“That man that hath a tongue, I say, is no man, If with his tongue he can not win a woman.”
Yes, he won her, and afterwards he could say:
“She is mine own, And I as rich in having such a jewel As twenty seas, if all their sands were pearl, The water nectar, and the rocks pure gold.”
It is a matter of congratulation that our people appreciate Shakespeare as much or more than Englishmen. The register at the poet’s house shows that at least one-half of the number who visit his grave are Americans. Nor are our people slow to give material proof of their love for the myriad-minded bard. Mr. G. W. Childs, of Philadelphia, whom to mention is but to praise, has, within the last twelve months, erected in Stratford a costly and beautifully designed fountain to the memory of Shakespeare.
We might write many other things about our mother country, but we must away to the Continent. So, adieu, adieu; but I hope not a final farewell to merry England. The English Channel is only twenty-five miles wide, but it is usually rough and boisterous, and is an object of terror to travelers. As we start across, Johnson says:
“Now would I give a thousand furlongs of sea For an acre of barren ground.”
But the Lord tempers the wind to the shorn lamb. The Channel for once is all that could be desired. The weather is pleasant, the sea placid as a lake.
As I land on the Continent at Ostend, the thing that most impresses me is the fact that I can not impress any one. The custom-house officers surround me. I tell them who I am, where I am from, and what my business is; yet this does not satisfy them. I repeat my statement once, twice, three times, and still they do not seem to comprehend. I say: “Gentlemen, I have told my story as plainly as I can speak. Do you now understand?” And when I come to find out, they do not understand what “understand” means.
Buildings on this side of the Channel wear a century-old, time-touched appearance. The people have strange, odd, and old-time ways of doing things. For instance, they work one horse to a two-horse wagon—not in shafts, but on one side of the tongue. Frequently they work one ox and one horse together. This is what Johnson calls being unequally yoked.
From Ostend I go direct to Brussels, the capital of Belgium. I happen to arrive in the city on the day of a national celebration. Everything is decorated for the occasion. At night the city is beautifully illuminated, and great crowds of enthusiastic people throng the streets. The fireworks display is especially fine, representing, among other things, the eruption of Vesuvius, the Falls of Niagara, and the Battle of Waterloo. As the standing army of Belgium is present, the officers giving commands, and the soldiers going through the manual of arms; as the royal bands are filling the air with martial music; and, as in the midst of the brilliant scene, are the bronze statues of Wellington and others who fought by his side on the field of Waterloo,—it really seems as if the memorable battle of 1815 is being re-enacted before my eyes! I can but think of Byron’s thrilling lines descriptive of the original battle.