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 PLEASANT MEMORIES 
 
 OF 
 
 
 PLEASANT LANDS. 
 
 
 BY 
 
 
 MRS. L. H. SIGOURNEY. 
 
 
 " In a strange land, 
 
 
 Kind things, however trivial, reach the heart, 
 
 
 And through the heart the head, clearing away 
 
 
 The narrow notions that grow up at home, 
 
 
 And in their place, grafting Good-Will to All." 
 
 
 Rogers's Italy. 
 
 
 
 BOSTON: 
 
 
 JAMES MUNROE AND COMPANY. 
 
 MDCCC XLII. 
 
 
V 
 
 Cr- — 3 — * * 3 
 
 Eatered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1842, by 
 
 James Munroe and Company, 
 
 in the Clerk's office of the District Court for the District of Massachusetts. 
 
 
 boston: 
 printed by thurston and t0k8 
 
 £ 
 
PREFACE 
 
 A traveller in climes so generally visited, as 
 those which have given subjects to the present volume, 
 will find it difficult to say what has not been said 
 before. By every celebrated stream, or mountain, 
 amid the ivy of every mouldering ruin, at the gate 
 of every castle, palace, and cathedral, he doubtless 
 met other travellers, with their note-books ; and what 
 he saw and described, they also may see and describe, 
 perchance with a more glowing pencil. 
 
 Yet if he must resign the prospect of finding un- 
 trodden paths, he may still fix upon some spots, where 
 it will be profitable both to muse and to record im- 
 pressions ; and if he forfeits the right of discovery, 
 may retain the power of promoting good and pleas- 
 urable feelings. With such hopes the following pages 
 have been drawn forth, and modified from the notes 
 
IV PREFACE. 
 
 of a Journal regularly kept, during a tour which 
 occupied the greater part of a year. 
 
 Their writer has not sought to dwell upon the dark 
 shades of the countries that it was her privilege to 
 visit. It might have been easy to fix the eye upon 
 the blemishes that appertain to each, as it is to dis- 
 cern foibles in the most exalted character. Yet it is 
 but a losing office to quit our own quiet fireside, and 
 throw ourselves upon the stormy billows, for the sake 
 of finding fault. This we might do with less fatigue 
 and peril at home. She might, indeed, have picked 
 up a nettle here and there, but the flowers were 
 sweeter. She might have gathered thorns and bram- 
 bles to sting others or herself with, but what she has 
 missed, multitudes who go the same road can find, 
 and cull them if they choose. So the lovers of 
 poignancy may be gratified from many sources, should 
 they be compelled to pronounce this volume vapid and 
 void of discrimination. 
 
 " When I have called the bad, bad" says Goethe, 
 " how much is gained by that? He, who would work 
 aright, had better busy himself to show forth and to 
 do that which is good." And methinks he, who 
 leaves his native land to take note of foreign realms, 
 
PREFACE 
 
 and is brought again in safety to his own home and 
 people, owes not only a great debt of gratitude to his 
 Preserver, but a new service of charity to those whom 
 He has made. It would seem that an obligation was 
 laid on him not to use the knowledge thus acquired, 
 to embarrass and embroil God's creatures, but to 
 brighten the bands of the nations with a wreath of 
 love. 
 
 And now, dear reader, if any such there be, who 
 shall have patiently finished these my pages, thou art 
 for this very kindness, as a brother or sister unto me. 
 And as we have thus communed together of pleasant 
 things, without, perchance, having seen each other's 
 faces in the flesh, may we be so blessed as to meet 
 and commune in that country where no stranger 
 sorroweth, where no wanderer goeth forth from his 
 home with tears, and " where there is no more sea." 
 
 L. H. S. 
 
 Thursday, Dec. 1, 1842. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 
 Page. 
 
 PREFACE 
 
 iii 
 
 LAND-BIRD AT SEA 
 
 . 3 
 
 A SABBATH AT SEA 
 
 7 
 
 APPROACH TO ENGLAND 
 
 . 11 
 
 DIVINE SERVICE AT THE CHURCH FOR THE BLIND . 
 
