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.
