LANDING AT FALMOUTH.

"O dream of joy! Is this indeed

The lighthouse-top I see?

Is this the hill? Is this the kirk?

Is this mine own countree?"

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There was a keen delight of the senses in the first smell of the land, as we inhaled the odor of violets in the freshness of the morning air. And hark, we hear the carol of a bird. It is the song of the cuckoo !

The pilot now got out his small boat, and two strong oarsmen soon pulled us in to the shore. But it seemed as if we were landing, like Columbus, to take possession of an uninhabited country. There on the beach lay a town, but we saw no sign of life. It looked as if the inhabitants had all disappeared, and there remained nothing but silent streets and empty houses. The people in this quiet nook of England are guilty of no such revolutionary practices as that of getting up early in the morning. They "sleep o' nights." Indeed the English generally are famous sleepers. To lie abed late is recognized as a part of a sound, staid, conservative character. Such men are not dangerous. A friend who has travelled much in England, tells me that the greatest drawback to his happiness, is that he cannot get anybody up in the morning! Such was our experience. We stepped on the stone quay, and made our way through the deserted streets to an inn. But here not a living creature was visible, not even a dog to bark at a wayworn traveller. We shouted lustily as Young America is apt to do, but could get no

reply. Soon a policeman appeared to check any signs of riot and revolution. But seeing we were but houseless travellers, he came to our help-he beat upon the door, he rang his club upon the pavement. At length a window opened above, and a head in a nightcap peered out into the court, and a shrill voice demanded wherefore was all this clatter? Our man-at-arms set forth that we were voyagers who had just come from off the stormy main, and had need of shelter and rest. Whereupon a light foot tripped down the stairs, the door was unbarred, and we were admitted to the warmth and comfort of an English inn.

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In course of time we got a breakfast. But you don't expect me to enlarge upon that. You do not think me quite so material." I wish I wasn't. But I must confess, after being two weeks on shipboard, sleeping on shelves, and dining on an inclined plane, it was no small comfort to be able to sit upright, and partake in peace of a quiet, civilized breakfast. This morning we were in the highest state of enjoyment. Indeed, we were like Adam and Eve in Paradise, in a state in which everything was pleasant to the eye, and good for food. Wel declared that the bread was the best that ever was baked, the butter the sweetest that ever was churned, and the cream the richest that ever came from good motherly COWS. And then the hissing teapot, and the fine English breakfast tea! Ah me, I fear I am growing "material." We were waited on by a trim little maid, with whom we

RIDE ON AN ENGLISH MAIL COACH.

21

fell in love on the spot, and made offers to take her to America. So we talked and laughed, and shouted and sang. Indeed we didn't behave with any sort of propriety. But all the while we kept on eating (of course from mere absence of mind). I thought we never should stop, and felt quite ashamed of our appetites. The only relief to our consciences was the satisfaction of paying a good round bill.

But all good things must come to an end, even the best of breakfasts, and that source of happiness being at length exhausted, we sallied forth to find the coach for Plymouth.

Falmouth, where we landed, is a little, quaint old town in the southwest corner of England, near the extremity of Cornwall. It is one of the few points in the island not yet touched by a railroad. One is being built, but it is not yet complete, so that we had before us the unexpected pleasure of a day's ride on an old-fashioned English coach. Coaches have almost disappeared in England. Even ten years ago, when I was here, I found them only in Wales, Scotland, and Ireland, and I little thought ever to see one again. It was therefore with a sense of keen delight that we mounted to the topmost seat, and saw the burly coachman rein in his mettled horses, that were prancing at the bit, and heard the guard wind his mellow horn.

To ride on the top of an English coach is an experience never to be forgotten. Dr. Johnson once said to Boswell, when they were thus perched in air and whirl

ing over the country, "Life has few things finer than this." So we thought to-day. The distance from Falmouth to Plymouth is 70 miles, which we made in seven hours. The coach, carrying the mail, is required by law to make ten miles an hour including stoppages. More often we were going at a speed of twelve. Up hill and down, the gait was never checked. It was generally the most rapid trot, but often it broke into a furious run. The only notice given of mounting a hill was an extra touch of the whip, which spurred the horses into a gallop, with which they dashed up the ascent, and as soon as they reached the summit, they plunged down in such mad career, that I griped the iron railing of the seat, trembling at the fearful speed. This swiftness of course could be kept up only over the finest roads in the world, and by frequent relays of horses. But the Queen's highway was like a floor newly swept. the even poise of the coach. The horses were changed every seven miles, and where the road was hilly they were changed even in four. Thus we went whirling over hill and dale, now rushing through towns and villages, the guard startling the inhabitants with his ringing blast, and then sallying out into the open country, which was smiling in all the beauty of early summer. To heighten the enjoyment, the day was one of a thousand. The skies were clear, only a few soft clouds shading us from the face of the sun. The hills and valleys glistened with fresh verdure; the trim hedge-rows, the smooth lawns

Not a pebble jarred

THE ATLANTIC TELEGRAPH EXPEDITION.

23

and noble parks were in their richest green. On such a day and amid such landscapes we rode for seventy miles. This was our introduction to England.

In landing at Falmouth, I had another motive besides the mere eagerness to be on shore. I knew that the Telegraph Squadron was to rendezvous at Plymouth, and I thought it possible that I might meet there my brother Cyrus,* before the departure of the expedition. At Falmouth the Custom-house officer brought me the London Times, which announced that the ships had sailed a week before on a trial trip, but were to return to Plymouth. It was therefore a great satisfaction, as we drew to the end of our journey, and were just crossing the river which divides Cornwall from Devonshire, to learn that the ships had returned, and were then lying in the harbor. As we entered the town, I sprang from the coach and hastened to the Royal Hotel, to seek for tidings. Imagine my joy to be told that my brother was then in the house! The Directors had come down from London to complete the preparations for the expedition, and were now in session here. The servant had not the words out of his mouth, before he exclaimed, "There is Mr. Field now, coming through the hall!" The surprise and happiness of such a meeting can be understood only by those who have been alone and far from home, and who in a foreign land have suddenly rushed into a brother's arms. We had hardly

* Cyrus W. Field, widely known from his connection with the Atlantic Telegraph.