THE following Wednesday Barfleur and I returned to London via Calais and Dover. We had been, between whiles, to the races at Longchamps, luncheons¹ at Au Père Boivin, the Pré Catalan, and elsewhere. I had finally looked up Marcelle, but the concierge² explained that she was out of town.
 
In spite of the utter fascination³ of Paris I was not at all sorry to leave, for I felt that to be happy here one would want a more definite social life and a more fixed⁴ habitation than this hotel and the small circle of people that we had met could provide. I took a last—almost a yearning—look at the Avenue de l’Opéra and the Gare du Nord and then we were off.
 
England was softly radiant in her spring dress. The leaves of the trees between Dover and London were just budding, that diaphanous⁵ tracery which resembles green lace. The endless red chimneys and sagging⁶ green roofs and eaves of English cottages peeping out from this vesture of spring were as romantic and poetic⁷ as an old English ballad⁸. No doubt at all that England—the south of it, anyhow—is in a rut; sixty years behind the times,—but what a rut! Must all be new and polished and shiny? As the towers and spires⁹ of Canterbury sped past to the right, gray and crumbling¹⁰ in a wine-like air, something rose in my throat. I thought of that old English song that begins—
 
“When shepherds pipe on oaten straws—”
 
And then London once more and all the mystery of endless involute streets and simple, hidden, unexplored516 regions! I went once more to look at the grim, sad, two-story East End in spring. It was even more pathetic for being touched by the caressing¹¹ hand of Nature. I went to look at Hyde Park and Chelsea and Seven Kings. I thought to visit Sir Scorp—to cringe once more before the inquiring severity of his ascetic¹³ eye; but I did not have time, as things turned out. Barfleur was insistent¹⁴ that I should spend a day or two at Bridgely Level. Owing to a great coal strike the boat I had planned to take was put out of commission and I was compelled to advance my sailing date two days on the boat of another line. And now I was to see Bridgely Level once more, in the spring.
 
After Italy and Holland, perhaps side by side with Holland or before it, England—the southern portion of it—is the most charmingly individual country in Europe. For the sake of the walk, the evening was so fine, we decided¹⁵ to leave the train at Maidenhead and walk the remaining distance, some five or six miles. It was ideal. The sun was going down and breaking through diaphanous clouds in the west, which it tinted¹⁶ and gilded¹⁷. The English hedges and copses were delicately tinted with new life. English robins¹⁸ were on the grass; sheep, cows; over one English hamlet and another smoke was curling and English crows or rooks were gaily¹⁹ cawing, cheered at the thought of an English spring.
 
As gay as children, Barfleur and I trudged²⁰ the yellow English road. Now and then we passed through a stile and cut diagonally across a field where a path was laid for the foot of man. Every so often we met an English laborer²¹, his trousers gripped just below the knee by the customary English strap²². Green and red; green and red; (such were the houses and fields) with new spring violets, apple trees in blossom, and peeping steeples over sloping hillsides thrown in for good measure. I felt—what517 shall I say I felt?—not the grandeur²³ of Italy, but something so delicate and tender, so reminiscent and aromatic—faintly so—of other days and other fames, that my heart was touched as by music. Near Bridgely Level we encountered Wilkins going home from his work, a bundle of twigs²⁴ under his arm, a pruning²⁵ hook at his belt, his trousers strapped²⁶ after the fashion of his class.
 
“Well, Wilkins!” I exclaimed.
 
“W’y, ’ow do you do, sir, Mr. Dreiser? Hi’m glad to see you again, Hi am,” touching²⁷ his cap. “Hi ’opes as ’ow you’ve had a pleasant trip.”
 
“Very, Wilkins, very,” I replied grandiosely²⁹. Who cannot be grandiose²⁸ in the presence of the fixed conditions of old England. I asked after his work and his health and then Barfleur gave him some instructions for the morrow. We went on in a fading light—an English twilight³⁰. And when we reached the country house it was already aglow³¹ in anticipation³² of this visit. Hearth³³ fires were laid. The dining-room, reception-hall, and living-room were alight. Dora appeared at the door, quite as charming and rosy³⁴ in her white apron³⁵ and cap as the day I left, but she gave no more sign that I was strange or had been absent than as if I had not been away.
 
“Now we must make up our minds what particular wines we want for dinner. I have an excellent champagne³⁶ of course; but how about a light Burgundy or a Rhine wine? I have an excellent Assmanshäuser.”
 