 22 
 
 CHESTER 
 
 . 29 
 
 KENDAL 
 
 35 
 
 LAKE WINANDERMERE 
 
 41 
 
 GRASSMERE AND RYDAL-WATER 
 
 46 
 
 TO SOUTHEV. A Sonnet 
 
 . 51 
 
 CARLISLE 
 
 56 
 
 HOLYROOD 
 
 . 65 
 
 HAWTHORNDEN 
 
 79 
 
 THE NECROPOLIS AT GLASGOW 
 
 . 85 
 
 LOCH LOMOND 
 
 94 
 
 CORRA LINN 
 
 . 98 
 
 FAREWELL TO EDINBURGH 
 
 . 101 
 
 ABBOTSFORD 
 
 . 108 
 
 HUNTLEY-BURN. A Sonnet 
 
 . 122 
 
 SHEEP AMONG THE CHEVIOTS 
 
 . 125 
 
 THE GIPSY MOTHER 
 
 129 
 
 YORK MINSTER 
 
 . 135 
 
 BIRMINGHAM AND SHEFFIELD 
 
 143 
 
 CHATSWORTH AND HADDON HALL 
 
 . 153 
 
 MATLOCK 
 
 164 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 THE SLEEPING SISTERS IN THE LICHFIELD CATHEDRAL 109 
 
 STRATFORD UPON AVON 173 
 
 WARWICK CASTLE 181 
 
 KEN1LWORTH 188 
 
 WESTMINSTER ABBEY 193 
 
 ANNE BOLEYN 201 
 
 LADY JANE GREY'S PRISON WINDOW. A Sorbet . . 204 
 
 OXFORD 207 
 
 DOVER 214 
 
 CALAIS 224 
 
 OBELISK OF LUXOR 230 
 
 PERE LA CHAISE 235 
 
 THE RETURN OF NAPOLEON 215 
 
 TOMB OF JOSEPHINE 253 
 
 THE PRESENTATION 257 
 
 ADIEU TO FRANCE 2G7 
 
 TO MISS EDGEWORTH. A Sonnet .... .281 
 
 VICTORIA 284 
 
 HAMPTON COURT 290 
 
 MRS. FRY AT NEWGATE PRISON 301 
 
 MARCH. AT DENMARK HILL 314 
 
 HAMPSTEAD 322 
 
 THE ROSARY. — OLD BROMPTON. A Sonnet ... 327 
 TOMBS OF GOWER AND BISHOP ANDREWS . . . .330 
 
 RUNNIMEDE 333 
 
 CLIFTON 344 
 
 ICEBERGS 350 
 
 SIGHT OF NATIVE LAND 358 
 
PLEASANT MEMORIES 
 
 OF 
 
 PLEASANT LANDS. 
 
LAND-BIRD AT SEA. 
 
 Bird of the land ! what dost thou here ? 
 
 Lone wanderer o'er a trackless bound, 
 With nought but frowning skies above, 
 
 And wild, unfathomed seas around. 
 
 Amid the shrouds, with panting breast 
 And drooping head, I see thee stand, 
 
 While pleased the hardy sailor climbs 
 To clasp thee in his roughened hand. 
 
 Say, didst thou follow, league on league, 
 Our pointed mast, thine only guide, 
 
 When but a fleeting speck it seemed 
 On the broad bosom of the tide 1 
 
 Amid Newfoundland's misty bank 
 
 Hadst thou a nest, and nurslings fair? 
 
 Or cam' st thou from New-England's vales 1 
 Speak ! speak ! what tidings dost thou bear ? 
 
LAND-BIRD AT SEA. 
 
 What news from native land and home, 
 Light carrier o'er the threatening tide ? 
 
 Hast thou no folded scroll of love 
 Pressed closely to thy panting side ? 
 
 A bird of genius art thou ? say ! 
 
 With impulse high thy spirit stirred, 
 Some region unexplored to gain, 
 
 And soar above the common herd 1 
 
 Burns in thy breast some kindling spark, 
 Like that which fired the glowing mind 
 
 Of the adventurous Genoese, 
 An undiscovered world to find ? 
 
 Whate'er thou art, how sad thy fate, 
 With wasted strength the goal to spy, 
 
 Cling feebly to the flapping sail, 
 And at a stranger's feet to die. 
 
 For thee the widowed mate shall gaze 
 From leafy chamber curtained fair, 
 
 And wailing lays at evening's close 
 Lament thy loss in deep despair. 
 
 Even thus, o'er life's unresting tide, 
 Chilled by the billow's beating spray, 
 
 Some adventitious prize to gain, 
 Ambition's votaries urge their way ; 
 
LAND-BIRD AT SEA. 
 
 Some eyrie on the Alpine cliff, 
 
 Some proud Mont-Blanc they fain would climb, 
 Snatch wreaths of laurel steeped in gore, 
 
 Or win from Fame a strain sublime. 
 
 They lose of home the heartfelt joys, 
 The charm of seasons as they roll, 
 
 And stake amid their blinding course 
 The priceless birthright of the soul. 
 
 Years fleet, and still they struggle on, 
 Their dim eye rolls with fading fire, 
 
 Perchance the long-sought treasure grasp, 
 And in the victory expire. 
 
 At Sea. 
 Saturday, August 8th, 1840. 
 
