Delphi complete works of.., p.213
Delphi Complete Works of Stephen Leacock, page 213
The English customs officers — what do they do? Do they examine everything? Will they say anything about those canvas slippers that your aunt has asked you to deliver to her cousin in Nottingham (close to London)? If you explain that she made the slippers, does that make any difference? Or, at any rate, can you say to the man, “Oh very well, I’ll send them back to America rather than pay a cent on them?” In short, the English customs officers — what do they do? Travelers lie awake at night and think of that.
And along with that —
At what hour will you land at Liverpool and will you be able to get the 11.30 train to London or will you have to wait for the 12.30? That’s an excellent one. Many travellers have thought so hard about that and talked so much about it on deck, that they never even noticed the blue of the sea, and the rush of the flying fish or the great dolphins that flopped up beside the ship.
But even allowing that you can perhaps get a train — some train — from Liverpool, more intense worries set in as we near the other side.
The question of letters, telegrams and marconigrams. When the purser says that he has no messages for you and no letters for you, is he not perhaps getting your name wrong. He may have made a mistake. Might it not be better to go to him again (the fourth time) and ask him whether he has got your name quite right? By all means, and let Mr. Snyder go too, and you can both stand in line at the purser’s window and fret it out together and thus never see the Norwegian sailing ship under full canvas two hundred yards away.
But there is worse yet —
The ocean is crossed, the trials are over and the land is in sight. And again the little Guide Book breaks out in ingenuous joy!
“Land in sight! With what a thrill we go forward to the front of the ship and look ahead to catch a glimpse of the white cliffs of old England rising from the sea. All the romance of history and of exploration rises to the mind with this first view of the old land. We stand gazing forward, as might have stood a Columbus or a Cabot filled with the mystery of the New Land.”
Do we? No, we don’t. We’ve no time for it. As a matter of fact, we don’t get any such first glimpse at all. We are down below, wrestling with the problem of how much we ought to tip the bath room steward. Is eight shillings what he gets, or is six enough? We feel we need information, light, knowledge. We must try to find Mr. Snyder and learn what he thinks the bathroom steward ought to get.
And then, somehow, before we know it, and while we are still worrying and fretting over stewards and tips and baggage, our voyage is all over — the time is gone — and we are saying goodbye to the passengers and Mr. Snyder and Mr. and Mrs. Hopkins of Alberta, and the stewards and the purser — noble fellows they all seem now. But we have a queer sense of loss and disillusionment as if our voyage had not yet begun, and a strange longing that we might have it all over again and this time know enough not to spoil it with our poor meaningless worries.
My friend, this is a parable. As is the Atlantic voyage, so is our little pilgrimage in life, a brief transit in the sunshine from shore to shore, whose short days are all too often marred by the mean disputes and the poor worries that in the end signify nothing. While there is still time, let us look about us to the horizon.
The Gasoline Goodbye
And What Would Have Happened to the Big Moments of History If the Motor Had Taken a Hand in Them
In the days before the motor car, when a man said goodbye he shook hands and he was gone. If he was to ride on horseback, he made a brief farewell to each person present, shook hands, leaped upon his horse and was off.
Now that the motor car has come into use as the general instrument of visiting, this no longer happens. The people say goodbye, get into their motor car, and are not gone. They make an affectionate farewell and then sit looking out of their glass windows, while the car goes “Phut, phut — bang,” — and sticks there.
The more dramatic the goodbye, the more touching the farewell, the more determined the car always is to say “Phut, phut — bang,” and refuse to move.
Witness the familiar scene of the goodbye of the Joneses to the Smiths at 6 P.M. on any Sunday evening at any rural place where city people spend their vacation. The Joneses have motored over in their own car — a real peach, tin all over — and have spent Sunday afternoon with the Smiths, who have a cottage for the summer which they call OPEN HOUSE, and where they take care that nobody gets in at meal times.
When the time has come for the Joneses to go, they all mingle up in a group with the Smiths and everybody says goodbye to everybody else, and shakes hands with each one, and they all say, “Well, we certainly had a grand time.” Then they all climb into the car with Mr. Jones himself at the wheel and they put their heads out of the windows and they say, “Well, goodbye, goodbye!” and wave their hands.
And then the car goes— “Whr-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r — phut, bang!”
A wisp of thin blue smoke rolls away and when it has gone the Joneses are seen sitting there, absolutely still. The car hasn’t moved an inch.
Jones at the wheel sticks his head down among the grips and clutches and says— “I guess she is a little cold,” and the Smiths say— “Yes, it often takes a little time to start them.” Then there’s a pause and nothing seems to be happening and then very suddenly and cheerfully the engine of the car starts making a loud —
“Pur-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r!”
On this, all the Joneses and all the Smiths break out into goodbyes again. All talking together:
“Well, come back soon — We certainly will — We sure had a great time — Remember us all to Alf — We certainly will — You certainly have a nice cottage here — We certainly enjoyed that lemonade — well — goodbye, goodbye, goodbye!”
And then the car goes— “Whir-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r — phut, bang!”
