, the people singing all the way and pelting
one another and saying funny impudent things.
My rooms are something gorgeous. They are on the first
floor, looking into Piccadilly from a court, and they are
filled with Hogarth's prints, old silver, blue and white
china, Zulu weapons and fur rugs, and easy chairs of India
silk. You never saw such rooms! And a very good servant, who
cooks and valets me and runs errands and takes such good care
of me that last night Cust and Balfour called at one to get
some supper and he would not let them in. Think of having the
Leader of the House of Commons come to ask you for food and
having him sent away. Burdett-Coutts heard of my being here
in the papers and wrote me to dine with him tonight. I
lunched with the Tennants today; no relation to Mrs. Stanley,
and it was informal and funny rather. The Earl of Spender was
there and Lord Pembroke and a lot of
women. They got up and walked about and changed places and
seemed to know one another better than we do at home. I think
I will go down to Oxford for Whitsuntide, which is a heathen
institution here which sends everyone away just as I want to
meet them.
I haven't written anything yet. I find it hard to do so.
I think I would rather wait until I get home for the most of
it. Chas. will be here in less than a week now and we will
have a good time. I have planned it out for days. He must go
to Oxford and meet those boys, and then, if he wishes, on to
Eastnor, which I learn since my return is one of the show
places of England. I am enjoying myself, it is needless to
say, very much, and am well and happy.
DICK.
During these first days in England Richard spent much of
his time at Eastnor, Lady Brownlow's place in Lincolnshire,
and one of the most beautiful estates in England. Harry Cust,
to whom my brother frequently refers in his letters, was the
nephew of Lady Brownlow, and a great friend of Richard's. At
that time Cust was the Conservative nominee for Parliament
from Lincolnshire, and Richard took a most active part in the
campaign. Happily, we were both at Lady Brownlow's during its
last few tense days, as well as on the day the votes were
counted, and Cust was elected by a narrow margin. Of our
thrilling adventures Richard afterward wrote at great length
in "Our English Cousins."
LONDON, July 6, 1892.
[DEAR MOTHER:]
On the Fourth of July, Lady Brownlow sent into town and
had a big American flag brought out and
placed over the house, which was a great compliment, as it was
seen and commented on for miles around. Cushing of Boston, a
very nice chap and awfully handsome, is there, too. The same
morning I went out to photograph the soldiers, and Lord
William Frederick, who is their colonel, charged them after me
whenever I appeared. It seems he has a sense of humor and
liked the idea of making an American run on the Fourth of July
from Red-coats. I doubt if the five hundred men who were not
on horseback thought it as funny. They chased me till I
thought I would die. The Conservative member for the county
got in last night and we rejoiced greatly, as the moral effect
will help Harry Cust greatly. His election takes place next
Monday. The men went in to hear the vote declared after
dinner, and so did two of the girls, who got Lady Brownlow's
consent at dinner, and then dashed off to change their gowns
before she could change her mind. As we were intent on seeing
the fun and didn't want them, we took them just where we would
have gone anyway, which was where the fighting was. And they
showed real sporting blood and saw the other real sort. There
were three of us to each girl, and it was most exciting, with
stones flying and windows crashing and cheers and groans. A
political meeting or election at home is an afternoon tea to
the English ones. When we came back the soldiers were leaving
the Park to stop the row, and as we flew past, the tenants ran
to the gate and cheered for the Tory victory in "good old
lopes." When we got to the house the servants ran cheering
all over the shop and rang the alarm bell and built fires, and
we had a supper at one-fifteen. What they will do on the
night of Cust's election, I cannot imagine —
burn the house down probably. Cushing and I enjoy it
immensely. We know them well enough now to be as funny as we
like without having them stare. They are nice when you know
them, but you've
got to know them first. I had a great
dinner at Farrar's. All the ecclesiastical lights of England
in knee-breeches were there, and the American Minister and
Phillips Brooks. It was quite novel and fun. Lots of love.
I have all the money I want.
DICK.
With Cust properly elected, Richard and I returned to the
Albany and settled down to enjoy London from many angles.
Although my brother had been there but a few weeks his
acquaintances among the statesmen, artists, social
celebrities, and the prominent actors of the day was quite as
extraordinary as his geographical and historical knowledge of
the city. We gave many jolly parties, and on account of
Richard's quickly acquired popularity were constantly being
invited to dinners, dances, and less formal but most amusing
Bohemian supper-parties. During these days there was little
opportunity for my brother to do much writing, but he was very
busy making mental notes not only for his coming book on the
English people, but for a number of short stories which he
wrote afterward in less strenuous times. We returned to New
York in August, and Richard went to Marion to rest from his
social activities, and to work on his English articles.
