The Sun.
London, England, 1867-10-26 00:00:00

AMERICA.

(From a Correspondent of the Anglo-American Times.)
CAMBRIDGE, MASSACHUSETTS, Oct. 4, 1867.
Travel certainly tends to make one's ideas more
Copernican. The Bostonian returns convinced that
if the " hub" is the centre, it is also one of the
smallest portions of the wheel. The common is
not nearly so large as when he crossed it as a school-
boy, carrying all the materials of his laborious
studies slung in a single strap. The State-house is
not so high, nor the churches so large or so beautiful
when matched with the grand mass of St. Peter's,
the soaring spire of Strasbourg, the vast beginnings
of Cologne or the unprofitable immensity of Paul's.
With memories of the Boulevards in mind the
delusion that our streets are clean can be cherished
no longer. Were the question between us and other
nations one of mere material magnificence it could
be settled at a glance. We have not the parks, the
palaces, and the cathedrals of the old world. Nor,
in the Eastern States, at least, have we the finished

agriculture that makes large tracts of Europe seem
like unlimited gardens. The country appears raw by
contrast. Large spaces of rough woodland stretch
into the very suburbs of the cities ; not, however,
as a distinguished speaker in London called them,
" portions of the primeval forest." For that it is
necessary to go down to the borders of Canada, or
eff to the very "far West." There, amid tall trees
of the second growth, you begin to find some of the
sturdy giants of the olden time, compared to which
all we can show in the settled States arc but shrub-
like dwarfs. Hills covered with loose stones are
often passed, which no one has yet taken the trouble
to clear. The railroad is nothing but a railroad. There
is no attempt at elegance or finish, except where
some wide river or ravine is to be spanned, and
solidity, costing of necessity so much, the small item
for elegance is easily " thrown in." Boston has
now some very pretty and neat stations, though
plain and small in comparison with the European.
The way-stations, little wooden cottages, with a
plank walk in front, impress one unpleasantly in
comparison with the neat structures of masonry,
which serve the same purpose beyond the Atlantic.
On the other hand, the " cars" seem a great im-
provement on the European carriages. You have
a long, elegant, well-ventilated saloon, with stoves
to heat in cold weather, plush-covered seats which
can hold but two each, each provided with a foot-
rest, and so placed that all the passengers face the
same way ; though the backs being reversible,
any party of four by coming early enough can secure
the pleasure of sitting face to face. A preference
for this system may seem trans-Atlantic bigotry,
but it is the preference of one who has tried both.
For a family party nothing can be more pleasant
than a compartment of a foreign railway carriage.
It is a sort of travelling parlour. But for single
travellers few things could be more awkward. To
jam a company of strangers into a narrow space,
where for hours they must stare point blank at each
other, as the only prospect afforded them, and
where the most miserably cramped position is the
only one which can keep feet and legs out of the
way of others, half of these others being likely
enough disagreeable companions, is bad enough ;
but to dignify all this with the name of " privacy"
is beyond all endurance. If I must be shut
up with strangers, and strangers not always
to my taste, let me see the backs of their heads
and show them the back of mine, and I will
admit that there is some approach to privacy. If
with this I am allowed to extend my lower limbs
to their natural but not excessive length, it will add
materially to the comfort of a long journey. Then,
as half the passengers sit next the windows, I may
hope by reasonable promptness to secure that privi-
lege, after which I have little to ask.
I should not fail to mention the very great com-
fort of sleeping cars now in use in connection with
the night trains on all our long routes. Long shall
I remember one ride from London to Glasgow
by the night express. We travelled at a fabu-
lous speed, but there is a satiety in mere
motion. I was weary to the last degree. As I
happened to be alone, by the politeness of a disin-
terested porter, I stretched my listless length along,
the seat, put my valise under my bead, and jour-
neyed faster than the express into the land of
dreams. So far all was well, but as a valise gene-
rally contains a mixture of hard and soft sub-
stances, and is besides not always of the appropriate
height for a pillow, I carried reminders in neck and
head of that journey for not less than twenty-four
hours thereafter. Judge, then, of the satisfaction
of entering a long saloon, which by daylight is only
an ordinary though roomy car, and as darkness
comes on seeing cane-covered stretchers, if one
may call them so, laid from seat to seat and covered
with mattresses, pillows, and blankets, until a
wide, soft, warm bed is formed, around which
thick curtains are drawn. The strictest silence is
maintained, your ticket once inspected is slipped
under a spring at the head of the bed, where it can
be taken without disturbing you. At the proper
point, if you are to leave before morning, you are
quietly awakened, and find at each end of the car
a wash-room, with water, towels, brushes, and
mirror, so that you leave the train ready for visit-
ing or business. To enter such a car at evening
among the mountains of some rural district, and
awaking from profound slumber to find the train
flashing through the suburbs of a great city, seems like
a realisation of some of the adventures of Arabian
tales. The convenience is worth more practically,
than the romance of the system. A merchant
closes the day's business, sups at home, enters
the trains, has a sound night's rest, break-
fasts before business hours in a city some three
hundred miles distant, spends a busy clay, returns
as he came, is at his counting-room on the second
morning after leaving home without having lost an
hour of busy daylight, or an hour of needful rest.
I have said more of this than I meant to do. Hav-
ing made some concessions iu favour of other coun-
tries, I must be allowed to praise my own a little,
and while about that easy task, I may say a word
for our neat suburban villages, with their
white houses, neat gardens and orchards, their wide
streets, and pretty churches and school-houses. Each
family has a little estate separated from .all the rest,
tall trees border the streets, and there is an air of
rural comfort such as is hard to find elsewhere —a
striking contrast to the villages on the Continent of
Europe at least, which, with their crowded houses
and dingy alleys, seem like fragments of some
wretched section of a great city, which have some-
how floated off and become stranded in the fields.
Nor let it be thought presumptuous, if I set off
the school-houses of our cities and suburbs
against the palaces of the old world. Fine
buildings they are, of faced brick and free-
stone, three or four stories in height, and covering
a large surface. Around each is an extensive
playground, within, large halls for declamation,