 The monotony of a sea-voyage rendered the arri- 
 val of a poor, little, trembling land-bird among our 
 shrouds a circumstance of interest. To the children 
 on board it communicated a wild delight, though 
 they grieved to see it so soon fold its wings and die. 
 It reached us, when our ship had been eight days out, 
 in latitude 43° 33", longitude 45° 30", being distant 
 from New York 1340 miles, and from the nearest 
 point of Newfoundland 500, so that the little messen- 
 ger must have had a weary flight, ere it found a rest- 
 ing place. 
 
 It reminded us of the birds that came out to meet 
 
LAND-BIRD AT SEA. 
 
 our ancestors, nearly two centuries since, when, after 
 a tedious voyage of seventy days, they approached the 
 harbor of Salem. " There came forth to us, into our 
 ship," said Governor Winthrop, " a wild pigeon and 
 another small land-bird, likewise a smell from the 
 shore, like unto the smell of a garden." The young 
 voyagers crumbled their stale bread to lure these 
 aerial visitants, watching with exclamations of joy the 
 irized hues of the pigeon's glossy neck, as it turned 
 its head from side to side, timidly regarding them. 
 When long confined to the sight of sea and wave, any 
 vestige of land is most cheering. How must Colum- 
 bus and his disheartened people have hailed the float- 
 ing weeds, which assured them that the world of their 
 vision was indeed one of reality. Such heralds can 
 never be correctly estimated by those who dwell qui- 
 etly at home ; but on the tossing deep we realize the 
 truth of the words of the poet ; — 
 
 " The floating weeds and birds that meet 
 
 The wanderers back at sea, 
 And tell that fresh and new and sweet 
 
 A world is on their lea, 
 Are like the hints of that high clime, 
 Toward which we steer o'er waves of time." 
 
A SABBATH AT SEA. 
 
 A SABBATH AT SEA. 
 
 Swift o'er the tossing deep, 
 
 As woke the Sabbath day, 
 With favoring breeze and swelling sails 
 
 A bark pursued its way ; 
 When lo ! a gush of music sweet 
 
 Came from its lonely breast, 
 A holy voice of hymns, that lulled 
 
 The wrathful wave to rest. 
 
 Upon the sheltered deck 
 
 Was held a sacred rite, 
 The worship of old Ocean's King, 
 
 The Lord of power and might, 
 Who with a simple line of sand 
 
 Doth curb its monstrous tide, 
 And lay his finger on its mane, 
 
 To quell its fiercest pride. 
 
 High words of solemn prayer 
 
 Each listening spirit stir, 
 And by the fair young babe knelt down 
 
 The bronzed mariner ; 
 
A SABBATH AT SEA. 
 
 On couch and mattress ranged around, 
 The sick forgot their grief, 
 
 And drank the healing lore of heaven, 
 As dew the thirsty leaf. 
 
 Poor Erin's ardent sons 
 
 Up from the steerage came, 
 And in their rude response invoked 
 
 Jehovah's awful name ; 
 And little children gathered near, 
 
 Blest in their guileless years, 
 Hands folded close, and lips apart, 
 
 And thoughts that moved to tears. 
 
 Filled with the scene sublime, 
 
 The priestly heart grew bold, 
 To speak with eloquence of Him, 
 
 Who the great deep controlled ; 
 And loftier was his youthful brow, 
 
 And deep his tuneful voice, 
 That warned the sinner to repent, 
 
 And bade the saint rejoice. 
 
 A spell was on the heart, 
 
 That bowed the proudest head, 
 
 Above us the eternal skies, 
 Beneath our feet the dead ; 
 
 The dead who knew no burial rite, 
 Save storm, or battle cry, 
 
A SABBATH AT SEA. 
 
 Whose tombs are where the coral grows, 
 And the sea-monsters lie. 
 
 It is a blessed thing 
 
 In God's own courts to stand, 
 And hear the pealing organ swell, 
 
 And join the prayerful band ; 
 Yet who in full dependence feels 
 
 That One above can save, 
 Until his fleeting life he throws 
 
 Upon the faithless wave ? 
 
 It is a blessed thing 
 
 To heed the Sabbath chime, 
 And on 'neath summer foliage walk 
 
 To keep the holy time ; 
 Yet who hath all devoutly praised 
 
 Him, who his breath hath kept, 
 Until the strong unpitying surge 
 
 Raged round him while he slept ? 
 
 Earth, the indulgent nurse, 
 
 With love her son doth guide, 
 His safety on her quiet breast 
 
 Begets an inborn pride ; 
 But Ocean, king austere, 
 
 Doth mock his trusting gaze, 
 And try the fabric of the faith, 
 
 By which on Heaven he stays. 
 
10 A SABBATH AT SEA. 
 
 Again that tuneful sound 
 
 Swells o'er the watery plain ; 
 How passing sweet are Zion's songs 
 
 Amid the stranger main. 
 Our vessel taught them to the winds 
 
 Along her venturous way, 
 And bade the lawless billows hush 
 
 In their tremendous play. 
 
