A London Home in the Nineties

by Hughes, M. V. ;

  V. Boston, Mass.

  WHILE parting so gaily from my fellow traveller I was hugging to myself a plan. I would spend a few days of those left, before my boat was due to sail, in a visit to Boston.

  My ‘knowledge’ of Canada had received continual rebuffs, but then it was a huge tract of country, whereas Boston was only one town, and I really did know a good deal about it. It was more familiar to English ears than New York itself. Called after the little seaport of Boston, Lincs., it had far outshone its godfather, and many a letter intended for England had gone over to Boston, Mass. The point that tickled me most was that Boston was ‘not in America’. The ultra-exclusive inhabitants were neither English nor American, but just Bostonians—sui generis. I was eager to hear the special kind of accent they had developed. It was also a pleasure to know that the town could not be laid out in the chess-board style of Chicago. The streets were so narrow and in-and-out that a man had been known to catch his own coat-tails in hurrying round a corner. And yet the town must be modern and busy, for the legend ran that they killed a man a day in the traffic. Altogether a most alluring spot. If a bit medieval here and there, that was appropriate, because this Botolph’s town had been named after a kindly East Anglian saint who protected travellers. Indeed, in old days a prayer and small donation to St. Botolph were an insurance for your journey. I didn’t appeal to him but to the next best thing to a saint, a kindly fellow guest at the hotel in Montreal. He recommended the route through the White Mountain district, and perhaps he was inspired by St. Botolph, for it was a heavenly journey from first to last.

  Neither knowing nor caring how long the journey would be, I put into my hold-all a few things that experience had taught me might be handy as I went along, and checked my trunk to Boston. I wondered how my friend could ever have lost a package of any kind, since this system of checking was simplicity itself—you cared not how your luggage got on, nor what route it took—it was bound to find its fellow check in due course, and you had that in your pocket.

  After an early start from Montreal there was a midday change at a place called Johnsburg (as well as I remember). Here was a chance for a refreshing wash, a sandwich, and a glass of milk. Apparently it was a border station, and when we started in the train that came up we were in the States. It is difficult to say why I was so pleased to be under the stars and stripes again; it seemed as vaguely attractive as being entirely by myself, I had to be neither submissive nor loyal. I now settled down for a good long run to Boston, put on slippers and travelling cap, and placed a book handy for reading, but found the scenery getting ever more interesting as the train wound among the hills. I was feeling at the acme of comfort, when by came the conductor to examine tickets. There were few passengers in the car, so he was in no hurry and seemed inclined for a chat.

  ‘What time this evening do we reach Boston?’ I asked.

  ‘This evening! We shan’t get there this evening at all.’

  ‘A night in the train?’ said I in dismay. ‘Why, that will mean missing all this beautiful scenery.’

  ‘Well, if that’s what you want, why not spend the night somewhere on the way, and go on tomorrow by daylight?’ Then pulling out his list of stations he added, ‘Look here, Fabyans is a fine spot, and a good hotel there and all. I could put you ashore there.’

  ‘Good hotel! But my trunk is checked on to Boston, and I’ve only this little hold-all. I can’t possibly put up like this at a decent hotel.’

  ‘Oh, don’t you mind about clothes. They’re all just holiday people there. You settle down again comfortably; I’ll tell you when to get ready to jump out—about four o’clock.’

  For the next two hours we ran through distractingly lovely country, all too fast, now through woods, now across wild moorland, now pushing a way through hedges so close that they brushed the windows; indeed at one time I thought we should be caught in the branches. And all around were hills. The sun was shining and fleecy clouds were throwing shadows in a way that reminded me of Wales.