And there is another puff of blue smoke, and when it clears away, what is behind it? Why, the Joneses, right there in their car.
When the machine goes “bang!” all the Joneses in the car and all the Smiths standing beside the road are knocked into silence for a few seconds. Then Jones mutters— “Seems to be something wrong with the ignition” — and somebody else says— “She doesn’t seem to be feeding right” — and there’s a little chorus of— “Oh, she is just a little cold, they take a little warming up”— “she’ll start in a minute.”
And then again the machine begins, this time at a terrific speed, about a million revolutions to the minute —
“Whir-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-R-R!”
At this happy sound the goodbyes break out all over again in a chorus.
“Goodbye — Look after yourselves — Tell Min we’ll see her Friday — goodbye — We certainly had a—”
“Bang!”
All stopped again.
This time Jones is determined that when the engine starts he’ll keep it started. There shall be no false alarms this time. “Let her get going good,” some of them advise him. And so when the engine next starts Jones doesn’t throw in his clutch but just lets her go on humming and roaring till everybody feels assured that this time the start is actually going to happen and the goodbyes erupt all over again.
The noise gets louder and louder, the conversation rises into shouts mixed with the “phut, phut, phut” of the machine, and then all of a sudden there’s a tremendous “bang!” and a volume of blue smoke and when it clears away — where are the Joneses?
Gone — clean gone, they seem to have vanished off the earth! At last you catch a glimpse of their car already two hundred yards away, disappearing in a cloud of smoke.
“They’re off!” murmur the Smiths, and the painful scene is over . . .
Thinking over all this, I cannot but reflect how fortunate it has been for mankind that the motor car was not invented earlier in our history. So many of the great dramas of history have turned upon farewells and departures that some of the most romantic pages of the past would have been spoiled if there had been any gasoline in them.
Take for example the familiar case of Napoleon saying goodbye to his officers and soldiers at Fontainebleau before going into exile. The fallen emperor stood beside the steed he was about to mount, turned a moment and addressed to his devoted comrades words that still echo in the ears of France. But suppose that he had said the same thing while seated in a little one-seater car with his head stuck out of the window. How inadequate it would have sounded: —
“Farewell, my brave comrades — phut, phut — together we shared the labor and the burden of a hundred campaigns — phut, bang, phut — we must forget that we have conquered Europe — whir-r-r, phut — that our eagles have flown over every capital — bang — I leave you now for exile, but my heart forever will remain — whir-r-r, phut — buried in the soil of France, bang!”
Or take as a similar case in point the famous farewell to the nation spoken by George Washington as his last service to the republic that he had created.
General Washington, supposing there had been gasoline in those days, would have been reported as leaning out from the window of his sedan car and speaking as follows: —
“Let America cultivate and preserve the friendship of the world — phut, phut — let us have peace and friendship with all — whir-r-r — and entangling alliances with none — bang! I have grown old in the service of this country and there is something wrong with my ignition. To each and all of you I bid now a last farewell —
“Whir-r-r —
“Farewell!
“Phut, phut, phut, phut.
“Farewell!
“Bang!”
Complete Guide and History of the South
Based on the Best Models of Traveler’s Impressions
In setting down here my impression of Southern life, Southern character, Southern industry, and what I am led to call the soul of the Southern people, I am compelled to admit that these impressions are necessarily incomplete. The time at my disposal — twenty-four hours less fifteen minutes while I was shaving — was, as I myself felt, inadequate for the purpose.
I could have spent double, nay treble, nay quadruple the time in the South with profit, and could have secured twice, nay three times, nay four times as many impressions. At the same time I may say in apology that my impressions, such as they are, are based on the very best models of travelers’ impressions which are published in such floods by visitors to this continent.
To one who has the eye to see it, the journey south from New York to Washington, which may be called the capital of the United States, is filled with interest. The broad farm lands of New Jersey, the view of the city of Philadelphia, and the crossing of the spacious waters of the Susquehanna, offer a picture well worth carrying away. Unfortunately I did not see it. It was night when I went through. But I read about it in the railroad folder next morning.
After passing Washington the traveler finds himself in the country of the Civil War, where the landscape recalls at every turn the great struggle of sixty years ago. Here is the Acquia Creek and here is Fredericksburg, the scene of one of the most disastrous defeats of the northern armies. I missed it, I am sorry to say. I was eating lunch and didn’t see it. But the porter told me that we had passed Fredericksburg.
It is however with a certain thrill that one finds oneself passing Richmond, the home of the Lost Cause, where there still lingers all the romance and glory that once was. Unluckily our train didn’t go by Richmond but straight south via Lynchburg Junction. But if it had I might have seen it.
As one continues the journey southward, one realizes that one is in the South. The conviction was gradually borne in on me as I kept going south that I was getting South. It is an impression, I believe, which all travelers have noted in proportion as they proceed south.
I could not help saying to myself, “I am now in the South.” It is a feeling I have never had in the North. As I looked from the train window I could not resist remarking, “So this is the South.” I have every reason to believe that it was.
