THE FAMILY THAT GOES ABROAD BECAUSE IT'S THE THING TO DO.
That men and women should leave their homes at the end of summer and go somewhere,—though it be only to Margate,—has become a thing so fixed that incomes the most limited are made to stretch themselves to fit the rule, and habits the most domestic allow themselves to be interrupted and set at naught. That we gain much in health there can be no doubt. Our ancestors, with their wives and children, could do without their autumn tour; but our ancestors did not work so hard as we work. And we gain much also in general knowledge, though such knowledge is for the most part superficial, and our mode of acquiring it too often absurd. But the English world is the better for the practice. "Home-staying youths have ever homely wits," and we may fairly suppose that our youths are less homely in this particular after they have been a day or two in Paris, and a week or two in Switzerland, and up and down the Rhine, than they would have been had they remained in their London lodgings through that month of September,—so weary to those who are still unable to fly away during that most rural of months.
Upon the whole we are proud of our travelling; but yet we must own that, as a nation of travellers, we have much to learn; and it always seems that the travelling English family which goes abroad because it's the thing to do, with no clearly defined object as to the pleasure to be obtained or the delights to be expected,—with hardly a defined idea of the place to be visited, has, as a class, more to learn than any other class of tourists.
In such family arrangements daughters of course predominate. Sons can travel alone or with their own friends. This arrangement they generally prefer, and for it they are always able to give substantial reasons, in which their mammas may, or may not, put implicit confidence. Daughters can travel alone too occasionally, as I hope to be able to show by-and-by in a sketch of that much abused but invaluable English lady, the Unprotected Female Tourist. But such feminine independence is an exception to the rule, and daughters are generally willing to submit themselves to that paternal and maternal guidance from which the adult male tourist so stoutly revolts. Paterfamilias of course is there, paying the bills, strapping up the cloaks, scolding the waiters, obeying, but not placidly obeying, the female behests to which he is subject, and too frequently fretting uncomfortably beneath the burden of the day, the heat and the dust, the absence of his slippers, and the gross weight of his too-matured proportions. And he has, too, other inward grievances of which he can say nothing to any ear. Something of the salt of youth is left to him,—something of the spirit, though but little of the muscle,—and he thinks of his boys who are far afield, curtailed in their exploits by no petticoats, abridged by no stiff proprieties; and he wishes that he was with them, feeling that his trammels are heavy. The mother, of course, is there, kind to all her party, but too often stiff and hard to all beyond it, anxious that papa should have his comforts, anxious that her girls should see everything, but afraid to let them see too much, sometimes a little cross when the work becomes too hard or the pace of the pony is too rough, somewhat dowdy in her cotton dress, and ill-suited to the hat which she wears. She possesses every virtue under the sun. Of human beings she is the least selfish. Her heart is full of love, and all who know her dote upon her. At home she is charming, at home she is graceful and sweet to be seen. But on her travels things do not go easily with her, and her temper will sometimes become ruffled. The daughters are determined to do the thing well, to see everything, to be stopped by no English prejudices, to be at their ease, or at any rate look as though they were; to talk French boldly in spite of their little slips; to wear their dresses jauntily, and make the best of themselves; to have all their eyes open, and carry home with them something from every day's work. Who will say that they are wrong? Nay, who will not declare that they are right in all this? But they overdo the thing in their intense desire to utilize every moment; they are, alas, sometimes a little ashamed of papa and mamma; and as they return down the Rhine, having begun in Switzerland, and done Baden Baden, Frankfort, and Homburg on their way, their dresses are not quite so jaunty, nor their gloves so neat, nor their hats in such perfect trim, as when those articles were inspected on the evening before they left home. That resolve to make the best of themselves has been somewhat forgotten during the stern realities of their journeys. A French girl will remember her crinoline and her ribbons throughout every moment of her long day's work,—will think of them through it all, preserving herself that she may preserve them, if they were worth a thought at the beginning. If she is minded to end dowdily, she will begin dowdily. But the trouble of such continued care is too much for an English girl. She lapses first into indifference, and from indifference to aversion; till at last she takes an absolute pride in the absence of those little prettinesses which she had at first been determined to maintain so stoutly. Who has not seen her at the Dover railway station on her return home, as she stands there grasping with one hand an Alpine stock and an umbrella, while she leans listlessly on the other, regardless of the torn extremities of her gloves and the battered form of her hat?
Such is the family that goes abroad because it is the thing to do. The spirit that instigates them to roam afield is no hankering after fashion. The father and mother, and daughters also, of the family of which I speak, are well aware that such tourings are too common to confer fashion or distinction. The days in which we heard that—
are well nigh over, and are certainly over for such sensible people as I am describing. It is not fashion that they seek, nor is it chiefly amusement. Paterfamilias, when he starts, knows that he will not be amused, and already wishes that the journey was over, and that he could be back at his club. Mamma dreads it somewhat, and has more of misgiving than of pleasant anticipation. She has not much of happiness when papa is cross, and he is usually cross when he is uncomfortable. And then the people at the inns are so often uncivil; and she fears the beds! And the girls look for no unalloyed satisfaction. They know that they have hard work before them, and the dread of those slips in their French is not pleasant to them. But it is the thing to do. Not to have seen Florence, Rome, Munich, and Dresden, not to be at home as regards the Rhine, not to have ridden over the Gemmi or to have talked to Alpine climbers at Zermatt, is to be behind the world. And then there is so much to be done in Europe! Ars longa, vita brevis. Last year papa wouldn't move,—that is, he wouldn't move beyond Cromer. Carry is, alas! twenty-nine; Fanny is twenty-seven; even Sophie,—the childish Sophie,—is twenty-four. Under such circumstances, who can dare to think of ease, or even of pleasure? Years are flowing by, and the realities of life,—still doubtful realities, but with so much of pain in the doubt!—are coming on. Who can say how soon the income arising from paternal energy may be at an end, and that the modest means of pensioned age may render all such work impracticable? It is imperative that the places be seen, that the lions be killed and ticked off as difficulties done with and overcome. What may be the exact balance of advantage to any of them when the tour is over, neither Carry nor Fanny stops to inquire; but they put their heads together and determine that the thing must be arranged. They feel that they are right. "It is education," says Fanny, with her eyes glittering. "Home-staying youths have ever homely wits," says Sophie, thinking perhaps too much of her own advantage in point of years. "I will talk to papa in earnest," says Carry, with resolute mildness. She does talk to papa in earnest, conscious that she is thereby doing her duty; and thus the family goes abroad, because it is the thing to do.