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2.5 The relative merits of the different types of sampling units depends on the availability of a sampling
frame for individuals, the desired precision of the estimates from the sample to the population, and the
budgetary and time constraints of the project.

2.6 She could conduct a stratified random sample in which the states serve as the stratum. A simple random
sample could then be selected within each state. This would provide information concerning the
differences between the states along with the individual opinions of the employees.
2.7
a. All residents in the county.
b. All registered voters.
c. Survey nonresponse – those who responded were probably the people with much stronger opinions
than those who did not respond, which then makes the responses not representative of the responses
of the entire population.

2.8
a. In the first scenario, people would be more willing to lie about using a biodegradable detergent
because there is no follow up to verify and individuals usually prefer to appear environmentally
conscious. The second survey has a check in place to verify the answers given are truthful.
b. The first survey would likely yield a higher percentage of those who say they use a biodegradable
detergent. The second may anger the individuals who tell the truth as if their honesty is being
tested.

2.9
a. Alumni (men only?) who graduated from Yale in 1924.
b. No. Alumni whose addresses were on file 25 years later would not necessarily be representative of
their class.
c. Alumni who responded to the mail survey would not necessarily be representative of those who
were sent the questionnaires. Income figures may not be reported accurately (intentionally), or may
be rounded off to the nearest $5,000, say, in a self-administered questionnaire.
d. Rounding income responses would make the figure $25,111 unlikely. The fact that higher income
respondents would be more likely to respond (bragging), and the fact that incomes are likely to be
exaggerated, would tend to make the estimate too high.

2.10
a. Simple random sampling.
b. Stratified sampling.
c. Cluster sampling.

2.11
a. Simple random sampling.
b. Stratified sampling.
c. Cluster sampling.

2.12
a. Stratified sampling. Stratify by job category and then take a random sample within each job
category. Different job categories will use software applications differently, so this sampling
strategy will allow us to investigate that.
b. Systematic random sampling. Sample every tenth patient (starting from a randomly selected patient
from the first ten patients). Provided that there is no relationship between the type of patient and
the order that the patients come into the emergency room, this will give us a representative sample.

2.13
a. Stratified sampling. We should stratify by type of degree and then sample 5% of the alumni within
each degree type. This method will allow us to examine the employment status for each degree
type and compare among them.
 b. Simple random sampling. Once we find 100 containers we will stop. Still it will be difficult to get a
completely random sample. However, since we don’t know the locations of the containers, it would
be difficult to use either a stratified or cluster sample.

2.14
a. Water temperature and Type of hardener
b. Water temperature: 175 F and 200 F; Type of hardener: H1, H2, H3
c. Manufacturing plants
d. Plastic pipe
e. Location on Plastic pipe
f. 2 pipes per treatment
g. Covariates: None
h. 6 treatments: (175 F, H1), (175 F, H2), (175 F, H3), (200 F, H1), (200 F, H2), (200 F, H3)

2.15
This is an example where there are two levels of Experimental units, and the analysis is discussed in Chapter
18.
To study the effect of month:
a. Factors: Month
b. Factor levels: 8 levels of month (Oct - May)
c. Block = each section
d. Experimental unit (Whole plot EU) = each tree
e. Measurement unit = each orange
f. Replications = 8 replications of each month
g. Covariates = none
h. Treatments = 8 treatments (Oct – May)

To study the effect of location:

a. Factors: Location
b. Factor levels: 3 levels of location (top, middle, bottom)
c. Block = each section
d. Experimental unit (Split plot EU) = each location tree
e. Measurement unit = each orange
f. Replications = 8 replications of each location
g. Covariates = none
h. Treatments = 3 treatments (top, middle, bottom)

2.16
a. Factors: Type of drug
b. Factor levels: D1, D2, Placebo
c. Blocks: Hospitals
d. Experimental units: Wards
e. Measurement units: Patients
f. Replications: 2 wards per drug in each of the 10 hospitals
g. Covariates: None
h. Treatments: D1, D2, Placebo

6
2.17
a. Factors: Type of treatment
b. Factor levels: D1, D2, Placebo
c. Blocks: Hospitals, Wards
d. Experimental units: Patients
e. Measurement units: Patients
f. Replications: 2 patients per drug in each of the ward/hospital combinations
g. Covariates: None
h. Treatments: D1, D2, Placebo

2.18
a. Factors: Type of school
b. Factor levels: Public; Private – non-parochial; Parochial
c. Blocks: Geographic region
d. Experimental units: Classrooms
e. Measurement units: Students in classrooms
f. Replications: 2 classrooms per each type of school in each of the city/region combinations
g. Covariate: Measure of socio-economic status
h. Treatments: Public; Private – non-parochial; Parochial

2.19
a. Factors: Temperature, Type of seafood
b. Factor levels: Temperature (0 C, 5 C, 10 C); Type of seafood (oysters, mussels)
c. Blocks: None
d. Experimental units: Package of seafood
e. Measurement units: Sample from package
f. Replications: 3 packages per temperature
g. Treatments: (0 C, oysters), (5 C, oysters), (10 C, oysters), (0 C, mussels), (5 C, mussels), (10
C, mussels)
2.20
Randomized complete block design with blocking variable (10 orange groves) and 48 treatments
in a 3 × 4 × 4 factorial structure.
Experimental Units: Plots
Measurement Units: Trees

2.21
Randomized complete block design with blocking variable (10 warehouses) and 5 treatments (5
vendors)

2.22
Randomized complete block design, where blocked by day
2-factor structure (where the factors are type of glaze, and thickness)

2.23
a. Design B. The experimental units are not homogeneous since one group of consumers gives
uniformly low scores and another group gives uniformly high scores, no matter what recipe is used.

7
 Using design A, it is possible to have a group of consumers that gives mostly low scores randomly
assigned to a particular recipe. This would bias this particular recipe. Using design B, the
experimental error would be reduced since each consumer would evaluate each recipe. That is, each
consumer is a block and each of the treatments (recipes) is observed in each block. This results in
having each recipe subjected to consumers who give low scores and to consumers who give high
scores.
b. This would not be a problem for either design. In design A, each of the remaining 4 recipes would
still be observed by 20 consumers. In design B, each consumer would still evaluate each of the 4
remaining recipes.

2.24
a. “Employee” should refer to anyone who is eligible for sick days.
b. Use payroll records. Stratify by employee categories (full-time, part-time, etc.), employment
location (plant, city, etc.), or other relevant subgroup categories. Consider systematic selection
within categories.
c. Sex (women more likely to be care givers), age (younger workers less likely to have elderly
relatives), whether or not they care for elderly relatives now or anticipate doing so in the near future,
how many hours of care they (would) provide (to define “substantial”), etc. The company might
want to explore alternative work arrangements, such as flex-time, offering employees 4 ten-hour
days, cutting back to 3/4-time to allow more time to care for relatives, etc., or other options that
might be mutually beneficial and provide alternatives to taking sick days.

2.25
a. Each state agency and some federal agencies have records of licensed physicians, professional
corporations, facility licenses, etc. Professional organizations such as the American Medical
Association, American Hospital Administrators Association, etc., may have such lists, but they may
not be as complete as licensing records.
b. What nursing specialties are available at this time at the physician’s offices or medical facilities?
What medical specialties/facilities do they anticipate adding or expanding? What staffing
requirements are unfilled at this time or may become available when expansion occurs? What is
the growth/expansion time frame?
c. Licensing boards may have this information. Many professional organizations have special
categories for members who are unemployed, retired, working in fields not directly related to
nursing, students who are continuing their education, etc.
d. Population growth estimates may be available from the Census Bureau, university economic
growth research, bank research studies (prevailing and anticipated load patterns), etc. Health risk
factors and location information would be available from state health departments, the EPA,
epidemiological studies, etc.
e. Licensing information should be stratified by facility type, size, physician’s specialty, etc., prior to
sampling.