  Was there an hotel at Fabyans! There was nothing else. The railway station was its front door. I was the only passenger to get out. The train was off at once, and I had no choice but to go in. The word ‘holiday-makers’ had suggested a little wayside shanty, with the minimum of amenities, and people in camping outfit—and a couple of dollars the amount of the bill. To my surprise and distress I walked into a magnificent lounge, decorated expensively with ferns, flowers, flags, and festoons, as though for some gala occasion. A huge log fire was crackling in the grate, and rest-inviting chairs were scattered about. The many people talking and laughing about the place were of a type I had not seen before in America, obviously both wealthy and cultivated, all well dressed, but quite simply, and everyone seemed care-free and jolly. How awkward I felt, standing in the entrance watching them—me with my ridiculous hold-all and travel-stained clothes. Seeing a little office at one side I went up to the reception clerk, told him plainly my predicament, and holding out a gold piece said that I expected he would like to be paid in advance as I had no luggage. He was shocked at such an idea, and had me conducted at once to a dainty little room with a fine view of the hills. The chambermaid informed me that hot baths were always to be had, and meals were served continually in the dining-room, to suit the various holiday outings of the guests, and then she asked whether I wanted anything else.

  I didn’t tell her so, but my wants were many. I turned out my hold-all to see what could be done. In addition to the slippers and cap and small toilet necessities, there was little beyond the inevitable Hamlet, my sketching-book and paint-box, and the book I had bought to read in the train and neglected (A Window in Thrums). But fortunately I found in one of the pockets a needle-case, and was glad enough of it, for I had torn my sleeve in one of my excited movements across the railway car to see a view. After mending this I made a sketch of the hills to be seen from the window, and then was driven by hunger to overcome my shyness and look for a meal in the dining-room. A very friendly waitress served me immediately with a supper I shall never forget: salmon, chicken (with all sorts of small attendant dishes), griddle-cakes with clover honey, and real tea, such as I hadn’t enjoyed since leaving home.

  The beautiful evening tempted me out for a stroll along the hill-paths and through the pine-wood behind the hotel. Then I sat on the grass and tried to impress the scene on my memory—and succeeded. Everything combined to make it memorable, although each item by itself was familiar—mountains all round and a white mist in the valley, the dark pines, the rising moon, and one brilliant star—such things anyone may see. But other items in the scene, equally familiar, gave a unique touch to it. The lovely green and red signal lights I had often admired outside King’s Cross station; but here they twinkled like fire-flies. Little mountain trains I had known in Wales, but here great thundering expresses were hurtling through, with enormous funnels, horn-blowing and bell-ringing in the misty valley. One engine-driver’s face looked weird in the glow of his fire, and reminded me of the steersman in the most haunting line of the Ancient Mariner. It grew dark and I reluctantly went indoors—to find another surprise. Half the floor of the big hall had been cleared for dancing and a string band was playing, interspersed with singing in which the dancers joined. Acutely conscious of my everyday dress, rendered worse by my poor mend of the sleeve and my walk in the wood, I found a secluded chair and hoped to escape notice. I would have gone up to my room had I not found the scene too amusing and the music too intoxicating. Very soon someone came up to me and begged for a dance. I couldn’t resist and quickly forgot my dress in that merry and friendly crowd.

  The next morning, as I was waiting in the lounge for my train to come up, I noticed parties of young men and girls standing about in groups, all of them equipped for going up the mountains. ‘You’re not going!’ they exclaimed. ‘You mustn’t miss the chance of such a perfect day as this for the mountains.’ When I pleaded the shortness of my time before sailing for England, they said, ‘But this is the
Switzerland of America. Risk missing your boat. Cut Boston short. Come right along with us now.’ If ever my mouth watered it did then, but my slender purse had already endured big inroads…. The many follies I’ve committed in life don’t cause me half as much regret as the follies I never tasted.

  My new train had an observation car at the rear, where the passengers were crowded; but they were most courteous in making room for the newcomer, and in pointing out and naming the places of interest. The views of the White Mountains, and especially of Crawford Notch, made me regret still more my not having made the ascent; but I was grateful enough to that conductor who had saved me from passing such delights in the night-train.

  A fifteen minutes’ stop at a wayside halt doesn’t sound pleasant. There was no town near, nor anything. But I have never come across such a dream of a refreshment-room. The bar was loaded with freshly cut sandwiches (not deadly similar within), new buns, an enticing variety of cakes, huge pears, oranges, and jugs of creamy milk. I compared it with our English refreshment-rooms, usually so stale, dirty, and graceless. I understood Dickens’s description of the American at Mugby Junction: ‘I la’af. I dew. I la’af at yewer fixins, solid and liquid.’ More than forty years have passed since I had that wayside meal, and yet an American would still laugh at our rock cakes and coffee essence and other miseries. Dickens’s satire had no success in this direction.

