Chapter XXXVII: Anglia or Frontenac?

You will be surprised to learn that the car is on the dock at Tilbury, boxed and waiting for the _Georgic_ to sail, and that we are returning on the _Adriatic_ in about a week!

"What has happened?" I can imagine you saying. Well, so much has happened that I hardly know where to begin!

What do you suppose Ruth had to tell me when I reached the hotel? Perhaps you have guessed. Yes, our dearest hopes are at length--please God--to be realized.

Ruth had not been quite like herself since the breakdown at Ross, and had written Maud, who at once said there was but one man in the world for her to see--you know what women are about their pet doctors! So, as you already have been told, Maud hastened to Barchester, I was bundled out of the way, and the two sisters came to town and saw the great man.

"He was perfectly lovely," said Ruth to me, her eyes full of tears.

"How old is he?" I suspiciously asked.

"He looked like papa," said Ruth, and burst into tears.

Well, the important matter is that he told her she was not mistaken but urged her to take great care of herself.

She asked if she might motor?

"It would be better," he replied, for her to "job a brougham," while she was in town, because the taxi men drove so recklessly.

"But what about motoring in the country?"

"With a very careful driver, and on smooth roads I should have no objection to a few miles a day. But, indeed, you cannot be too careful."

When I heard that I turned cold! "A careful driver and smooth roads!" I thought of the hill at Sawley and the sidewalk at Shrewsbury, the "narrer road" in Ireland with the leap to the top of the hedge, and of the railway crossing!

I hurried to the garage and drove the car--not across London this time, but--around it, and came to Tilbury as soon as I could. I was afraid the car might do us an injury if it were not quickly boxed!

So our journey has come to an unexpected end, and you will have to read no more letters, for we shall be home, I hope, almost as soon as this reaches you. Now that my face is turned homeward I am impatient to arrive. I want to see the dear people and to get to work once more on the noisy old corner. And, above all, I want to drop into the study after working hours--say between eleven and twelve at night, and when the pipes are drawing well, listen to you talk. "No," I can fancy you saying, "you don't want to listen, you want to talk!"

Well, perhaps both! But before I see you I want to make a sort of _Apologia_ for the letters I have written you.

I am ashamed to think how flippant they must have seemed. But, indeed, while I dwelt upon the ridiculous side, thinking it might amuse you in your temporary blindness, you will not think so ill of me as to suppose that I am unable to appreciate the most wonderful people in history--bar one! though the best in that one came out of this little island. As the writer of the Epistles to the Hebrews might have said: "America was in the loins of England when the foundations of democracy were laid!"

We Americans see the humorous side of the feudal system which survives in the domestic life of England, but no thoughtful man can fail to be filled with admiration for the way England has guarded the "rights of man" far better than they are guarded with us.

The rights of the minority are disregarded with us, but in England it is not so. It is not so much a deliberate spirit of compromise which is the source of England's strength, but rather an automatic arrangement which nature directs toward compensation. Just as--I think I have said this before, but no matter--in a pendulum there are metals of different expanding degrees, so in England the individual is merged in the family to an extent we can hardly imagine, because with us the intense individuality of the people shows itself in the family in such a way that it is a question how long the family can exist. On the other hand, in England, when the individual does emerge from the family, he becomes far more of a political personality than with us.

Then see how much we have to learn from them in the matter of education. I have no doubt our public schools are superior to the English board schools. But when it comes to the education of those who ought to be the leaders of the people, we cannot compare with them. Boys sent to Winchester, Eton, Harrow, Rugby and other great "public" schools may not have the variety of studies of which our boys get a smattering, but how much better are their minds trained than are our boys'! There is a popular outcry just now about the time wasted on the "dead" languages. But it is forgotten that, apart from the benefit that comes from knowing the best that the ancient world thought, the public school man has learned to use his Greek and Latin as "top dressing" to enrich his style, and so is able to express himself in a clear and concise way which is the envy of all students of speech.

Undoubtedly, this education has been too much the privilege of the favored few, but on the other hand it has tended to instil a sense of responsibility to the community which has given England the services of her most cultivated men, while we have had to put up with the "professional politician."

What England will do when democracy claims the right to share the best, remains to be seen. But that it has an immense advantage in having already set a high standard, no thoughtful man can deny. However, these are questions I must save to talk about when we meet, which I am glad to think will be soon.

I tell Ruth that, if it is a girl, she must be called "Anglia"; if a boy, we must name him "Frontenac." But she has settled the matter and, as usual, I submit. She says: "His name shall be called John."

Well, I cannot but think he will be born under an auspicious star, for his life began on our happy, sunny day!