2.26
If phosphorous first: [P,N]
[10,40], [10,50], [10,60], then [20,60], [30,60] or
[20,40], [20,50], [20,60], then [10,60], [30,60] or
[30,40], [30,50], [30,60], then [10,60], [10,60]

8
If nitrogen first: [N,P]
[40,10], [40,20], [40,30], then [50,30], [60,30] or
[50,10], [50,20], [50,30], then [40,30], [60,30] or
[60,10], [60,20], [60,30], then [40,30], [50,30]

So, for example

Phosphorus 30 30 30 10 20
Nitrogen 40 50 60 60 60
Yield 150 170 190 165 185
Recommendation: Phosphorus at 30 pounds, and Nitrogen at 60 pounds.

2.27
Factor 2
Factor 1 I II III
A 25 45 65
B 10 30 50

2.28
a. Group dogs by sex and age:
Group Dog
Young female 2, 7, 13, 14
Young male 3, 5, 6, 16
Old female 1, 9, 10, 11
Old male 4, 8, 12, 15

b. Generate a random permutation of the numbers 1 to 16:

15 7 4 11 3 13 8 1 12 16 2 5 6 10 9 14
Go through the list and the first two numbers that appear in each of the four groups receive treatment
L1 and the other two receive treatment L2.
Group Dog-Treatment
Young female 2-L2, 7-L1, 13, 14-L2
Young male 3-L1, 5-L2, 6-L1, 16-L2
Old female 1-L1, 9-L2, 10-L2, 11-L1
Old male 4-L1, 8-L2, 12-L2, 15-L1

2.29
a. Bake one cake from each recipe in the oven at the same time. Repeat this procedure r times. The
baking period is a block with the four treatments (recipes) appearing once in each block. The four
recipes should be randomly assigned to the four positions, one cake per position. Repeat this
procedure r times.
b. If position in the oven is important, then position in the oven is a second blocking factor along with
the baking period. Thus, we have a Latin square design. To have r = 4, we would need to have each
recipe appear in each position exactly once within each of four baking periods. For example:
Period 1 Period 2 Period 3 Period 4
R1 R2 R4 R1 R3 R4 R2 R3
R3 R4 R2 R3 R1 R2 R4 R1

9
 c. We now have an incompleteness in the blocking variable period since only four of the five recipes
can be observed in each period. In order to achieve some level of balance in the design, we need to
select enough periods in order that each recipe appears the same number of times in each period
and the same total number of times in the complete experiment. For example, suppose we wanted
to observe each recipe r = 4 times in the experiment. If would be necessary to have 5 periods in
order to observe each recipe 4 times in each of the 4 positions with exactly 4 recipes observed in
each of the 5 periods.
Period 1 Period 2 Period 3 Period 4 Period 5
R1 R2 R5 R1 R4 R5 R3 R4 R2 R3
R3 R4 R2 R3 R1 R2 R5 R1 R4 R5

2.30
a. The 223 plots of approximately equal sized land from Google Earth (excluding water)
b. If there is some reason to believe the trees in the ‘watery’ regions differ from those in the other
regions, this discrepancy may cause a divide in our sampling frame and the population of all trees
in the region.
c. Again, if trees in the watery region tend to have larger trunk diameter, we would underestimate the
number of trees with diameter of 12 inches or more.
2.31
a. All cars (and by extension, their tires) in the state.
b. Cars registered in the 4 months in which the sample was taken.
c. 2 potential concerns arise: not all cars in the region are registered and the time of year may lead to
ignoring some cars (some people leave the area for the winter). Unregistered cars may have a
higher proportion of unsafe tire tread thickness.

2.32
a. All corn fields in the state.
b. All corn fields in the state (if a list is available).
c. Stratified sampling plan in which the number of acres planted in corn determine the strata.
d. No biases appear present.

2.33
a. People are notoriously bad at recall. A telephone interview immediately following the time of
interest would likely be best, but nonresponse is often high. Mailed questionnaires would likely be
administered too late to be of use and personal interviewing would be intractable to interview in a
timely manner.
b. All three are potential avenues. Interviews are more personal but more time consuming. Mailing
questionnaires should also work as the editor has a list of his/her clientele, but if he wants to garner
information about perspectives of those not reading his/her paper, he/she may need to blanket the
city with questionnaires. Telephone interviews may be difficult as finding the numbers of those in
the area may be difficult.
c. Again, all three methods would be viable. A mailed questionnaire would be the easiest and cheapest
but the response rate would likely be lower.
d. If the county believes they have an accurate list of those with dogs, a mailed questionnaire or
telephone interview would work, but using a list of registered dogs may be underrepresenting those
who haven’t taken good care of their dogs (and thereby underrepresenting the proportion with
rabies shots).

10
2.34
People who cheat on their taxes are unlikely to admit to it readily. Therefore, the poll likely
underestimates the true percentage of people who cheat on their taxes. Garnering truthful
responses, even if anonymity is guaranteed, on questions of a personal nature can be a challenge.

