“Mr. Turner gave a very curious account of the early state of many American settlements—that the rivers or any running stream generally marked the track for civilisation. It was easier to make a path along them than anywhere else; a road followed, eventually a railway. Along one of these tracks, many years ago, came annually a venerable old man. People expected him—watched for his coming. He always came from the east, and he was never observed to return: yet he came again from the east in the following year. He was a kind of primitive missionary, bringing Bibles, which he cut up, leaving parts in the different houses he passed. Thus he would leave the Gospel of St. John one year, and the next would call for it, and leave the Acts in its place. He had a pocket-full of apple-seed, and wherever he stopped in the middle of the day, he made a hole with his stick, and dropped one of his seeds into it. People called him ‘Old John Apple-seed.’ Mr. Turner had seen many fine apple-trees along the banks of streams, of which it was remembered that they were planted by old John Apple-seed.
“Mr. Turner described how primitive many of the early lines of railway were, made at the rate of three miles a week. At Harrisburg several of these lines met, and it was a very dangerous point. A poor half-witted man found his vocation in life by joining trains at this point, and running in front screaming, ‘The engine is coming: the engine is coming.’ And thus he would run for miles, keeping just in front of the train, and if he saw a child, would seize it and throw it out of the way, and would often seize a woman by the shoulder, and would almost lift her off the line; but at last, after many years, whilst saving another, he was killed himself.”
“July 18.—A party at Lady Bantry’s, where Lady Helen Stewart recited a poem much like the above story. Dined with the Grants. Old Lady Frances Higginson[458] frightened a mincing curate out of his life who said to her, ‘Will you take some potatoes?’ by saying in her most abrupt way, ‘God bless my soul, aren’t you going to give me some?’”
“July 20.—At luncheon at the Higginsons’, I met the Storys from Rome, very happy in London, but ‘it is surely a bad arrangement of Nature,’ he said, ‘that one should have so many coats and only one body. I should like to have several—a body to work with; and a young smart body to go into society with; and the old body, which always sleeps so well, to go to bed with.’
“At luncheon at Lady Airlie’s I met Henry Cowper,[459] Mr. Morley, Lady Tweeddale, and Miss Betty Ponsonby. Henry Cowper talked of the friendship between Bright and Tuke. They had always been intimate. Then they loved the same woman. In his great friendship Tuke gave way, and the lady became the first Mrs. John Bright. Afterwards they were greater friends, and saw more of each other than ever: Bright would do anything for Tuke. But the conversation was chiefly about Gladstone, giving instances of his marvellous personal charm—of his way of telling things, bearing out Goethe’s words—
‘Märchen! doch so wunderbar,
Dichterkünster machen’s wahr.’
“Tea with Mrs. Ford—always interesting. She talked much of Dr. Morell Mackenzie—well known to her. When he arrived at Berlin, he found six great doctors waiting for him at the palace. They took him to a room filled with knives, &c. ‘What are these for?’—‘For your choice in operating upon the Crown Prince.’—‘But I can only operate upon him in one way, that is my own;’ and he explained it. Four of the doctors agreed with what he said, two violently opposed it. He was taken at once to Bismarck, who said, ‘Do not consult me: ask me as many questions as you like about la haute politique, but about this I can say nothing.’ Then he was taken to the Emperor, to whom he explained his views. The Emperor listened to all, and then only said quietly—turning to those who were with him—‘Let the Englishman act.’ He then went at once to the Crown Prince. He performed the operation with his own forceps, steeped in cocotine, which deadens, absolutely paralyses the throat, and seizing the wart, dragged—not cut—it out. It seemed like a terrible responsibility for England, as if the life of the Crown Prince was in its hands.
“Mr. Browning described how he had been asked to dinner by two elderly ladies—sisters. He did not know them, but it was very kind of them to ask him, and he went. He met a very singular party at their house—Gladstone, Mrs. Thistlethwayte, and others. Going down to dinner, the lady who fell to his share suddenly said to him, ‘You are a poet, aren’t you?’—‘Well, people are sometimes kind enough to say that I am.’—‘Oh, don’t mind my having mentioned it: you know Lord Byron was a poet!’
“Browning is unlike Tennyson; he does not write from inspiration, but by power of work. He says he sets himself a certain number of lines to write in a day, and he writes them. Sometimes he says, ‘To-morrow morning I will write a sonnet; and he writes it. Nevertheless he is always greater in aspiration than achievement. Mr. Carlyle could not bear his poems. ‘What did the fellow mean by leaving that cart-load of stones at my door?’ he said to Alfred Tennyson when Browning left one of his poems there.
“London is now always asking itself ‘What is the cause of this long drought?’—‘Because we have had fifty years’ rain (reign).’