Fascinating Historical Works
| ABRAHAM LINCOLN. |
| THE BOYS OF '76. |
| THE STORY OF LIBERTY. |
| OLD TIMES IN THE COLONIES. |
| BUILDING THE NATION. |
A History of the Rebellion in Four Volumes:
| DRUM-BEAT OF THE NATION. |
| MARCHING TO VICTORY. |
| REDEEMING THE REPUBLIC. |
| FREEDOM TRIUMPHANT. |
Nine Volumes. Profusely Illustrated. Square 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental, $3.00 each.
Mr. Coffin avoids the formality of historical narrative, and presents his material in the shape of personal anecdotes, memorable incidents, and familiar illustrations. He reproduces events in a vivid, picturesque narrative.—N. Y. Tribune.
Mr. Coffin writes interestingly; he uses abundance of incident; his style is pictorial and animated; he takes a sound view of the inner factors of national development and progress; and his pages are plentifully sprinkled with illustrations.—Literary World, Boston.
Published by HARPER & BROTHERS, New York.
BY GASTON V. DRAKE.
VI.—FROM BOB TO JACK.
London, July —, 18—.
DEAR JACK,—Land at last again, and a beauty at that. It's queer, they call Ireland the Emerald Isle, but I don't see how it could be much greener than England is. I never saw anything quite so green in all my life, not even that small Harris kid up at the Mountain House. You remember how we took him in on the echo don't you. How it would answer any question he'd put to it at three minutes past four o'clock on a foggy fourth of July morning? And how we got up at half past three to ask it who struck Billie Patterson or some question like that. Well England is greener than that—Pop says it's what he calls scrub green, each blade of grass looks as if it had had its face washed five times a day, it sorter of shines so.
We landed at Southampton Wednesday night after a beautiful sail along the south coast, up past the Isle of Wight. I was very much surprised at the size of England. Everybody's said it was only an Island anyhow but as far as I could see it looks just as big from the outside as the United States did when we were leaving it. Chesterfield says people are all wrong who call it an Island. He says it's a vest-pocket continent, and I guess he knows. It looks to me too big for an Island.
We had a great time when we landed. All our trunks had to be opened by the Custom House inspectors to see if we had any cologne or cigars in 'em. I don't see why they call them Custom House officers though. Their costumes weren't anything wonderful. It took Pop a half an hour to get his trunks all through because he said the inspector didn't know the language. Pop says he asked him what nation he belonged to and the man said he was Hinglish and Pop told him he'd never heard of any such people, where did they live. In Hingland, the man said. Where's that asked Pop, and the man nearly fainted and then Pop gave him a half a crown and the man said he guessed he needn't open any more trunks, because a man as ignorant as he was wouldn't have sense enough to try to smuggle anything in anywhere.
After the trunks were all passed Pop asked a man where the baggage car was and that man couldn't speak English either. He asked Pop what, and Pop says again where's the baggage car, and just then an American that had been over before says to the man he means the luggage van, and the man said oh wy didn't ee si so. Pop says he thinks that's Welsh, which is a language he never liked anyhow. The only welsh thing he ever liked was a rabbit, he said. Wots your name asked the Baggage man. Drake, says Pop. Well your van is the seventh car up. It's marked with a D. Do you know a D when you see it? Pop said he guessed so. He'd seen one once and he had an idea that it looked like a P without a pedestal or a B cut in two. That's it, said the man. Well you put your luggage in the van marked with a P without a pedestal and when you get to London you can go and claim it. But suppose somebody else claims it said Pop. That's his affair and yours not mine says the man and he walked off. Then Pop found out that they don't give checks over here, and he said he guessed the reason was that they preferred cash.
After we got our trunks on board Pop took me up to see the engine and you never saw such an engine anywhere outside of a toy-store. It looked awful small and it only had a little platform at the back for the engineer to stand in. Pop says the railroads can't afford to furnish cabs for its engineers. The smoke-stack looked just like a piece of pipe sticking up in front of the boiler and there wasn't a cow-catcher in sight, but it had a bully whistle. It was one of those raspy whistles that makes old people nervous and boys laugh. Pop says a whistle like that makes a cow-catcher unnecessary because a cow is a quiet sort of an animal and likes to chew its gum in peace, hating noise; and anyhow the English people aren't bothering much about catching cows when there's so many Americans travelling about with money in their pockets to be caught; and I guess he's right because most everybody here goes around holding his hand out. Chesterfield told me it would be that way so I wasn't surprised. He said when you land every hand on the dock will be stretched out to you but it isn't to welcome you, don't think that. It's to relieve you of your surplus. I asked him what a surplus was, and he said it was a collection of rare coins that you didn't need in your business and when I said I wasn't any wiser than before he said a surplus was the money you had in your pocket to spend on things you didn't really need. And it was that way, and I tell you the way Pop spent six-pences and shillings and half-crowns was a caution. A half crown is two shillings and a sixpence, but you can bet I didn't spend mine. All I had left after lending Chesterfield that money I've got yet and I'm going to keep it until I get to Paris where they have toy shops that are worth seeing whether you buy anything or not which you generally do. Why just before we landed Chesterfield was telling me of an oil-silk lion that he bought in Paris once that saved his life two years later in the Desert of Sahara.
It was one of those lions you blow up. You can carry it in your pocket when you haven't any wind in it. Then you take it out, unfold it, blow it up, fasten up the blow-hole and it looks real terrible, stands up alone and does everything but gnash his teeth and growl. Chesterfield was sleeping in the desert one night, when a real lion came his way and was about to devour him, when, with a sudden perspiration, he remembers the toy lion in his pocket, takes it out, blows it up, sets it down before the real lion, who, reckonizing his match retreats, but immediately returns. Of course the oil-silk lion remains cool. He hasn't got any nerves to get excited on. The real lion roars. The oil-silk lion says nothing. The real lion advances. The oil-silk lion doesn't say a word. The real lion gets mad. The oil-silk lion stays cool. The real lion hits him with one paw. The oil-silk lion just bounces and does nothing. The real lion hits him with his other paw and the oil-silk lion just bounces again and does nothing. But then the real lion hits him with both paws a tremenjus whack and the oil-silk lion busts like a blown-up grocer's bag with a report like a caution, which so scares the real lion that he's running yet. Eh? How would you like a toy like that?
It's getting so late now that Pop says I must go to bed, but to-morrow I'll write again and tell you how we got up to London and what I've seen so far.
Yours ever, Bob.