Introduction to Statistical Methods and Data Analysis 7th Edition Ott

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whom we expected to meet, some of them we found in the saloon
before retiring for the night.
Trips by ocean steamers have much the same features, and,
while the changes and vicissitudes of fog, rain and fine weather are
all important in the little floating community, they have little concern
for the outer world. To sufferers from sea-sickness, an ocean trip is a
terror. Medical men say, in a general way, that the infliction should
be welcomed, for it brings health, but I have seen those prostrated
by it who have been so depressed that I can not but think that if this
theory be true the improvement to health will be dearly purchased
by the penalty. Such, however, are the exceptions. With most people
one or two days’ depression is generally the extent of the infliction.
Personally I cannot complain. Nature has made me an excellent
sailor. With no remarkable appetite, I have never missed a meal on
board ship, nor ever found the call to dinner unwelcome.
Our first morning commenced with fog, but it cleared away as
we coasted along the somewhat bold shore of Gaspé in smooth
water. There is always divine service on these vessels on Sunday.
The Church of England form is as a rule adhered to, which is read by
the captain or doctor if no clergyman be present. If a clergyman be
found among the passengers he is generally invited to conduct
divine service, and any Protestant form is admitted. On the present
occasion the Rev. C. Hall, Presbyterian minister of Brooklyn, N. Y.,
officiated. The service was simple and appropriate, and the sermon
admirable. The day turned out fine, and the water so smooth that in
the afternoon every passenger was on deck. Our course being to the
south of the Island of Newfoundland, we passed the Magdalen
Islands and the Bird Rocks, and we think of the vast number of ships
which have ploughed these waters on their way to and from Quebec
and Montreal. It is now fifty years since “The Royal William” steamed
homewards on the same course we are now following. Much interest
begins to centre in “The Royal William.” It is claimed that she was
one of the pioneers of steamers, if not the very first steamer which
crossed the Atlantic under steam the whole distance. She was built
in Canada. She left Quebec on the 18th August, 1833, coaled at
Pictou, in Nova Scotia, and arrived at Gravesend on the 11th
September. She did not return to Canada, as she was sold by her
owners to the Spanish Government. Her model is preserved by the
Historical Society of Quebec. Some of these particulars I had from
the lips of one of the officers of “The Royal William,” who died a
quarter of a century ago.
There is but one counter claim to the distinction. A ship named
the “Savannah” crossed the Atlantic from the port of that name in
the Southern United States to Liverpool in 1819. She had machinery
for propulsion of a somewhat rude description, which seemed to be
attached as an auxiliary power to be used when the wind failed.
There is nothing to show that it was continuously employed. I have
recently heard from a friend in Savannah on the subject, and I quote
from his letter: “She was 18 days on the voyage. She resembled
very much in mould an old United States war frigate. The hull was
surmounted with a stack and three masts—fore, main and mizzen—
and was provided with side wheels of a primitive pattern, left wholly
exposed to view, and so arranged that they could at any time be
unshipped and the vessel navigated by sails only.”
On Monday before 2 a.m. we pass out of the Gulf by the Strait
of St. Paul into the open Atlantic, and still the water continues
perfectly smooth. There is a slight fog, which passes away, and we
behold nothing but the world of waters around us. The moon
appears, and we have an evening on deck long to be remembered.
Everything stands out clear and distinct, but the shadows are dark
and heavy. The moon casts its line of rippling light across the waves,
and the ship glides onward, almost weird-like in its motion.
One of the pleasures, as well as penalties, of travelling is to be
asked to make one at whist. It is a pleasure to take part in a single
rubber if played without stakes, but to one indifferent to cards, who
does not want to win his friend’s money or lose his own, to join such
a party is often no little of a sacrifice. Your reply when asked to play
may take the conventional form, “With pleasure,” and in a way you
feel pleasure, for you like to oblige people you care for, and you may
be in an extra genial mood; but how often I have wished some other
victim could have been found at such times. On this occasion I left
the deck when I would have willingly remained, and took my seat at
the card table.
The fog returned, and the ship went at half speed for the night.
When next day came there was no fog, but there was some little
rocking, which, to me, during the previous night, was but a pleasant
incentive to sleep, for I did not once hear the fog whistle in its
periodic roar—no pleasant sound—nor was I sensible of the dreaded
rattling of the ashes emptied overboard, a nightly and unavoidable
duty, and by no means a musical lullaby.
I find that several ladies are absent from breakfast this morning.
A breeze springs up; a sail is hoisted; and occasionally we have fog,
and now and then a cold blast, with alternations of damp and moist
air. Such is the general experience in crossing the Banks. As one
passenger remarked, “It is hungry weather.” The breakfast in most
cases had been sparing, an enforced necessity in some instances,
but the general feeling is one of being ravenous for lunch. The day
passes pleasantly, possibly idly, and in the evening the whist table
has its votaries. We leave the fog behind us, but the next day is
cloudy. There is a light wind, and the sea is a little disturbed. Most of
the passengers keep the deck. We fancy we see a whale. There is
too much cloud for the moon to penetrate, so the passengers
generally leave the deck to enjoy themselves quietly in the saloon.
We have a bright midsummer day this 21st June after a glorious
morning, and we advance eastward with all sail set. The spirits of all
on board seem to rise, the sky is so blue, and the sea so bright.
There is but slight motion, with which, most of the passengers are
becoming familiar.
We are now half way across. We begin to calculate when we
shall arrive, and what trains we shall take at Liverpool. I have many
times crossed the Atlantic, but I never could understand the
restlessness with which so many look for the termination of the
voyage. If there were some urgent necessity for immediate action on
the part of those who are travelling this impatience could be
accounted for. The majority, however, are tourists for pleasure or for
health, and, as for business or professional men, I never could see
how a few hours one way or the other could influence their
operations. To some the voyage is simply imprisonment; the
condition of being at sea is a penalty they pay at the sacrifice of
health and comfort. These are the exceptions. There are a large
number who feel as I do, and for my part, while it would be
affectation to profess to be fond of storm and tempest, a sea voyage
in ordinary fine weather is one of the most pleasurable experiences
of my life. I have good digestion and good spirits, and I am satisfied
with the pleasant change from a life on shore. I can generally read,
and I can always remain on deck, and I always have a certain
feeling of regret when I think that the voyage is soon coming to an
end. We are all well cared for, we form pleasant associations, and
anyone who can study human nature finds no little opportunity for
doing so on shipboard.
Our library, it is true, is somewhat limited, but it has a few good
books. I was somewhat struck on reading during this voyage almost
the last words of the celebrated Mary Somerville, who, after a most
distinguished career in science, died eleven years ago at Naples.
These words appear more striking to me when read on board ship.
“The blue peter has long been flying at my foremast, and, now that I
am in my 92nd year, I may soon expect the signal for sailing.”
We discuss our progress on all occasions. There is a general
thankfulness as we advance. Towards evening the motion of the ship
has increased, but we can all walk the deck. On the following day we
put on more canvas, for the breeze has increased and is more
favorable, and our progress is much greater. There is now
considerable motion, but we have all got familiar with it, and, as
sailors say, we have our sea-legs. The wind is at north-west; the day
clear and bright, with a warm-looking sky, speckled with fleecy
clouds. The decks are dry. We appear to be achieving wonders in
speed, and we are entering into all sorts of calculations as to what
extent we shall make up the seven hours’ detention by fog on the
Banks of Newfoundland. Our run yesterday was 342 miles in 23½
hours. Reckoning by observed time, we lose half an hour daily by
the advance made easterly. During the afternoon we have a fair
breeze, with all sail set, followed by the same pleasant and
agreeable evening. The passengers talk of leaving with much
readiness. Well is it said that much of the pleasure of life is
retrospective. “We are approaching land” is now the cry, and we
commence early the next morning calculating when we shall reach
Moville. Saturday afternoon is delightful. Bright gleams of sunshine
appear in the intervals of occasional showers. In the evening there is
a concert with readings from eight to ten. The collection is for the
“Sailors’ Orphanage” at Liverpool. On account of the concert our
lights are allowed to burn until midnight, and many of us remain on
deck nearly to that hour. The moon is three-quarters full; we have all
sail set, and we can see the reflected light of the sun in the northern
sky at midnight. To me there is a strange fascination in a scene of
this character, with all its accompaniments. There is a movement in
the sea and a freshness in the air which give a tingle to the blood,
and we seem to walk up and down the deck with an elasticity we
cannot explain to ourselves.
Next morning was Sunday. I was on deck half an hour before
breakfast. The land on the west coast of Ireland was in sight. The
morning was most fair, and it seemed to give additional zest to the
excitement produced by the approaching termination of the voyage.
We learn that we shall be at Moville at 2 o’clock. We have again
divine worship. A Methodist minister read the Church of England
service and delivered an admirable sermon. We reach Moville, and
find we have been seven days and ten hours making the run from
Rimouski. I took the opportunity here to send a cablegram home; it
consisted of one word, but that word contained a page of family
meaning.
We passed the Giant’s Causeway, at which the passengers
intently looked. We could also see Islay and the Mull of Kintyre.
 In the evening we have a second service. Our eloquent friend
from Brooklyn satisfied us so well the previous Sunday that we
begged of him to give us another sermon. He complied with our
wishes, and with equal success.
It is our last night on board; to-morrow we are to separate.
Many of us on this voyage have met for the first time, and in all
human probability few of us will again come side by side. There is
always a feeling of sadness in thinking you do something for the last
time. I can fancy even a convict leaving his cell where he has passed
some years pausing upon the threshold while a rush of the old
recollections, the long, sad hours cheered by gleams of hope, crowd
upon him, when he will feel some strange sentiment of regret that it
is the last time he looks upon the place. The feeling may last but a
second, but it is an impulse of our nature which is uncontrollable.
On board ship, with a certainty of gaining port to-morrow, the
last hours are passed in packing up and preparing to leave, and a
feeling of regret creeps in that now so many pleasant associations
are to end, and in spite of yourself some of the good qualities of
those who are set down as disagreeable people come to the surface
in your memory. Some few friendships are formed at sea which are
perpetuated, but generally the pleasantest of our relations terminate
with the voyage. It is too often the case, as in the voyage of life,
that those we have learned to esteem are seen no more.
We had to lose no time in order to pass the troublesome bar at
the mouth of Liverpool harbour. With vessels of the draught of the
American steamers it can only be crossed at high water. The officers
generally calculate what can be done from the hour they leave
Moville, and regulate their speed accordingly, so as to approach it at
the right moment.
No one knows better than the occupants of the cabin
corresponding with our own on the opposite side of the vessel that a
great many tons of ashes have been thrown overboard during the
voyage: we all know that a large volume of smoke has passed out of
the funnel, a proof of the great weight of fuel which has been
expended in keeping the screw revolving. The draught of the ship is
consequently considerably less than when we left the St. Lawrence.
There is now no fog; the weather is fine; there is everything to
encourage the attempt to run in, and it proves successful. On this
occasion, had we been twenty minutes later, we should have had to
remain outside until another tide. The lights of Galloway and the Isle
of Man were passed before the most of us retired last night. We all
awoke early; at a quarter to five we had crossed the bar; the
“Parisian” was in the Mersey; the tender came alongside the ship,
and very soon afterwards I stood again on English ground.
 CHAPTER III.
ENGLAND.