  I don’t think there was any scheduled time for this pleasant stop, but when the conductor thought we had had enough to eat and finished our rambling round the engine and chat with the driver, he said, without raising his voice, ‘All aboard,’ and we all climbed in.

  Glancing at the heading of a fellow passenger’s book, I saw ‘Sensation in General’, guessed it was psychology, and expressed sympathy with her; we then exchanged ideas on teaching, and she told me of a plan being tried in her school for getting children to write quickly; they would copy some simple letter, say 0, to the tune of ‘Bonny Dundee’ played on the piano, over and over again without lifting their pens from the page. I still think this a more useful exercise than the awkward script writing, which is often illegible and never rapid.

  It was with real excitement that I jumped out at Boston, found my trunk, and took a hurdy to one of the hotels on Cook’s list. A plan of the town was lent me, and I ventured on a short stroll in the hour before dinner. Now the unexpected thing about Boston was that (unlike Canada) it was just what I expected. Indeed, in that first stroll I nearly contributed my bit to the casualty statistics, for I was crossing a seemly looking road, quite naturally endowed with rails, when I was aware of a huge truck towering over me and backing on to me. I skipped off just in time, but returned to the hotel a bit shaken. It was hardly reassuring to read on the notice-board in the entrance-hall that 1,600 cars passed the doors daily—intended as a recommendation. Boston was obviously a busy town. Labour-saving too. The number of bedrooms was enormous, and the service was managed by a curious scheme to avoid double journeys. I found hung up in my room a fist of all that man could reasonably want, and opposite each, the number of pings on the bell that would bring it: x ping, the boot-boy; 2 pings, iced water; 3 pings, hot water; and so on up to 15 pings. What the 15 would bring I can’t remember—that it was the fire-brigade was a later suggestion of Arthur’s. Anyhow I was so alarmed lest I should ping too many or too few that I satisfied all my wants quite quietly by hunting about the hotel. The negro waiters and my fellow guests were very helpful when I needed assistance, especially in finding my way to the various places of interest in the neighbourhood.

  My first objective was Boxford, a little village near Salem, to see Professor Palmer, of Harvard, to whom I had an introduction. I had written to say I was coming, and set out early on my first morning by train for Boxford. The station-master greeted me and explained that Mr. Palmer was at work all the morning and couldn’t come himself, but had given orders that I was to be driven to his house. Then helping me to a seat in a gig he jumped up and took the reins himself. ‘But surely,’ said I, ‘you are not going to leave your station to look after itself?’ ‘Oh, yes, there won’t be another train for a couple of hours.’ Our way was along a deeply wooded lane that might have been dropped straight out of Devon, but the pine forest that came next was too dark and sinister-looking for anything I had seen at home. I almost expected to hear the howl of a wolf. It was ‘New England’ but seemed to me more like what one might imagine the ‘Old England’ of a thousand years ago.

  The house was a dream of a place, an old cottage of historical interest (I forget exactly what, for every place around Boston had some bit of history connected with it). Mrs. Palmer was at the open door with arms extended to welcome me. In spite of August weather she had a wood fire ‘just to add warmth to my greeting’, she explained. On the fire was a kettle, and tea was at once made for me, ‘for I know how English people love tea at any hour.’ ‘Well, this is my first Boston Tea Party,’ said I, ‘and I little thought when I learnt about it at school in what lovely surroundings I should drink tea in Boston.’ At the midday dinner that soon followed Professor Palmer joined us and between the two of them I learnt a great deal more about education in America than I had gleaned from the Conference. They were not striving to impress me or be uplifting, but were refreshingly critical. Mr. Palmer was a friend of William James, the only human writer on psychology that I had come across. While we were chatting I suddenly remembered the boast of the Bostonians that they were not American. So perfectly English was their accent that I didn’t notice it! Perhaps it would have escaped me altogether if I hadn’t been brought sharp up against one slip on the part of Mrs. Palmer. Mr. Palmer was perfect, but I found the Achilles heel in his wife. She said how vurry pleased she was about something. It gave me quite a little shock of pleasure to hear it. I felt like saying, ‘Et tu, Brute?’