music (each school being provided with a piano),
or for gymnastics, while all around are small rooms
for the recitations of separate classes. Each pupil
bas a neat desk to himself, of which he is master,
and for the condition of which he is responsible.
All, horn the primary schools to the threshold of
counting-room or college, is absolutely gratuitous,
and no better scholars come to Harvard than those
trained in the free Latin school of Boston.
In such things as these, is to be found the true
glory of America and of genuine democracy. When
the good gifts of life are shared freely by all, no
one person or class can attain such mag-
nificence, as where the many are shut out. But is
not a neat village, with a thousand happy homes,
and a few little wooden churches, a fairer sight to
one who loves mankind than a massive cathedral
in a wilderness of dirty streets, crowded with filthy
and wretched beings ? Is not a schoolhouse a plea-
santer sight than a barrack, even if not so large or
costly ? Is it not worth something to be without
a native peasantry and without a standing
army ? Speaking of education, Harvard opens the
year with about five hundred undergraduates.
The funds for the new hall, to combine rooms
for Alumni meetings, &c., with a memorial
chapel in honour of the nearly one hundred
graduates and students who fell in the Union
armies, are steadily increasing, and what we
are pleased to call " our ancient university "
gives every indication of a vigorous youth. The
portraits of the crew victorious in the late races at
Worcester still appear in the shop windows. We
might be more justly proud if the rowing match
were not so invariably followed by a row-ing match.
The time has passed when it was considered only
proper respect for your friends to get drunk in
their ccmpany or make them drunk in yours, and
when statesmen even, were as much distinguished
for the number of bottles they could drink as for
the multitude of affairs they could handle. Let
us hope to see the time when young men will feel it
is doing no honour to their physical strength or
their mental ability—no honour to their colleges,
their homes, or their country to follow a noble
athletic contest with a debauch worthy of escaped
convicts.

The lectures of the Mercantile Library Associa-
tion, the Parker Fraternity, and other societies,
have commenced, and offer on their lists of speakers
many of our greatest named. John B. Gough has
given his lecture on " Eloquence and Orators"
with his usual inimitable skill. If he could com-
municate his power, he would be worth $150,000 as
a professor of rhetoric. 1 need not apologise for
not entering at this point on the extensive field of
politics.