Willie Gordon—Custom House Annoyances—Cable Telegram—

Post Office Annoyances—London—Spurgeon’s Tabernacle
—An Ancestral Home—English and United States Hotels—
English Reserve—A Railway Accident—The Land’s End—A
Deaf Guest.

As I stood on the landing stage at Liverpool awaiting patiently

and with resignation for the Customs officers to allow the removal of
our luggage, a host of recollections ran through my mind. My
thoughts went back twenty years to another occasion when I landed
from an ocean steamer at an hour equally early. My memory has
been aided by one of those works which appear so frequently from
the New York press, so fertile in this species of encyclopædiac
literature, endeavouring to embrace in a few pages the truths
learned only by a life’s experience. The small volume tells you what
not to do, and it sententiously sets forth its philosophy in a series of
paragraphs. There are ninety-five pages of this philanthropic effort,
with about four hundred negative injunctions. The title of the book is
“Don’t.” The injunction that struck my eye most forcibly may be
taken as no bad type of the teaching of the book. It runs, “Don’t” is
the first word of every sentence. “Don’t go with your boots
unpolished, but don’t have the polishing done in the public
highways.” These words met my eye as I was engaged in these
pages, and they brought back the feelings which passed through my
mind on the morning I left the “Parisian.”
 My thoughts reverted to my visit to the Mother Country after
eighteen years’ absence; the first made by me since I left home in
1845. I was a passenger on the “United Kingdom,” due at Glasgow.
She had passed up the Clyde during the night, and arrived opposite
the Broomielaw in the early morning. The night previous the
passengers were in the best of humour, and the stewards had been
kept up late attending to us. We were all in high spirits, and without
exception delighted at returning to Scotland. I was particularly
impatient to get ashore, to touch the sacred ground of my native
land. I arose that morning one of the first of the passengers, before
the stewards were visible. The ship was in the stream off the
Broomielaw. A boat came to the side. I jumped into her and went
ashore. I strolled along the quay. My foot was not literally on “my
native heath,” but I enjoyed intensely the pleasure we all feel in
revisiting our native shores, and in being near the scenes from which
we have been long absent. Everything seemed so fresh and
charming. I had no definite purpose in my wandering, but I was at
home; it was Scotland. In my semi-reverie I was interrupted by a
young voice in the purest Clydesdale Doric saying “hae yer butes
brushed?” I looked down mechanically at my feet, and found that
the cabin bootblack of our vessel had neglected this duty, probably
owing to the irregular hours of the last night on board. Moreover, it
was the first word addressed to myself, and I should have felt bound
to accept the offer if it had been unnecessary in the fullest sense. I
commenced conversation with the boy. He was very young. I
summoned to my aid my best Scotch for the occasion. His name was
Willie Gordon, and he told me his widowed mother was a
washerwoman, that he had a number of brothers and sisters
younger than himself, that his earnings amounted to about half a
crown a week, and that between him and his mother they managed
to earn ten shillings in that time. “And how do you live, Willie?” “Reel
weel,” replied the boy, with the cheeriest of voices. “And now, Willie,”
I said, when I had paid him his fee, “it is many years since I have
been here. I want to see the places of greatest interest in Glasgow.”
“Ou, sir,” he promptly said, “ye shuld gang ta see Corbett’s eatin
hoose.” “Do you know the way there?” I asked. “Fine, sir. I ken the
way vary weel. I’ll gang wi ye tae the door,” and his face looked even
happier than before. I accepted his guidance, and, if my recollection
is correct, the place was in Jamaica street. The boy walked by my
side carrying his brushes and box, and chatted gaily of himself and
his life. Apparently no prince could be happier. We reached the
renowned establishment he had named. It was a species of home
which a benevolent citizen had instituted, on the same principle on
which the coffee taverns are now established: to furnish an early hot
cup of tea or coffee to men going to work, to offer some other
refreshment than whiskey and beer, to give a meal at cost price with
all the comfort possible with cleanliness good cheer and airy rooms,
warm in winter. After some hesitation, and persuasion on my part,
Willie shyly entered with me. The menu was on the wall. Porridge
and milk one penny, large cup of coffee one penny, bread and butter,
thick, one penny, eggs and toast one penny, &c., &c.; everything,
one penny. I cannot say that I give a precise account of what
appeared, but it was essentially as I describe it. We were a little
early even for that establishment, so Willie and I sat down. The
buxom matron gave us some account of the place and its doings.
The Duke of Argyle had dined with her a few days before. She told
us the establishment was well patronized and prosperous. The time
soon came for our order, for we were the first to be served. I set
forth what I required for myself, and that was no light breakfast, as I
had a sea appetite, sharpened by the early morning walk. I directed
the attendant to bring the same order in double proportions for the
boy, so that we had a splendid déjeuner. My little companion was in
ecstasies. Never was hospitality bestowed on a more grateful
recipient. He would not leave me, and he seemed bound to make a
morning of it, and from time to time graciously volunteered, “I’ll tak
ye ony gait, Sir.” His customers were forgotten, but I trust he did not
suffer from his devotion to me, for I did my best to remedy his
neglect of professional duty. He followed me from place to place,
carrying the implements of his day’s work, and he seemed anxious
to do something for the trifling kindness I had shown him and the
few pence I had paid for his breakfast. But I was more than
compensated by the pleasure I myself received. I listened to all he
said with fresh interest, for he was open, earnest, honest and
simple-minded. He was deeply attached to his mother, and was
evidently proud to be able to add to her slender earnings, which
were just enough to keep her and her family from want. He certainly
seemed determined to do all in his power to make her comfortable.
He never lost sight of me till I left by the eleven o’clock train, and
my last remembrance, on my departure from Glasgow on that
occasion as the train moved out, was seeing Willie waving his
brushes and boot-box enthusiastically in the air. I often wonder what
Willie’s fate is. He appeared to me to be of the material to succeed
in life. In Canada he certainly would have worked his way up. I
never heard of him again, but I certainly shall not be greatly
astonished to hear of Sir William Gordon, distinguished Lord Provost
of Glasgow.
One of the nuisances of travelling throughout the world is the
ordeal of passing the Custom House. Frequently the traveller from
Canada thinks the infliction at Liverpool is pushed a little further than
is requisite. What can we smuggle from Canada? I know quite well
that there is generally a very loose conscience as to the contents of
a lady’s trunk, considered under the aspect of its fiscal obligations,
but surely some form of declaration might be drawn up by means of
which honourable men and women would be spared this grievous
and irritating delay. Apart from the delay, it is no agreeable matter to
open out your carefully packed portmanteau. To ladies it is
particularly offensive to have their dresses turned over and the
contents of their trunks handled by strangers. Canadians, while
crossing their own frontier, find the Custom House officers of the
United States, as a rule, particularly courteous, and, on giving a
straightforward declaration that they have nothing dutiable, they are
generally allowed to pass at once. Liverpool may not be alone in
strictly exacting all that the law allows, but is this course at all
necessary or wise? It cannot increase the revenue, for the additional
expense of collection must more than absorb the trifling receipts.
And one is not kindly impressed with this reception, especially when
we feel that it is totally unnecessary. We cross the ocean from
Canada with peculiar feelings of pride and sentiment to visit our
Mother Land, and it is somewhat of a severe wrench to be treated as
foreigners by the Customs authorities on our arrival; I will not say
uncivilly or wrongfully, but as if we were adventurers going to
England on some plundering tour. It is certainly no petty annoyance
to Canadians, when they make their entry into a land they are
taught to call “home,” to have their sense of common honesty thus
challenged at the threshold. Anything which is brought from Canada
can only be some trifling present, such as Indian work, to some
relative in the Old Country; and if, possibly, a few pounds be lost to
the exchequer, it is made up a thousandfold by the good will arising
from being courteously treated on the first landing on English soil.
Would it not suffice if every ordinary passenger were required to
make a declaration in some such form as the following?: “I am a
Canadian subject. I declare upon my honour that my baggage
contains nothing whatever for sale. I have with me my personal
effects for my own use only.” Or it may be added, “I have a few gifts
for old friends, of little or no commercial value.”
Perhaps some British statesman might not think these
suggestions beneath his notice. Let him send a competent agent to
examine and report upon this subject. He will probably discover that
the whole nuisance can be swept away without inflicting the
slightest injury on the national exchequer. It would form no
discreditable sentence in a statesman’s epitaph to read that “he did
away with the needless and offensive restrictions imposed on British
subjects from the outer empire visiting the Imperial centre.”
Having at last passed the Custom House, I drove to Rock Ferry,
one of the most pleasant suburbs of Liverpool, to visit a family I was
acquainted with, and with them I passed a most enjoyable day. The
greeting I received was most cordial and gratifying. In the afternoon
I started for London, leaving my daughter behind me, and I found
myself once more whirling through the green meadows and
cultivated fields of England. I was alone, but I did not feel solitary.
How charming everything looked! The air was fresh with passing
showers, and the rain played for some quarter of an hour on the
landscape only to make it look fresher and fairer, and, when the sun
came out, more full of poetry. Why, we are at Harrow-on-the-Hill!
Has time gone so quickly? There is so much to think about, so many
fresh scenes to gaze upon, and so many events seem to crowd into
the hours that the traveller, in his bewilderment, loses count of time.
I am again in London, at Batt’s hotel, Dover street, and I walk to
the Empire Club to learn if there are any letters for me. I am
disappointed to find there is no cablegram. I despatched one from
Moville, and one word in reply would have told me if all was well. I
recollect well the depression I experienced at the time at not
receiving news. It was an inexplicable feeling; not exactly one of
impatience or disappointment, but rather of keen anxiety. “Why
should there be silence,” I murmur, when everything points to the
necessity for a reply.