One becomes conscious of a difference of life, of atmosphere, of the character of the people. The typical Southerner is courteous, chivalrous, with an old-world air about him. I noted that on asking one of my fellow travelers for a match he responded, “I am deeply sorry, I fear I have none. I had a match in my other pants yesterday, but I left them at home. Perhaps I could go back and get them.”
Another gentleman in the smoking room of whom I ventured to ask the time replied, “I am deeply sorry, I have no watch. But if you will wait till we get to the next station, I will get out and buy a clock and let you know.” I thanked him, but thought it the part of good taste to refuse his offer.
Every day one hears everywhere reminiscences and talk of the Civil War. Nearly everybody with whom I fell into conversation — and I kept falling into it — had something to say or to recall about the days of Lee and Jackson and of what I may call the Southern Confederacy.
One old gentleman told me that he remembered the war as if it were yesterday, having participated in a number of the great episodes of the struggle. He told me that after General Lee had been killed at Gettysburg, Andrew Jackson was almost in despair; and yet had the Southerners only known it, there was at the time only a thin screen of two hundred thousand union troops between them and Washington.
In the light of these conversations and reminiscences it was interesting presently to find oneself in Georgia and to realize that one was traversing the ground of Sherman’s famous march to the sea. Unluckily for me, it was night when we went through, but I knew where we were because during a temporary stoppage of the train, I put my head out of the curtains and said to the porter, “Where are we?” and he answered “Georgia.” As I looked out into the profound darkness that enveloped us, I realized as never before the difficulty of Sherman’s task.
At this point, perhaps it may be well to say something of the women of the South, a topic without which no impression would be worth publishing. The Southern women, one finds, are distinguished everywhere by their dignity and reserve. (Two women came into the Pullman car where I was, and when I offered one of them an apple she wouldn’t take it.) But they possess at the same time a charm and graciousness that is all their own. (When I said to the other woman that it was a good deal warmer than it had been she smiled and said that it certainly was.)
The Southern woman is essentially womanly and yet entirely able to look after herself. (These two went right into the dining car by themselves without waiting for me or seeming to want me.) Of the beauty of the Southern type there can be no doubt. (I saw a girl with bobbed hair on the platform at Danville, but when I waved to her even her hair would not wave.)
On the morning following we found ourselves approaching Birmingham, Alabama. On looking at it out of the car window, I saw at once that Birmingham contains a population of 200,000 inhabitants, having grown greatly in the last decade; that the town boasts not less than sixteen churches and several large hotels of the modern type.
I saw also that it is rapidly becoming a seat of manufacture, possessing in 1921 not less than 14,000 spindles, while its blast furnaces bid fair to rival those of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania and Hangkow, China; I noticed that the leading denomination is Methodist, both white and colored, but the Roman Catholic, the Episcopalian and other churches are also represented. The town, as I saw at a glance, enjoys exceptional educational opportunities, the enrollment of pupils in the high schools numbering half a million.
The impression which I carried away from Birmingham enabled me to form some idea (that is all I ever get) of the new economic growth of the South. Everywhere one sees evidence of the fertility of the soil and the relative ease of sustenance. (I saw a man buy a whole bunch of bananas and eat them right in the car.) The growth of wealth is remarkable. (I noticed a man hand out a fifty-dollar bill in the dining car and get change as if it were nothing.)
I had originally intended to devote my time after leaving Birmingham to the investigation and analysis of the soul of the South, for which I had reserved four hours. Unfortunately I was not able to do so. I got called in to join a poker game in the drawing room and it lasted all the way to New Orleans.
But even in the imperfect form in which I have been able to put together these memoirs of travel I feel on looking over them that they are all right, or at least as good as the sort of stuff that is handed out every month in the magazines.
The Give and Take of Travel
A Study in Petty Larceny, Pro and Con
I have recently noted among my possessions a narrow black comb and a flat brown hairbrush. I imagine they must belong to the Pullman Car Company. As I have three of the Company’s brushes and combs already, I shall be glad to hand these back at any time when the company cares to send for them.
I have also a copy of the New Testament in plain good print which is marked “put here by the Gibbons” and which I believe I got from either the Ritz-Carlton Hotel in Montreal or the Biltmore in New York. I do not know any of the Gibbons. But the hotel may have the book at any time, as I have finished with it. I will bring it to them.
On the other hand, I shall be very greatly obliged if the man who has my winter overshoes (left on the Twentieth Century Limited) will let me have them back again. As the winter is soon coming I shall need them. If he will leave them at any agreed spot three miles from a town I will undertake not to prosecute him.
I mention these matters not so much for their own sake as because they form a part of the system of give and take which plays a considerable part in my existence.
Like many people who have to travel a great deal I get absent-minded about it. I move to and fro among trains and hotels shepherded by red-caps and escorted by bell boys. I have been in so many hotels that they all look alike. If there is a difference in the faces of the hotel clerks I can’t see it. If there is any way of distinguishing one waiter from another I don’t know it. There is the same underground barber surrounded by white marble and carrying on the same conversation all the way from Halifax to Los Angeles. In short I have been in so many towns that I never know where I am.