 Throughout the broad expanse 
 
 No living thing is seen, 
 Except the stormy petrel's wing, 
 
 That flecks the blue serene. 
 Praise ! Praise ! methinks the hoariest surge 
 
 Might learn that lesson well, 
 Which even the infant zephyr's breath 
 
 To earth's frail flowers doth tell. 
 
 What though the tender thought 
 
 Of loved ones far away 
 Steals lingering to the moistened eye, 
 
 Mid prayer and chanting lay ; 
 Yet trust in a Redeemer's word, 
 
 And hopes that blossom free, 
 And hallowed memories cling around 
 
 This Sabbath on the sea. 
 
 Sunday, August 9, 1840. 
 
APPROACH TO ENGLAND. 11 
 
 APPROACH TO ENGLAND. 
 
 Land ! Land ! — The sailor hears no sweeter sound ; 
 And the tired voyager leaps up, to catch 
 Through lifted glass yon misty line, that marks 
 On the horizon's edge his destined goal. 
 
 Warm-hearted Erin, to the utmost verge 
 
 Of old Kinsale, dipping her snowy foot 
 
 In the cold surge, came forth, and held a light, 
 
 And breathed good wishes on our midnight way. 
 
 But then we lost her, and went groping on, 
 
 Day after day, fog-wrapt and full of fear, 
 
 O'er the vexed Channel, the resounding lead 
 
 Probing its depths, and he who ruled our bark 
 
 Sleepless, and marked with care for those, who gave 
 
 Both life and fortune to his faithful charge. 
 
 Would that I loved thee, Ocean ! 
 
 I had heard 
 Much of thy praise, in story and in song, 
 And oft by fancy lured, was half prepared 
 To worship thee. But 't is a weary life 
 To be a child of thine. Thou hast a smile 
 
12 APPROACH TO ENGLAND. 
 
 Of witching sweetness, yet thy moods are strange, 
 And thy caprices terrible. 
 
 Of these 
 I was forewarned, however, and complain 
 Less of thy frowns, than thine indulgences. 
 Thine everlasting rocking makes the soul 
 Peevish and sick, like an o'er-cradled child; 
 And thy protracted calmness lulls the mind 
 To dreamy idleness, stealing away 
 That industry, in which is half our bliss. 
 Things from their nature and their proper use 
 Thou seem'st to turn. The book we fain would read 
 Leaps from our hand, or cheats the swimming sight. 
 The needle pricks our fingers, and the pen 
 Makes zigzag lines. If still we persevere 
 To write against thy will, with desperate zeal 
 Grasping the table, as the Jews of old 
 With one hand wrought upon their wall, and held 
 Their weapons with the other, down amain 
 By some unlucky lurch the ink-stand comes, 
 Deluging things most precious. Last resort 
 Is conversation, and with quickened zeal 
 We turn to that, reduced again to say 
 The hundredth time, what we had said before. 
 Yet, if perchance some witticism, or tale, 
 We 've hoarded up, and bring exulting forth, 
 No smile repays our toil, the listener yawns, 
 For thou dost dim perception, and enwrap 
 
APPROACH TO ENGLAND. 13 
 
 Attention in a trance, and memory drive 
 To the four winds. 
 
 Here sit a pair at chess, 
 Absorbed of course, and there another group, 
 Who, scarcely keep a show of life, to drag 
 Some other drowsy game. Still wiser those, 
 Who to the dull necessity of things 
 Yielding perforce, on sofa, or on chair, 
 Doze oyster-like. 
 
 I would not wish to be 
 Fastidious, or too difficult to please ; 
 Yet I 've a fondness now and then to tread 
 On something firm, and not be always dashed 
 Against the wall when walking, nor in sleep 
 Tossed from the pillow to the state-room floor, 
 Aghast and ill at ease. 
 
 Yet these are freaks 
 Doubtless unworthy to be kept in mind ; 
 And we have much to thank thee for, Oh Deep ! 
 And would not be ungrateful. Thou hast shown 
 Thy summer face, and poured thy bracing air 
 Salubrious round us, and called freely forth 
 Thy various actors on their tossing stage ; 
 The kingly whale, the porpoise in huge shoals 
 Disporting heavily, the rough sea-horse 
 Churning the foam, like ponderous elephant, 
 The dolphin, fainting in his rainbow shroud, 
 The white gull, sailing through the blue serene, 
 
14 APPROACH TO ENGLAND. 
 
 And the faint land-bird, as it quivering hung 
 Mid our wet shrouds, to die. 
 