Next day my business took me to the city, and I returned as
rapidly as I could. In the afternoon, to relieve my suspense, I went
to the Geological Society’s rooms, and mechanically looked over the
books and specimens. I wandered into the rooms of the Royal
Society, and found before me the well known features of Mary
Somerville as they are preserved in her bust. I then strolled into the
parks and down to the Club, and still no cablegram. These facts are
of no interest to any but the writer, but possibly they may suggest,
not simply to the transmitter of telegrams but to the officials who
pass them through their hands, how much often depends upon their
care and attention, and that there is something more required than
simply receiving and recording a message. There is the duty of
seeing to its proper delivery, and it was precisely on this ground that
my trouble took its root.
I was three days in London when I received a telegram from Mr.
George Stephen, President of the Canadian Pacific Railway Company,
stating that he was desirous that I should proceed to British
Columbia as soon as possible. It was my acceptance of this
proposition which has led to the production of these pages, but at
that hour I felt that Mr. Stephen’s communication only increased my
bewilderment. My telegraphic address was properly registered at the
General Post Office in London, and it had been used over and over
again during my annual visits to England. The cablegram I had just
received bore the registered address, and yet I had received no
message from my family in Halifax. I have often sent cablegrams,
and never more than twenty-four hours elapsed before receiving a
reply. Consequently I again telegraphed, plainly stating my anxiety,
and then wandered out to call on some friends. Later in the evening
I at last found an answer, and, in order that it might not again
miscarry, the sender put on my address five additional words, held
as quite unnecessary, at two shillings each, making ten shillings
extra to pay. On my return to Canada I learned that no less than
three cablegrams had been sent to me, each one of which remains
to this day undelivered. Two of the despatches were sent before,
one subsequently to, the message last mentioned. All were properly
addressed. I felt it a public duty to write to the Secretary of the Post
Office Department in London, but no satisfactory explanation has yet
been given. Life is a mass of trifles, as a rule. The exceptions are our
griefs and our sufferings, our triumphs and joys; the latter, as a
French writer says, “counting by minutes, the former by epochs.” I
passed three particularly unpleasant days during this period, my own
personal affair, of course, and one in which the world may seem to
have no interest. But the public has really a deep interest in having a
more perfect system of Atlantic telegraphy than we now possess,
and the facts I have described, have their moral. At least it is to be
hoped that the authorities may remember that anyone separated by
the ocean from his correspondents is not content that telegrams
should be delayed for days, and still less content not to have them
delivered at all.
I was a month in England, chiefly in London, remaining until the
26th of July. I must say that when in London I often thought of,
although I can not fully endorse, the words of that enthusiastic
Londoner who held that it was the “best place in the world for nine
months in the year, and he did not know a better for the other
three.” In London you can gratify nearly every taste, and although it
always takes money to secure the necessaries and luxuries of life,
especially in great cities, still, if one can content himself with living
modestly, it does not require a wonderfully large income to enjoy the
legitimate excitements and amusements of London. In this respect it
is a marked contrast to New York, where, generally speaking, a large
income must be at your command for even a moderate degree of
respectable comfort.
In London, to those who cannot afford a carriage, there is a cab,
and those who have no such aspirations as a “hansom” can take the
omnibus. It is not necessary to go to the orchestra stalls to see a
performance, nor are you obliged to pay six guineas per week for
your lodgings or one pound for your dinner. The reading room of the
British Museum is open to every respectable, well-ordered person.
You can look at some of the best pictures in the world for nothing,
and, if you are a student of history and literature, there are localities
within the ancient boundaries of the city which you cannot regard
without emotion. You have two of the noblest cathedrals in the
world; Westminster Abbey, with its six centuries of history, and with
its tombs and monuments, setting forth tangibly the evidences of
the past national life. Then you have Wren’s classical masterpiece St.
Paul’s, one of the most perfect and commanding edifices ever
erected anywhere. Its interior has never been completed. Will it ever
be so? Yet, as Wren’s epitaph tells us, if you wish to see his
monument “look around you.”
Again, in London, by way of recreation, you have public parks,
river-side resorts, and by the river itself and underground railway
you can easily reach many pleasant haunts about the suburbs.
Indeed, by the aid of the steamboat or rail you can take the most
charming outings any person can desire to have. London may be
said to be inexhaustible.
As one of the directors of the Hudson Bay Company I had often
to visit the city, and some very pleasant relationships grew out of my
attendance at the various board meetings. I was constantly meeting
Canadians, and certainly we hold together in a peculiar way when
away from the Dominion. It is a strong link we are all bound by, and
yet we would find it hard to explain why. Even men who are not
particularly civil to one another in Canada will cross each other’s
path with pleasure when from home, and intimacies never
anticipated are formed, and associations entered upon once thought
impossible.
One of my visits was to Spurgeon’s Tabernacle. The name is
familiar to everyone, and as I had been many times in London
without hearing this celebrated preacher, I was anxious not to return
to Canada without making the attempt. I was told to be in good
time, and, acting on the suggestion, I obtained a good seat, and
formed, I should suppose, one of four thousand people. Just in front
of me, strange to say, I beheld a familiar form, which I recollected
last to have seen at Queen’s College convocation, Kingston: the
Premier of Ontario! Mr. Oliver Mowat was the gentleman who was
seated two pews in front of me. He was the last person I expected
to meet in such a place, as I did not even know he was in England.
He was the only one in that vast assemblage I recognized. Spurgeon
is, undoubtedly, worthy of his great reputation, and on this particular
Sunday his sermon was forcible, marked by rare good sense, and
perfectly adapted to his auditory. I felt fully rewarded for my effort
to be present. When the service was over I had a few words with Mr.
Mowat, but our interview was but short, for I had an engagement,
and it was necessary for me to hurry to the Waterloo Station to take
the train for Guildford, in order to reach —— Park, in its
neighbourhood.
This was a most agreeable visit to me. I do not think there is
any country but England where scenes and associations are known
such as I there witnessed. At the station a carriage met us, for I
found myself in company with a gentleman going to the same
hospitable mansion. He was an Irish M. P. On our entering the
grounds we passed amidst grand old elms, along a noble avenue,
and through walks beautiful with roses, ivy and laurel. My welcome
was most courteous and graceful. There were several guests, but it
was my privilege to sleep in the haunted room. The walls were hung
with tapestry; the floor was of oak; the fireplace was a huge
structure of sculptured stone from floor to ceiling. No ghost
disturbed my slumbers, and, in the words of Macbeth, “I slept in
spite of thunder.” I awoke at dawn, and drew back the heavy
curtains to admit the light. It was about sunrise. Shall I ever forget
that magnificent view from the old windows, with their quaint
transoms and quarterings, and circular heads! the sight of those fine
old trees, stately beeches, tall ancient elms, venerable blue beech,
and many a noble oak of from two to three centuries’ growth! It was
one of those old ancestral domains, with glades, avenues and forest,
which seem to take you out of the present world and back in
thought to one altogether different, in many of its conditions, from
the life of to-day. The most carefully developed homestead of old
Boston, or one of the finest mansions on the Hudson, with the
outline of mountain scenery, and its associate stream; any one of
the well built halls south of the Potomac, elaborated with all the
wealth of the planter; or even one of our own palatial Canadian
residences; all appear a thing of yesterday as compared with that
stately edifice, with its delightful lawns, walks and avenues, which
bear the ancient impress of their date and of their early greatness.
No doubt these paths were trod by men in the troublous times of
Henry VIII. and his three children, men who then may have debated
mooted points of history in this very neighbourhood. There is a
tradition also that the virgin Queen has looked upon this same
landscape “in maiden meditation fancy free.”
The morning was peculiarly fine, and as I opened the window to
admit the pure, fresh air I really breathed again to enjoy it, and
inhale the perfume of foliage and of the garden flowers; flowers
whose ancestors may have traced three centuries of life, at least the
early known plants indigenous to English soil; while those of foreign
origin could boast of sires, perhaps, the first of their genus brought
from the Continent. The air was vocal with music; the trees seemed
peopled with scores of blackbirds and mavis, and there was many a
proverbial “early bird” busy with the yet earlier worm, who had
gained so little by his rising. All nature seemed teeming with life and
gladness. I can only here acknowledge the courtesy I received from
my host and hostess. The hours passed away unclouded by the
slightest shadow, and I know no more pleasant memory than that of
my visit to this English ancestral home.
I was highly pleased, on my return to Batt’s Hotel, to receive
intimation that my daughter was shortly to join me in London. There
is a certain solitude in a London hotel, which is much the opposite of
the continental life, and entirely distinct from the table d’hote system
of this continent. In England the desire is to secure extreme quiet
and privacy, while on this side of the Atlantic every auxiliary is
provided for publicity and freedom of movement. This is especially
the case in the United States. In Canada it may be said that a middle
course is taken. In many large hotels on this continent, in addition to
the drawing and breakfast rooms, parlours and halls and writing and
news rooms are open, where papers are furnished and sold, seats at
the theatre obtained, telegrams sent, books, especially cheap
editions of novels, purchased, with photographs of the professional
beauties, leading politicians and other celebrated people. All of these
places are marked by busy, bustling life. The dining room, from its
opening in the morning till a late hour at night, is one scene of
animation, be the meal what it may. Some of the beau sexe even
visit the breakfast room with elaborate toilets, and many a pair of