“I vote for the light Burgundy,” I said.
 
“Done. I will speak to Dora now.”
 
And while he went to instruct Dora, I went to look after all my belongings³⁷ in order to bring them finally together for my permanent departure. After a delicious dinner and one of those comfortable, reminiscent talks that seem naturally to follow the end of the day, I went early to bed.
 
 
When the day came to sail I was really glad to be going home, although on the way I had quarreled so much with my native land for the things which it lacks and which Europe apparently³⁸ has.
 
Our boasted democracy has resulted in little more than the privilege every living, breathing American has of being rude and brutal³⁹ to every other, but it is not beyond possibility that sometime as a nation we will sober down into something approximating human civility. Our early revolt against sham⁴⁰ civility has, in so far as I can see, resulted in nothing save the abolition⁴¹ of all civility—which is sickening. Life, I am sure, will shame us out of it eventually. We will find we do not get anywhere by it. And I blame it all on the lawlessness of the men at the top. They have set the example which has been most freely copied.
 
Still, I was glad to be going home.
 
When the time came the run from London to Folkstone and Dover was pleasant with its fleeting⁴³ glimpses of the old castle at Rochester and the spires of the cathedral at Canterbury, the English orchards⁴⁴, the slopes dotted with sheep, the nestled chimneys and the occasional quaint⁴⁵, sagging roofs of moss-tinted tiles. The conductor who had secured me a compartment⁴⁶ to myself appeared just after we left Folkstone to tell me not to bother about my baggage, saying that I would surely find it all on the dock when I arrived to take the boat. It was exactly as he said, though having come this way I found two transfers necessary. Trust the English to be faithful. It is the one reliable country in which you may travel. At Dover I meditated⁴⁷ on how thoroughly⁴⁸ my European days were over and when, if ever, I should come again. Life offers so much to see and the human span is so short that it is a question whether it is advisable ever to go twice to the same place—a serious question.519 If I had my choice, I decided—as I stood and looked at the blue bay of Dover—I would, if I could, spend six months each year in the United States and then choose Paris as my other center and from there fare forth⁴⁹ as I pleased.
 
After an hour’s wait at Dover, the big liner dropped anchor in the roadstead and presently the London passengers were put on board and we were under way. The Harbor was lovely in a fading light—chalk-blue waters, tall whitish cliffs, endless squealing⁵⁰, circling gulls⁵¹, and a bugle⁵² calling from the fort in the city.
 
Our ship’s captain was a Christian⁵³ Scientist, believing in the nothingness of matter, the immanence of Spirit or a divine idea, yet he was, as events proved, greatly distressed⁵⁴ because of the perverse⁵⁵, undismissable presence and hauntings of mortal thought. He had “beliefs” concerning possible wrecks⁵⁶, fires, explosions—the usual terrors of the deep, and one of the ship’s company (our deck-steward) told me that whenever there was a fog he was always on the bridge, refusing to leave it and that he was nervous and “as cross as hell.” So you can see how his religious belief squared with his chemical intuitions concerning the facts of life. A nice, healthy, brisk, argumentative, contentious⁵⁸ individual he was, and very anxious to have the pretty women sit by him at dinner.
 
The third day we were out news came by wireless⁵⁹ that the Titanic⁶⁰ had sunk after collision with an iceberg⁶¹ in mid-ocean. The news had been given in confidence to a passenger. And this passenger had “in confidence” told others. It was a terrible piece of news, grim in its suggestion, and when it finally leaked out it sent a chill over all on board. I heard it first at nine o’clock at night. A party of us were seated in the smoking-room,520 a most comfortable retreat from the terrors of the night and the sea. A damp wind had arisen, bringing with it the dreaded⁶² fog. Sometimes I think the card room is sought because it suggests the sea less than any place else on the ship. The great fog-horn began mooing like some vast Brobdingnagian sea-cow wandering on endless watery⁶³ pastures. The passengers were gathered here now in groups where, played upon by scores of lights, served with drinks and reacted upon, one by the moods of the others, a temperamental combustion⁶⁴ took place which served to dispel⁶⁵ their gloom. Yet it was not possible entirely⁶⁶ to keep one’s mind off the slowing down of the ship, the grim moo of the horn, and the sound of long, swishing breakers outside speaking of the immensity of the sea, its darkness, depth, and terrors. Every now and then, I noticed, some one would............