 And when I 've bowed 
 My soul to thee, thou hast not failed to breathe 
 A glorious thought therein, pointing to Him, 
 Who counts thy thunder as an infant's sigh. 
 And when thy mountain-waves, with solemn night 
 Upon their crests, went rushing on, to do 
 The secret bidding of the Invisible, 
 Oft hath their terrible beauty waked a thrill 
 Of rapturous awe, as if a spirit spake 
 From their dark depths of God. 
 
 And thou didst spare 
 Our trembling vessel mid the breakers hoarse, 
 What time, by urgent winds propelled, she went 
 Down toward unpitying Bardsey's frightful reef. 
 
 What did I say ? Thou spar'dst us ! 
 
 No. His hand 
 Who heareth prayer sustained us, as we ran 
 O'er wreck-paved Cardigan such fearful course, 
 As turned the proudest pale. 
 
 And so, farewell ! 
 I give thee thanks, but most of all rejoice 
 At our leave-taking. 
 
 Lo ! the pilot boat 
 Speeds like a dancing feather o'er the surge, 
 And the dim outline of the shore grows green, 
 Lifting its spires and turrets to the cloud. 
 
APPROACH TO ENGLAND. 15 
 
 England, Mother-Land ! how oft my heart 
 In its young musings hath gone out to thee 
 With filial love. For thou didst tell me tales 
 Of ancient times, and of the steel-clad knights, 
 Who battled for the truth, and of the lays 
 
 Of wandering minstrels, harping in thy halls, 
 Until I longed to see her face, whose voice 
 Could charm me so, even as the simple child, 
 Going to rest, asks for its mother's kiss. 
 
 Therefore have I come forth upon the wave, 
 I, whose most dear and unambitious joy 
 Was, 'neath the low porch of my vine-clad home, 
 To twine at early morn such tender shoots, 
 As the cool night put forth, or listening catch 
 The merry voices of my little ones 
 Lifting the blossoms from their turfy bed, 
 
 1 have come strangely forth upon the wave, 
 To take thee by the hand, before I die. 
 
 Show me the birth-place of those bards of old, 
 Whose music moved me, as a mighty wind 
 Doth bow the reed. Show me their marble tombs, 
 Whose varied wisdom taught the awe-struck world. 
 Those giants of old time. Show me thy domes 
 And castellated towers, with ivy crowned, 
 The proud memorials of a buried race, 
 Pour on my ear thy rich Cathedral strain, 
 England, our mother, and to my far home 
 
16 APPROACH TO ENGLAND. 
 
 In the green West I will rejoicing turn, 
 Wearing thine image on my grateful heart. 
 
 Friday, August 21, 1840. 
 
 Our voyage across the Atlantic had been eminently 
 prosperous. From our departure from New York, 
 August 1, 1840, we encountered no obstruction, dur- 
 ing the seventeen days, that brought us to the Irish 
 coast. Our good ship, the Europe, Captain Edward 
 G. Marshall, surmounted the waves buoyantly, and 
 often seemed to skim their surface, like a joyous bird. 
 We almost imagined her to be conscious of the happi- 
 ness she imparted, as seated on the deck, in the glori- 
 ous summer moonlight, we saw her sweeping through 
 the crested billows, with a pleasant, rushing sound, 
 right onward in the way she ought to go. 
 
 Methought, also, the deep bestirred itself, to exhib- 
 it its dramatis persona? in good condition for our 
 amusement. Immense families of porpoises rolled 
 and gamboled ; other huge creatures, seeming to have 
 hideous ears, leaped and plunged heavily ; and a whale, 
 with her cub, glided onward, her huge mass inflated 
 with a mother's pride and pleasure, as she led her 
 promising monster to his ocean-play. The sun came 
 forth from his chambers and returned again in glori- 
 ous majesty, and the coming phosphorescence, con- 
 trasted with the fleecy crest and the purple base of 
 the waves, was intensely beautiful. 
 
APPROACH TO ENGLAND. 17 
 
 Thus were we cheated along our watery way, — and 
 by making the most of the scenery without, and the 
 resources within, experienced as little ennui as could 
 be expected, and indulged in no anticipation of 
 evil. But that terror of mariners awaited us in St. 
 George's Channel, a dense fog upon an iron-bound 
 coast. We had joyfully seen the light in the head of 
 old Kinsale ; afterwards the harbor of Cork, and the 
 mountains of Dungannon revealed themselves, and 
 were lost. Then wrapped in a thick curtain, we went 
 on fearfully with continual soundings. A chill rain 
 occasionally fell, — and the winds moaned and cried 
 among the shrouds, like living creatures. The faith- 
 ful and attentive Captain, oppressed with a sense of 
 his responsibility, scarcely took refreshment or repose. 
 At midnight, on the 19th, we heard his voice cheer- 
 fully announcing, that a bright light from Tuscar 
 Rock was visible, that our course was right, and that 
 all might retire to rest, free from anxiety. 
 