earrings glitter in the sun’s early rays. A walk up and down the wide
passage or hall at any hour is proper and regular, and it is stated
that it is often the only exercise indulged in by many living in the
great hotels of the United States, the street car furnishing the
invariable means of locomotion. In the large cities the hotels are
situated, as a rule, on the main streets. There are always rooms
where one may from the windows look upon the crowds passing and
repassing. Thus a drama of ever-changing life can be comfortably
witnessed from an armchair placed at the right point of observation.
There is no such thing as loneliness. Almost everyone is ready, more
than ready, to converse with you. If you yourself are courteous and
civil you will probably find those around you equally so, whether
they be guests or belong to the establishment. With a little tact and
judgment you can always obtain useful information. My experience
likewise is that the information is invariably correct: for there never
seems to be any hesitation in a negative reply when those you
address are not acquainted with the particular point of inquiry. The
gentleman who presides over the cigars, the controller of the papers
and the photographs and the official of the bar, an important field of
action in a high class hotel, each and all make it a point of duty
impressively to patronize your local ignorance when you ask for
information. In an English hotel the general rule is for no one person
to speak to another. If you do venture on the proceeding, Heaven
only knows what reply you may receive. In the class divisions of the
Mother Country there may be social danger in not observing the
lines defined by etiquette. There are always men of good address
and appearance who are not unknown to the police, and whose
photographs may be destined at no distant period to figure in the
Rogues’ Gallery. But such men are to be found in all countries.
Whatever necessity there may be for prudence and circumspection,
it has struck me that there is really no ground for that absolute
uncompromising offensiveness of manner which often well-meaning
men in England feel bound to show to any person who addresses
them, as the joke goes, “to whom they have not been introduced.”
If you are quite alone very little experience in the English hotel is
enough to throw you back on yourself, and to depress even a gay
and blithsome nature. You walk with a listless air through the
corridors, you take your meals with a sort of mechanical
impassiveness which you cannot help feeling, and you seem to drop
into the crowd of reserved, self-contained individuals, who act as if
they thought that courtesy to a stranger was a national crime. I do
not speak of the clubs, where, if you are a member, you can always
meet some acquaintance. But comparatively few Canadians visit
England who are club men. I know no solitude so dreary, nor any
atmosphere so wearying, as that of the London hotel in a first class
lateral street when you have nobody to speak to, where you can see
scarcely a living soul out of the window, where the only noise is the
distant rumble of vehicles in the neighbouring thoroughfare, and
where, when you are tired with reading or writing, you have no
recourse but to put on your hat and sally out into the street.
A circumstance crosses my mind as I am writing which gives
some insight into English life and character. It happened to a friend,
now no more, with whom I had crossed the Atlantic. He was
travelling from Liverpool to London, and took his place in the railway
carriage, sitting on the back middle seat, while opposite in the
corner seats were two gentlemen, each with a newspaper. The train
had been an hour on its journey, but the silence was unbroken. At
last my friend spoke. “Gentlemen,” he said, “I am L—— D——. I
have come from ——”, and he named a city in the Dominion. “I have
been a merchant for fifty years, and now I am living in ease. I am
eighty-three years of age, and, like the large majority of Canadians,
I have two eyes and one tongue, and, like a great many of my
countrymen, I feel a pleasure in using them. My eyes feel the period
of time they have done me service. I cannot read from the motion,
but I can take part in a conversation. My business in Britain is to see
my daughters. One is married to an officer quartered at the Royal
barracks in Dublin. I am just returning from a visit to her, and I am
on my way to see my second daughter, whose husband is stationed
at Woolwich. Having now introduced myself, I trust, gentlemen, you
will not look upon me as a pickpocket or anything of that sort.” One
of the gentlemen carefully drew out his card-case and gave his card.
This example was followed by his opposite neighbour. “What,
gentlemen,” my friend said, looking at the cards through his
spectacles, which he deliberately put on, “you do not seem to know
one another; let me introduce you.” At the same moment he crossed
his arms and presented the card of the one to the other. The curtest
and least definable bow was given. One query followed another, and
my friend had a great deal to say and much to enquire about. He
had occupied the highest position in the city he came from, and had
mixed a good deal with the men of his world. The three or four
hours which followed were most pleasing to the trio. My friend’s
fellow travellers were county men, and he was cordially invited to
spend a week with each of them. The invitations were accepted, the
acquaintance renewed, he met with the most cordial English
welcome, and the visits proved to be particularly agreeable to all
parties.
In my experience, and in that of others who come under the
name of Canadians, whose fortunes now lie in the Dominion,
whatever our place of birth, all that the Englishman wants to know
regarding us is that we are Canadians; in other words, that we are
not dubious members of an uncertain phase of English society. We
then at once receive the most genial courtesy and kindness; real,
true, honest, hospitable kindness. I reason from this that we must
be outside the circle in which this frigid intercourse is observed as a
protection. We are in England for a brief time; then we pass from
the scene, and there is no fear entertained on the part of our English
neighbours of forming an unpleasant and unprofitable, that is
scarcely the word, an embarrassing, relationship. I have heard the
explanation given for this peculiarity that its very defects spring from
the loyalty of character which marks the high-bred Englishman. The
theory is that, if he knows you once, he is always to know you. He
wishes to run no risk of being placed in a false position, and hence
avoids any intercourse which, although in a way agreeable to him,
he will not accept at the cost of his own self-respect. And there are
men who in no way incur blame for want of courtesy in a railway
carriage, but they will pass their fellow traveller after a week’s
interval as if they had never seen him. It may be urged that those
who live in the state of society which obtains in England are the best
able to understand its conditions and the wisdom of its laws. It is
quite possible that this mode of treatment of a stranger may be
commended by experience. There are many examples where the
opposite course has led to trouble, but prudence and good sense
would surely avoid annoyance, and they are requisite under all
circumstances. But is it not also advisable to avoid the extraordinary
discourtesy with which sometimes a remark from a stranger is
received, as if it were designed to serve some deliberate scheme of
wrong, or to lead up to some act of swindling and imposture. Surely
we may always be able to detect any attempt of this kind and
protect ourselves; and in all conditions of life good manners cost
little and entail no risk.
In one of my excursions from London I was travelling by the
Great Western Railway. A lady and gentleman were in the same
compartment. I made the third. Shortly after leaving Paddington the
lady suffered from a spark in her eye, certainly a most painful
annoyance. Her fellow passenger appeared much troubled and as
much bewildered. Neither seemed to know what to do, and the lady
did not conceal how much she suffered. I ventured to address the
gentleman, and said, as was the case, that I had frequently
experienced this unfortunate accident, and that if the eye was kept
moist the pain would be lessened. He barely answered me. The lady
continued in pain. The train stopped for three minutes at Swindon. I
took my flask, made a rush to the refreshment room, carefully
washed the cup, filled it with water, and brought it to the carriage. I
offered it, I believe with ordinary good manners, to the gentleman,
and suggested that a handkerchief moistened with cold water should
be applied to the eye. My offer was curtly declined! There was
nothing more to be done. I threw the water out of the window,
replaced my flask in my travelling bag, and turned to my book. I did
not forget the incident during my trip, nor, indeed, have I ever done
so.
I continued on my journey, and proceeded to visit some friends
in the West of England, after which I found my way to the Land’s
End, which I felt a great desire to see. I went to Torquay, and the
sight of so many invalids in Bath chairs made me melancholy; to
Dartmouth, at the entrance of the River Dart, near the birthplace of
the great Sir Walter Raleigh; to Totness, to Davenport and to
Penzance; thence to the treeless, bleak-looking district of the Land’s
End, to look at a landscape which I shall always remember.
At a little inn on the most westerly point of England I found I
could get a chop and a glass of ale. Having ordered luncheon, I
strolled out in the meantime to have a look at the blue water and
the wide expanse of ocean. The place is certainly solitary enough,
but in its way the boldness of the landscape and the never-ceasing
roar of the waves elevated it from dreariness. I returned to the room
of the inn and found a gentleman seated at the table. I had a
perfect recollection of my experience in the railway carriage a few
days previously. But it seemed to me to meet a stranger at this spot,
seldom visited, gave a guarantee of a certain similarity of tastes, and
that it might possibly be agreeable to both to exchange a few words.
Indeed, I thought it would be perfect folly for us to remain together
in silence for about half an hour as if ignorant of the presence of
each other. I therefore made up my mind that, at any rate, the fault
should not be mine, and that I would make bold to break the ice. We
were certainly not introduced, but at all risks I would make an effort
to begin by saying some ordinary words about the weather. The sky
was cloudy and the air cold, but I raised my voice to a cheerful tone
and said, “It is rather raw to-day, sir.” The gentleman addressed took
not the slightest notice of what I had said! And how ridiculous and
embarrassing it did seem to me at the time to think that two rational
beings should be lunching together at a little round table in the last
house in England in solemn silence! I fear that not a few
disagreeable thoughts passed through my mind, but I could do
nothing. In due time I was ready to return to Penzance. I entered
the vehicle which had brought me hither, and at no great distance
away from the inn we passed the individual I had lunched with,
walking by himself. I took the opportunity, when out of hearing, of
asking the driver if he knew who he was. I received the reply that he
was a deaf and dumb gentleman who lived in the neighbourhood!
 CHAPTER IV.
ENGLAND—(Continued).

