A magnificent luncheon, served in a tent, awaited us when we came out. We recommenced drinking the finest champagne. Every one thought of making his little speech, when suddenly we saw a gentleman arrive, who handed to the president, Sir Edward Watkin, a paper resembling an official document. He hastened to open it, and commenced reading it aloud. It was an order from the Board of Trade, I believe, commanding that the works should be stopped at once.
The particulars of this order are amusing. The collection of English laws is voluminous, for none of them are ever annulled. However, they had the greatest trouble in the world to find a law that applied to our case. They were obliged to content themselves with a statute dating from the Saxon Heptarchy, which “forbade the establishment of communications with foreign lands.” The punishment threatened by this statute was not a very agreeable prospect, but one could be sure that after the sentence was executed the condemned would not protest against it. For it was clearly explained that first his head would be cut off, then his body divided into thirteen pieces; and one piece would be sent to each of the thirteen chief cities in the country, to ornament its principal gate.
I remember that when Sir Edward, who did not appear to take all these details very seriously, reached this point he interrupted his reading, and piously raising his eyes towards heaven, he exclaimed:
“I hope that her most gracious majesty, taking into consideration the small size of her humble subject, will deign to make an exception in my favour, and allow the number of pieces to be reduced. I fear that some of the cities would be deprived of their share of me, but at least the others would haw a reasonably-sized piece!”
This reflection provoked peals of laughter from the honourable company, in which the official who had brought the order joined. He was invited to sit down, and he also began to drink champagne with marvellous good will. Sir Edward was not cut in pieces, but the Channel works were effectively stopped, and God knows whether they will ever be recommenced. I always think of this story when I see the English struggling with any difficulties. No one knows how to harmonise their principles and their interest better than they do. The real reason of their opposition to this unfortunate tunnel is that they foresee that its construction would deal a severe blow to their coasting trade. But since, after two hundred years of close protection, they have now constituted themselves the apostles of free trade, they cannot possibly own that these considerations affect them. Others might have been embarrassed by this affair. They at once discovered the famous old Saxon law. It is the same thing with American cattle. They begin to see that agriculture will become impossible in England if cattle are imported too freely. So they have discovered an admirable method of arranging matters. Instead of stopping the imports by a Custom House officer, they employ a veterinary surgeon. The cattle are allowed to disembark, but as soon as they are landed the sanitary inspector examines them, declares that they are diseased, and has them killed on the spot. I feel sure that the English will evade the Irish difficulty by some duplicity of the same nature.
After passing my day in driving about, towards six o’clock I went and sat in Hyde Park to watch the carriages and riders passing by. The latter are much less well cared for than we are in Paris. That dear Allée des Poteaux is replaced by a straight avenue, about a mile long, bounded by rails. On each side there is a footpath, and beyond that a road for the carriages.
I think that the equipages are much less brilliant than formerly. The number of imposing, fat, red-faced coachmen, with silk stockings and powdered wigs, has certainly diminished. However, one still sees a good many of those fantastic liveries in which Englishmen delight. There are some in shot-colours; I saw one of pale green, with cuffs, facings, and collar of red, braided with gold. I fancy, too, that the horses—at least the carriage horses—are strikingly inferior to the former standard.
This is all easily explained. Here, as with us, if not the largest fortunes, at all events the secondary incomes are seriously reduced. Commerce is weakened, industry is declining, and agriculture is utterly ruined. There are no English landowners who have not been obliged to grant a reduction of 15, 25, and sometimes 50 per cent. to their farmers; and it appears that in Ireland things are still worse. It is quite natural that luxury should suffer from this state of things. I hear that it must even be more affected by and by, and that if there is still so much outward appearance of wealth, it is because people are getting into debt. It is the same amongst us.
Women leave their carriages, and walk on the paths, or pause in groups, chatting with the riders as they pass. But if the horses have greatly deteriorated I think that the dresses have considerably improved. Some of them are charming. Æstheticism has disappeared, or nearly so. My friend Mr. Burnand has very effectually caricatured its eccentricities in Punch. But, since action always involves reaction, the fashion, after going to an excess of poetry, is now inclined to fall into the opposite extreme. Lady Harberton has invented what she calls a divided skirt; it practically consists of Zouaves’ trousers. Another lady proposes a Greek costume; not that of Venus, but the arrangement worn by those antique statues that are really draped. A third suggests yet another, which perhaps has more chance of being adopted by a certain class, to whom it might be useful. There is but one button to unfasten, and it falls off. It appears that all these ladies preach by example, and have already a fair number of disciples. But I only quote what I am told, for I have not been fortunate enough to have an opportunity of judging the effect produced de visu.
At seven I tore myself away from the contemplation of so much beauty, and drove to Euston Station to catch the Dublin mail, which leaves London at 8.20. Towards two in the morning we reached Holyhead, a small island separated from the mainland by a narrow channel, which is crossed by a fine bridge. The railway has been brought here because it is the nearest point to Ireland, and also because this little island contains a superb port, where vessels find excellent shelter from the heavy seas of St. George’s Channel. I have rarely seen such fine ships as the steamers which carry the royal mails. They should be taken as models when it is decided to replace the tub-like boats still used between Calais and Dover. The one that brought me over three days ago, The Maid of Kent, was two hours crossing, although we had splendid weather. The distance is twenty-one miles. This brings the speed up to ten and a half knots an hour. The Holyhead packet reached Ireland from England in three hours and a half, although it is sixty-three miles. We therefore made sixteen or seventeen knots per hour—the speed of a torpedo boat.