But it hadn’t. It wuz jest the same reelin’, disgraceful, foolish, leerin’, bloated Shame—
Jest as bad in Sheffield as it wuz in Jonesville and Chicago, and worse.
It wuz enough to melt a stun with pity, and make hard eyes weep with sorrer and flash with a righteous indignation, at the Nations that don’t devise some means of wipin’ out this gigantic cause of wickedness, woe, and want.
They can connect worlds together with chains of lightnin’, they can make roads through the earth and on top of it, and in all ways; then why can’t they keep a man from drinkin’ a tumbler full of whiskey? They could if they wanted to, and all put in together.
Wall, wuzn’t it a change to leave this smoky, grimy city and find ourselves in the open, beautiful English country, and in the most beautiful part of it, too?
We went by railroad to Matlock Bath, and from there went in a carriage to the little village of Edensor, the loveliest little village I ever sot eyes on. Its housen are all built in some quaint, beautiful style of architecture, and it looks like a picter, and a great deal handsomer than lots of picters I’ve seen—chromos and sech.
This village belongs to the Duke of Devonshire, and is on his estate, which is the finest in England, and I guess on this hull earth.
And I d’no whether they’ve got any on any other planet that goes ahead on’t. Mebby Jupiter has, but I don’t really believe it.
Why, jest its pleasure park—the door-yard, as you may say—has two thousand acres in it.
This estate, known as Chatsworth, is twelve milds from Edensor, and nobody could describe the beauty of the landscape all about us as we passed onwards.