Marquis of Salisbury—Classical studies—Henley Regatta—Red

Lion—London Dinner to Lord Dufferin—His Speech—
Greenwich—Fisheries Exhibition—Bray—The Vicar—The
Thames—Minehead—The Polynesian.

I was exceedingly glad to be joined by my daughter in London,

because much depended on her arrival. We had many places to see
together, and she was to accompany me on a visit to some friends in
the country, who had extended to us a very warm invitation. During
this visit we met all the kindness we could have even fancied, at one
of those English homes, standing among old trees, with ivy-covered
walls, and gardens full of roses of all colours and in the greatest
perfection.
We returned to London, as I had matters to attend to at the
offices of the Hudson Bay Company, the Colonial Office, and the
office of the High Commissioner for Canada.
Shortly after my arrival the Marquis of Salisbury distributed the
prizes at King’s College, and his remarks on the occasion struck me
forcibly. Owing to my connection with Queen’s University, Kingston,
it had become my duty, however imperfectly I might have performed
it, to approach the same question: the extent to which classical
studies should form the basis of education. Lord Salisbury pointed
out, with all the polish which marks his utterances, that intellectual
capacity is as varied as any other of God’s creations; that many
minds have little inclination for study: and that to devote the best
years of life to the acquisition of an imperfect acquaintance with
Greek and Latin was most unwise and barren of good results. Lord
Salisbury proceeded to say:

“I cannot but feel, in reading this list, how singularly

privileged the present generation is in the studies they are
invited to pursue. In my time, and before my time, for I was
just at the end of the darker period, there were only two
possible lines of study—classics and mathematics.
Mathematics was looked upon in many quarters with
considerable jealousy and doubt. Classics was the one food
tendered to all appetites and all stomachs. I do not wish to
say a word in depreciation of classics. It would be as sensible
to speak in depreciation of wheat and oats because wheat will
not grow in the North of Scotland and oats will not grow at
the equator. But people are coming gradually, if they have not
come fully, to the conclusion that the intellectual capacity is
as various as any other of nature’s creations, and that there
are as many different kinds of minds, open to as many
different kinds of treatment, as there are soils on the surface
of the earth; and that it is as reasonable to try to force all
minds to grow classics, or to grow mathematics, or to grow
history, as it would be to force all soils to grow fruit, or grass,
or corn. This is an enormous gain to the present generation.
For what happened in the last generation, or two generations
ago, was this, that those minds which were fitted for
education in classics received full development, while those
minds not fitted for that treatment were stunted and turned
from intellectual pursuits altogether. There is no greater
privilege of the present generation than the full conception at
which we have arrived of the fact that almost every intellect
is, if it be properly treated, capable of high development. But
whether that development be reached or not depends upon
the judgment with which its capacities are nurtured and its
early efforts encouraged. Now, in this list I am very glad to
 see that modern history and the English language and
literature occupy a very distinguished position.
“I have the greatest possible respect for the educational
establishments in which I was brought up, but I never look
back without a feeling of some bitterness to the many hours
during which I was compelled to produce the most execrable
Latin verse in the world. I believe that if a commission of
distinguished men were appointed to discover what is the
most perfectly useless accomplishment to which the human
mind can be turned a large majority would agree that
versification in the dead languages was that accomplishment.
On that account, I suppose, we were compelled in the last
generation, whether we were fitted or not, to devote a
considerable time to it, and, if it is any compensation to you
for the severe examination you have to undergo, think of the
agonies of unpoetical minds set to compose poetical
effusions, which you are happily spared.”

