CHAP. III. QUEEN VICTORIA. 43 power God has given, free from interested interference, is recognised, and to that goal, though our progress may be slow, we are steadily approaching. But the reforms most desired are quite compatible, in the opinion of many of our advanced thinkers, with a monarchical form of government. The constitutional sovereign, in a country whose Parliamentary institutions are a reality, reigns, but does not govern. She acts as the Ministers advise, and they are responsible for all the proceedings of the Executive. Their dismissal depends upon the will of the Parliament, and has to be accepted whether the sovereign's view coincide with the step or no. The position is indeed one of difficulty and delicacy, for while bound to have opinions and convictions of her own, the Queen must sacrifice them, and act as if indifferent to party and national questions. We have certainly arrived at a period of history when two things are impossible—a political meddler on the throne, or a dissolute king. Another George IV. would mean revolution. If his successor had resembled him, it would have gone hard with the crown of England. It is the glory of Queen Victoria that she has restored to royalty its old prestige, and once more surrounded it with the reverential affection which makes obedience easy, patriotism hearty, and constitutional government strong and stable. She has revived and given a new lease of life to those sentiments of generous and devoted loyalty which had slumbered ever since the early Stuart days, and which some had mourned over as altogether dead. But we have outlived the king and queen clad in purple and gold, with crowns, thrones, and sceptres. Photography has made the "everyday" appearance of our royal family familiar to every cottager in the land. We recognise our Queen in her widow's weeds, with her sons and daughters in plain frocks and coats standing round her. The Princess of Wales was best known by the picture that represented her babies climbing over her shoulders, while her husband smoked his pipe like any other son of the soil. Family histories have lately been freely given to the nation, some containing glimpses of struggles "to make two ends meet" by devices and economies which cause the royal duchess and the middleclass matron to feel very near akin! By some this has been considered a very daring experiment, but I believe the hour has come when royalty can afford to show the English people its inner life, and be independent of the tragedy airs and graces which used to be thought indispensable to Court life. Mrs. Lippincott, better known as "Grace Greenwood," with whom I spent much time during this visit to Washington, has just published in America a very interesting life of Queen Victoria. This lady holds a very honourable place in journalism through her able contributions to the New York Times and other papers. Her brilliant Western sketches are instinct with buoyant life, for she is one of those rare women who are never old in spirit; words seem to bound off rather than flow from her pen, and while she has retained the brightness of youth, she has now acquired the mellowness which comes of a varied experience and the possession of rich stores of knowledge. It is said that her acquaintance with the political history, principles, and tactics of the two great opposing parties in her country and time is most remarkable, and that she has always handled national questions in a thoroughly patriotic spirit. CHAPTER IV. Railroads, drawing-room cars, sleepers, and hotel cars-Cookery in restaurants, hotels, and private houses-Chicago-Mrs. Kate Doggett, Mrs. Fernando Jones, General Osborne-The Soldiers' Home at Milwaukee.-American affection for England. THE journey from the Atlantic seaboard to Chicago gave me my first experience in American railroad travelling. I thought then I had performed a great feat, as I left New York on Monday morning and did not reach the "garden city till Wednesday, though my train, like Dr. Watts's sun, “never tired or stopped to rest." Subsequent journeys over the Rocky Mountains, across the plains to California, through Arizona and Texas, taught me afterwards to regard this as quite "an easy run." The stations are called depôts, the carriages are "cars," the line is known as the "track," the engine is spoken of as a "locomotive," the guards as “conductors," the luggage is "freight," and the signal for starting is the cry of "All aboard." The ordinary cars hold about forty persons, and the utter want of ventilation almost stifles you. No one will allow you to open a window. If you venture on such an indiscretion, the conductor remonstrates "most politely" against an innovation so singular that it at once betrays your nationality and ignorance of the ways and manners of the natives. If you persist, he ends the argument by closing the window himself, quietly remarking, "I guess we can't afford to warm the prairies as we pass." Fortunately, though the great Republic acknowledges no first or second class, most of the trains are provided with drawing-room cars, in which, for a few extra dollars, you enjoy plenty of space and better air, magnificent upholstery, dressing-rooms, iced water, grand mirrors, etc., while comfortable arm-chairs are ranged on either side of the avenue down the middle, through which people are always passing "back and forth," as they term it, and boys ply a brisk trade in papers, books, figs, and candies. At night this is changed for a sleeping-car; bonâfide beds are made up, like the berths in an ocean steamer, one above the other, and ladies and gentlemen retire to rest behind the curtains which screen them off from the gaze of each other and the inevitable avenue walker, while the negro porter in attendance cleans the passengers' boots, and watches to see that light-fingered gentry do not deprive innocent sleepers of their watches and money. The entire arrangement is so novel, that an English traveller finds it difficult to become reconciled to being packed up for the night in this promiscuous fashion; for though we have Pullman sleepers for night journeys on trains to Manchester, Liverpool, and Edinburgh, they are but little used by ladies. Without being prudish, the idea of a stranger occupying the berth above you, enclosed within the shelter of your own curtains, is distasteful to most people. It is somewhat surprising that our Yankee cousins, who astonish us by providing a separate entrance for ladies in their hotels, and strain at so many gnats in other directions, should swallow such a camel as one sleeping-car, without even arranging that all the ladies should be assigned the part nearest their dressingroom, and the gentlemen the opposite end next the smoking CHAP. IV. RAILROAD TRAVELLING. 47 room. At first I rebelled altogether against the sleeping-car institution, not so much from modesty, I confess, as from a nervous dread of asthma in these narrow, closed-up sections. Latterly, however, I became quite reconciled to it; and indeed, the long journeys across the plains and to the South would be impossible without the rest it affords, and at last I learned to slumber as peacefully in a Pullman sleeper as in an ordinary bed, and almost to prefer night to day journeys. Every night the linen sheets and pillow-slips are changed, and one of the heaviest expenses of a sleeping-car is the washing bill. The Wagner Company, I am told, pays 30,000 dollars a year, and the Pullman bill for washing is still heavier. The conductors and porters in these drawingroom and sleeping-cars are some of the most polite men to be found in the whole of America; the former are most intelligent, and take infinite pains to give the stranger any information respecting the route, pointing out places of interest with all the pride of ownership derived from their possession of the road. A great deal has been written about the luxury of American railroad travelling. It did not strike me as luxurious. It is supposed that these hotel cars accompany each train, and that you have only to step in from your saloon carriage, and breakfast and dine whenever you please while continuing your journey. When you do strike this institution, I admit it is a boon to the weary traveller doomed to such long distances; but as far as my own experience goes, hotel cars, like angels' visits, are few and far between, and meals are arranged at hours which make them practically useless. For instance, en route for Denver, dinner was offered me at halfpast twelve, an hour after I left Chicago, where I had enjoyed |