 As morning dawned, I lay waking, and listening to 
 sounds, that seemed near my ear and even upon my 
 pillow. They were like water forcing its way among 
 obstructions, or sometimes as if it were poured hissing 
 upon heated stones. At length I spoke to the friend, 
 who shared my state-room, of a suppressed voice of 
 eddies and whirlpools, like what is often heard in pass- 
 ing Hurl-Gate, when the tide is low. She thought 
 me imaginative ; but on hearing that I had long been 
 reasoning with myself, and yet the sounds remained, 
 
18 APPROACH TO ENGLAND. 
 
 she threw on her dressing-gown and ascended to the 
 deck. The fog was still heavy, and all things ap- 
 peared as usual. Soon the Carpenter, being sent 
 aloft to make some repairs, shouted in a terrible 
 voice " breakers ! breakers!" The mist lifted its 
 curtain a little, and there was a rock sixty feet in 
 height, against which the sea was breaking with 
 tremendous violence, and towards which we were pro- 
 pelled by wind and tide. At the first appalling glance, 
 it would seem that we were scarcely a ship's length 
 from it. In the agony of the moment, the Captain 
 clasping his hands exclaimed that all was lost. Still, 
 under this weight of anguish, more for others than 
 himself, he was enabled to give the most minute 
 orders with entire presence of mind. They were 
 promptly obeyed ; the ship as if instinct with intelli- 
 gence obeyed her helm, and sweeping rapidly around, 
 escaped the jaws of destruction. Still we were long 
 in troubled waters, and it was not for many hours, 
 and until we had entirely past Holyhead, that the 
 Captain took his eye from the glass, or quitted his 
 post of observation. It would seem that, after he had 
 retired to rest the previous night, the ship must have 
 been imperfectly steered, and aided by the strong 
 drifting of the tides in that region, was led out of her 
 course towards Cardigan bay, thus encountering the 
 reef which is laid down on the charts, as Bardsey's 
 Isle. 
 
 The passengers, during this period of peril, were 
 
APPROACH TO ENGLAND. 19 
 
 generally quiet, and offered no obstruction, through 
 their own alarms, to the necessary evolutions on deck. 
 One from the steerage, an Irishman, who had been 
 thought, but a few days before, in the last stages of 
 pulmonary disease, was seen, in the excitement of the 
 moment, laboring among the ropes and blocks, as if 
 in full health and vigor. It was fearful to see him, 
 with a face of such mortal paleness, springing away 
 from death in one form, to meet and resist him in 
 another. 
 
 Every circumstance and personage, connected with 
 that scene of danger, seem to adhere indelibly to re- 
 collection. A young girl came and sat down on the 
 cabin floor, and said in a low, tremulous tone, " I 
 have loved my Saviour, but have not been faithful to 
 Him as I ought;" and in that posture of humility 
 awaited His will. 
 
 A mother, who since coming on board had taken 
 the entire charge of an infant not a year old, retired 
 with it in her arms to a sofa, when the expectation of 
 death was the strongest upon us all. Masses of rich, 
 black hair fell over her brow and shoulders, as her 
 eyes rivetted upon the nursling, with whom she might 
 so soon go down beneath the deep waters. He re- 
 turned that gaze with an almost equal intensity, and 
 there they sat, uttering no sound, scarcely breathing, 
 and pale as a group of sculptured marble. His large, 
 dark eyes seemed to cast 
 
20 APPROACH TO ENGLAND. 
 
 " Not those baby looks that go 
 All unmeaning to and fro, 
 But an earnest gazing deep, 
 Such as soul gives soul at length, 
 When through work and wail of years 
 It hath won a solemn strength." 
 
 In that strange communion was the mother impart- 
 ing to her nursling her own speechless weight of 
 agony, at parting with other beloved objects in their 
 distant home ? Or did the tender soul take upon itself 
 a burden, which pressed from it a sudden ripeness of 
 sympathy ? Or was the intensity of prayer drawing the 
 spirit of the child into that of the mother, until they 
 were as one before God ? 
 
 Strong lessons were learned at an hour like this. 
 Ages of thought were compressed into a moment. 
 The reach of an unbodied spirit, or some glimpse of 
 the power, by which the deeds and motives of a whole 
 life may be brought into view, at the scrutiny of the 
 last judgment, seemed to reveal itself. Methought the af- 
 fections, that so imperatively bind to earth, loosened 
 their links in that very extremity of peril ; and a 
 strange courage sprang up, and the lonely soul, 
 driven to one, sole trust, took hold of the pierced 
 hand of the Redeemer, and found it strong to save. 
 