Lord Salisbury dwelt upon the number of examinations to which

everybody in the military and civil services is subjected, and
instanced one official who had passed through thirty-six
examinations. In his own able way he declared his opposition to the
system of cramming, by which the mere surface of knowledge is
floated over with facts, cunningly grouped together, soon to be
forgotten and never of true value.
Hot weather is sometimes experienced in London, but it is a
different heat from that of Canada, and by no means to be
compared with it in temperature. Few people dress to meet the
summer in England, and in winter the sole addition is the great coat.
A fur cap is unknown. The round silk hat, so much abused, holds its
own, summer and winter, against all attempts to banish it. Although
the days are hot, the nights are generally cool. Any extraordinarily
hot weather is exceedingly oppressive to the Londoner.
 It was during the warm days that I went to Henley, to join a
party who had engaged to be present at the regatta. With a
Canadian friend I took the train to Maidenhead, thence by the
branch railway to Henley, one of the most striking landscapes in the
valley of the Thames, remarkable for its many beauties. The river
here is broad, and runs between undulating hills covered with
foliage. We cross the old stone bridge at Henley in order to find our
friends among the many carriages. No more pleasant spectacle could
have been seen. It presented only the sunny and holiday side of life.
It was as different from the mixed mass of human beings of all
classes and conditions you meet at the Derby or the other horse
races near the metropolis as can be imagined. All was order,
quietude and irreproachable respectability. There were no drinking
booths, no gambling, no shrieking out the “odds,” none of the
professional rough element in search of a “good thing.” We were
among the most elaborate toilets. No one but looked her best.
Probably nowhere do we see more thoroughly this one phase of
English life than at the Henley regatta. The scenery is English, the
people are English; we have the theoretical English staidness and
propriety. The amusement is English. What struck me was the
absence of all excitement. This indifference appeared to me
remarkable. Indeed, the only exhibition of interest was that shown
by the oarsmen, who were young men in perfect condition, with
muscles well trained and developed, and who bent enthusiastically
to their work. I did not hear a single cheer. I never before nor since
beheld such an orderly crowd, if I may apply that word to an
assemblage of so many distinguished people. I noticed that those
who came under my observation were generally light-haired or
brown, with fair complexions. It seemed to me, judging from
appearances, as if the regatta was looked upon as a very ordinary
affair in itself, and that it was more an occasion for the well-dressed
mass of people to meet together. There evidently was a theory that
some one boat must come in first, and, as it generally happened
that there was a foregone conclusion as to who the winner would
be, there was nothing to call for enthusiasm. Certainly none was
shown.
 We did not find our friends, although we searched diligently for
them on both sides of the river. After giving up the attempt
reluctantly, we resolved to take luncheon at the renowned old
hostelry, the “Red Lion,” celebrated as the inn where Shenstone
wrote his lines in praise of an inn, perhaps his only lines now
generally remembered. The “Red Lion” did not belie its ancient
reputation. There is always a pleasure in visiting these haunts of a
former generation. There is little of modern finery and frippery about
them, but you find the actual comforts of life above criticism.
Nowhere can be seen a whiter cloth, brighter glass, finer bread,
sweeter butter, juicier meat or a more royal tankard of English ale,
whose praises Chaucer might have sung.
We took the 6.10 evening train to Maidenhead, and then walked
to our friends’ place. We found that they had driven to Henley,
excepting those who kindly received us. The party, however, came
back in good time, having heard of us through a common friend,
recently an Aide-de-camp on the General’s staff in Halifax. We had
met him at the regatta, and asked intelligence of the party. He had
succeeded where we had failed, and had found those of whom we
were in search.
We returned to London. Finding we had now about a fortnight to
remain, we mapped out our plans in order to see what we could do
in that time. We saw all the public sights which our engagements
enabled us to do. I cannot say that I was greatly impressed with the
pictures of the Royal Academy. Several were good, but I did not find
a large number of surpassing excellence, I was much struck by a
water-colour drawing of mountain scenery, with a bridge and
stream, Kirbrücher Stadden in Switzerland, by Arthur Croft. We went
to the theatre, and saw Irving in “The Bells” and “Impulse” at the St.
James; to a promenade concert at the Botanical Gardens, Regent’s
Park and to Wimbledon. Through the courtesy of Col. Otter, in
command of the Canadian camp, we were invited to an at home
given by him, where we saw a great many Canadian friends. We also
met some distinguished military people. We were gratified to learn
all about the success of our marksmen. The rain, however, was
exceptionally heavy during the whole day, and most unfortunately
there was no going beyond the shelter of the canvas tents.
One event of no ordinary importance which we witnessed was
the banquet to Lord Dufferin at the Empire Club. Lord Bury presided.
Sir Charles Tupper and the Honourable Alexander Mackenzie both
spoke very effectively. It struck me that in each case their speeches
were admirable. Neither of them occupied more than ten or fifteen
minutes, and what they said had the impress of careful consideration
and finish, for it was dignified, concise and appropriate. I have no
recollection of having heard either of those well known public men
speak to better advantage, and it was a matter of great regret to all
of us that their speeches were not reported. The dining room of the
club is not large; it can hold no more than sixty at most, so the
number who could attend was limited, much to the disappointment
of many. We were all of us glad to see Lord Dufferin. He was quite
unchanged. He had the same high-bred charm of manner, and that
polished courtesy which becomes him so well and is never out of
place. We did not sit down to dinner until 8.30, so it was late when
we separated. There was something in Lord Dufferin’s speech which
made it more than a mere after-dinner address, something so
striking, so statesmanlike, that I deem it my duty to include it in
these chapters:

My Lords and Gentlemen,—If there is one thing more

embarrassing than another to a person on commencing a
public speech it is to find his oratorical ground suddenly cut
away from beneath his feet. I had fully intended to claim your
indulgence on the grounds so eloquently referred to by my
noble friend, and I can assure you that that indulgence is as
much needed as I have ever experienced it, for, however easy
it may be to speak with an empty head, it is very difficult to
do so with a full heart. In rising, however, to return my
warmest thanks for the kind manner in which you have drunk
my health, I cannot help asking myself with some anxiety
what title I possess to the good-will of my entertainers. Your
chairman has been pleased to refer in very flattering terms to
my public services: but I fear that the reason of your
cordiality is further to seek than anything which can be found
in the indulgent observation, I hope, on the present occasion,
of the members of the Empire Club, and I think I am not
wrong in conjecturing that I am indebted for the signal
honour which you have conferred upon me, not so much to
my individual merits, as to the fact that for the last twelve
years of my life I have been unremittingly occupied in
promoting and maintaining the Imperial, as distinguished
from the domestic, interests of our common country. In
Canada, at St. Petersburg, at Constantinople and in Egypt, I
can conscientiously say that home politics, with all their
irritating associations, have faded from my view, and that my
one thought by day and night has been to safeguard, to
protect and to extend the honour, the influence and the
commerce of England with the foreign Governments or else to
draw still more closely together those ties of affectionate
regard by which she is united to one of her most powerful,
most loyal and most devoted colonies. Well, then, gentlemen,
under these circumstances, I think I may be pardoned if I
have come to look at England, this sceptred isle, this earth of
majesty, this other Eden-beaming paradise, this happy breed
of men, this precious stone set in a silver sea; not as she
displays herself in the recriminatory warfare of parliamentary
strife, or in the polemical declamation of the platform, but in
an aspect softened by distance and regarded as the happy
home of a noble and united people, whom it is an honour to
serve, and for whose sake it would be a privilege to make the
greatest sacrifices. I do not say this in any spirit of selfish and
vulgar “Jingoism,” although I must admit that by their
profession ambassadors and colonial governors are bound to
be a little “jingo.” I have come to regard England in the same
light as she is regarded by those great communities who are
carrying her laws, her liberties, her constitutional institutions
and her language into every portion of the world, many of
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