  Cambridge and Harvard College were naturally the next places for me to visit, and I started off by tram very early in order to see as much as possible before the midday heat. The conductor of the tram was angry with me for jumping off before it stopped, and still more angry when I laughed. A little boy immediately stepped up to me and offered to tell me which building was which. He looked to me as if he had only recently been put into breeches, but he seemed to know his way around. A kindly little fellow, I thought, probably filling in a dull holiday-time. He didn’t appear to belong to the well-to-do class (although one could never be sure), and I wondered whether he would be offended by a tip. So after a quarter of an hour’s amble round I compromised by thanking him and giving him a quarter to ‘buy sweets’. Offended he certainly was. Rejecting my coin with scorn he demanded two dollars as his proper fee! Walking away I left him to pick up his tip or leave it, as the fancy struck him.

  I said that Boston fulfilled my expectations in every particular, but Cambridge and Harvard outran them. With visions of Chicago University in my mind I was afraid of imagining anything too glowing, and was therefore delightfully disappointed. Creeper-clad Old Massachusetts Hall took my fancy immensely, reminding me of many a college building in our own Cambridge; and the funny name fascinated me too. So I sat on the grass and tried to get an impression of it in my sketch-book, grumbling at my lack of colours for the brilliant green of the creeper, and still more at my lack of skill to do the trees. Absorbed in my job, I was shocked to hear an ‘English’ lady’s voice behind me, ‘Allow me to remove this bug from your neck.’ It was only a harmless little fly, and we both laughed at my acquiring a new American usage.

  Longfellow as a poet I had long outgrown, but always had happy associations with verses learnt in childhood, and felt it an act of piety to visit his house. They had made a museum of his study, crowding it with such absurd mementoes as a chair ‘made from the wood of the spreading chestnut-tree’. A far more appropriate relic of the poet was a portrait of Keats, the well-known one by Severn. I asked the attendant whether it had been hung there by Longfellow himself, and she supposed it had, for it had been in the same place as l
ong as she could remember. This specially interested me, since Arthur possessed a similar copy of the portrait, given to him by Walter Severn, the son of the artist.

  It was not Lowell’s poetry but his Biglow Papers that led me to pay respects to his grave—a very simple one. The Biglow Papers were in verse, of course, but it was their humour that mother and I had enjoyed so much. How she used to roll over her tongue,

  But John P.

  Robinson he

  Said they didn’t know everything down in Judee.

  A visit to Bunker’s Hill and mounting to the top of the monument, and efforts to remember details of the war with America (treated vaguely in school days), consumed the afternoon, and I returned hot and thirsty to the hotel, alarming the negro waiter by the amount of tea I drank. The heat was so great that one could neither sit nor he nor stand, like the prisoners in the Bastille.

  Next morning I was up early again and took a seven-something train” to Wellesley, walked up to the College through a beautiful lane and park, to be greeted and shown over the buildings by Mrs. Case. On my return I felt that I had heard enough about education for a long time, and might indulge in my own fancies for the rest of my stay in America. At one period I had idolized Emerson, and in spite of the gruelling heat I went off in the afternoon by railway to Concord. I walked to Sleepy Hollow (what a marvellous name to imagine) and there came across Rip himself. Glad of any excuse to speak to the aged fellow, I asked him to show me which was Emerson’s grave. This was certainly a pleasing contrast to Longfellow’s study, for the only memorial was a huge boulder. For that little pilgrimage I hadn’t peas in my shoes, but suffered nobly enough. Scarcely able to drag myself along the dusty road to the depot, yet hurrying in the hope of just catching a train, I found myself with nearly an hour to wait. The only bright spot in the desolate little booking-office was the notice: ‘No smoking. Especially pipes.’ I saw plenty of Massachusetts on the return journey, for it was the slowest train that I have ever experienced. When I sank into bed that night I determined to do no more sights, but to see Boston as any town ought to be seen, by walking about aimlessly, and let Boston make its own impression.