 That night the prayer and sacred music, which 
 regularly hallowed our hour of retirement, should 
 
APPROACH TO ENGLAND. 21 
 
 have been more deeply surcharged with devout grati- 
 tude than ever ; snatched as we had been from the 
 devouring flood, and from " the evil time, that snar- 
 eth the sons of men, when it falleth suddenly upon 
 them." 
 
22 DIVINE SERVICE. 
 
 DIVINE SERVICE 
 
 AT THE CHURCH FOR THE BLIND, IN LIVERPOOL. 
 
 One day, the ocean's might to dare, 
 While the lone ship with rushing prow 
 
 Adventurous cuts her doubtful way, 
 With clouds above and waves below, 
 
 One day, the booming surge to hear, 
 Mid wrecking rocks' impetuous roar, 
 
 And press the next with speechless joy 
 Our mother Albion's verdant shore, 
 
 To list her Sabbath's tuneful chimes, 
 
 And join the throng, whose ceaseless streams 
 
 Flow toward the temples of her God, 
 Seem like the mockery of dreams. 
 
 Yet thus it is. And here we stand 
 
 Within that consecrated dome, 
 Which blest Benevolence hath reared 
 
 To yield the sightless poor a home. 
 
DIVINE SERVICE. 23 
 
 Yes, thus it is. How passing sweet, 
 Ye stricken blind, your chanted lays, 
 
 Those breathings of a chastened soul, 
 That turns its discipline to praise. 
 
 Yet think not, though in heart you mourn 
 The shrouded charms of hill and plain, 
 
 That all your lot withholds is loss, 
 Or all our boasted pleasures, gain. 
 
 Ye miss the sight of wan decay, 
 
 The wrinkle on the brow so dear, 
 The sunny ringlet changed to gray, 
 
 The flush of youth to sorrow's tear. 
 
 Ye miss the cold averted eve, 
 
 The scowl of passion's fierce control, 
 
 The leer of pride, the frown of hate, 
 
 The glance of scorn that stings the soul. 
 
 Ye miss the fading of the rose, 
 
 The lily drooping on its stalk, 
 The frosty blight, that autumn throws 
 
 O'er vine-wreathed bower and summer walk. 
 
 We see indeed the form, the smile, 
 
 The lip, that gives affection's kiss ; 
 Yet thoughtless oft, or thankless grow, 
 
 Even from the fulness of our bliss. 
 
24 DIVINE SERVICE. 
 
 We roam amid creation's wealth, 
 
 Vale, grove, and stream and flower-decked plain, 
 Yet heedless of their Maker's voice, 
 
 Become desultory and vain. 
 
 But musing contemplation seeks 
 
 Well pleased your bosom's inmost cell, 
 
 And Memory lauds the thoughtful train, 
 Who guard her precious gold so well. 
 
 Then be not sad ; for Knowledge holds 
 High converse with the hermit mind, 
 
 And tenderest Sympathy is yours, 
 
 And heaven-born Music loves the blind. 
 
 She loves and claims you for her own, 
 
 And strives melodiously to pay, 
 With rapturous thrill and dulcet tone, 
 
 For what stern Nature takes away. 
 
 Say, hath there not been partial praise 
 Dealt to that orb, whose skill refined 
 
 Collects the tints of earth and sky, 
 
 And paints their picture for the mind ? 
 
 While the reporter of the soul, 
 
 That patient friend since life was young, 
 Who links reverberated sound, 
 
 Still toils unhonored and unsung. 
 
DIVINE SERVICE. 
 
 25 
 
 The eye, with all its mystic lore, 
 Its sparkling glance, its varying die, 
 
 From lover's lute and minstrel's strain 
 Hath drunk of old high eulogy ; 
 
 While in its clustering thicket hid, 
 The ear unchronicled remained, 
 
 Yet ever with the ruling mind 
 
 Close league and covenant maintained. 
 
 For what were eloquence, shouldst thou, 
 Harp of the soul, thine aid deny ? 
 
 And how would love's soft errand speed, 
 Shouldst thou forget his whispered sigh ? 
 
 And how must high Devotion droop, 
 If all his glorious themes should be 
 
 Lost in thy labyrinthine maze, 
 Or misinterpreted by thee ? 
 
 Oh peaceful blind ! the wheels of life, 
 That with their dust-clouds dim the soul, 
 
 Ye see not their revolving strife, 
 But catch their music as they roll ; 
 
 Ye see not how the scythe of time 
 
 Cuts the young blossom ere it springs, 
 
 Yet may you trace with skill sublime 
 The heavenward movement of his wings. 
 
26 DIVINE SERVICE. 
 
 Chant on ! Chant on ! ye sightless choir ; 
 
 Still bow the heart to music's sway, 
 And fill the stranger's eye with tears, 
 
 As ye have done for us this day. 
 
 Liverpool, 
 Sunday, August 23, 1840. 
 
 It is impossible to listen without emotion to the 
 sacred music of the blind, in their Church at Liver- 
 pool. They chant as in the cathedral-service, ac- 
 companied by the organ, and sing anthems and other 
 compositions with a soul-thrilling sweetness. Of 
 course, all these performances are acts of memory, 
 which is doubtless rendered more retentive by the 
 concentrativeness of thought, which blindness pro- 
 motes. The noble Asylum for these sightless worship- 
 pers is well patronized. Their Church is adorned 
 with two large paintings, and a transparency ; and 
 was filled by a respectable audience. The seats for 
 the objects of the Institution are in the gallery. 
 Sweet and heaven-born is that Charity, which, if she 
 may not like her Master open the blind eye to the 
 works of nature, pours upon the afflicted mind the 
 light of knowledge, and lifts up the soul to the " clear 
 shining of the sun of righteousness." 
 
 We were taken by the kindness of a friend to the 
 afternoon worship in the Chapel of the Blue Coat 
 Hospital. Two hundred and fifty boys, and one hun- 
 dred girls, were assembled there, in the neat uniforms 
 
DIVINE SERVICE. 27 
 
 of the Institution. To our surprise the whole ser- 
 vice was performed by them. A boy of very grave 
 deportment read the Liturgy with a solemn intonation, 
 and the others distinctly responded. Another officiat- 
 ed as organist, and all joined zealously in the sing- 
 ing. Catechisms and portions of Scripture were recit- 
 ed by a selection of the scholars, and the exercises 
 conducted and closed decorously. 
 
 The building appropriated to the Institution is spa- 
 cious, and perfectly neat. In one apartment are por- 
 traits of its benefactors, among whom are some, who 
 were once pensioners of its bounty. The advantages 
 for an extended education are not so great here, as in 
 the establishment for the Blue Coat Boys in London, 
 which has produced some literary men of note. The 
 Liverpool beneficiaries are prepared for the practical 
 walks of life, and become apprentices to artisans, or 
 tradesmen. Before leaving, we were invited to see 
 the children taking their Sunday supper. Each had 
 on a wooden plate a huge mass of bread, with a mo- 
 dicum of cheese, and by its side a small cup of ale ; 
 all of which elements they were discussing with a vis- 
 ible relish. Their appearance was healthful, and their 
 deportment quiet, and in perfect subordination. How 
 true is that benevolence, which rescues the young 
 from ignorance and poverty, and inspires them with 
 motives to become useful here, and happy hereafter. 
 It is peculiarly honorable in a commercial city, to de- 
 
28 DIVINE SERVICE. 
 
 vote time and attention to these departments of phi- 
 lanthropy. 
 
 Liverpool possesses objects of interest of a different 
 nature. The magnitude of its Docks astonishes 
 every stranger. Its New Cemetery is beautiful. We 
 visited also its Bazaar, Custom-House, and Town-Hall. 
 The latter has a noble stair-case, and good prospect 
 from the dome, and in some of its apartments are por- 
 traits, by Sir Thomas Lawrence, of various members 
 of the royal family. Opposite the Exchange is a 
 bronze statue of Nelson. He is depicted in the death- 
 struggle, Fame and Victory holding over his head 
 several crowns. The pedestal is surrounded by nine 
 colossal figures in chains, representing the various 
 nations, which he had either subjugated, or compelled 
 to acknowledge the supremacy of Great Britain. 
 
 We were gratified by seeing some of the descend- 
 ants of Roscoe, who ennobled the mercantile profes- 
 sion by elegant literature, and his native city by his 
 fame. On the fifth day after our arrival we left 
 Liverpool for the Lakes of Cumberland, well pleased 
 with the kindness and polite attentions, which had 
 met us at the threshold of the Mother-Land. 
 
CHESTER. 29 
 
 CHESTER. 
 
 Queer, quaint, old Chester, — I had heard of thee 
 From one, who in his boyhood knew thee well, 
 
 And therefore did I scan with earnest eye 
 The castled turret, where he used to dwell, 
 
 And the fair walnut tree, whose branches bent 
 
 Their broad, embracing arms around the battlement. 
 
 His graphic words were like the painter's touch, 
 So true to life, that I could scarce persuade 
 
 Myself I had not seen thy face before, 
 
 Or round their ancient walls and ramparts strayed, 
 
 And often, as thy varied haunts I ken'd 
 
 Stretched out my hand to thee, as a familiar friend. 
 
 Grotesque and honest-hearted art thou, sure, 
 And so behind this very changeful day, 
 
 So fond of antique fashions, it would seem 
 Thou must have slept an age or two away. 
 
 Thy very streets are galleries, and I trow 
 
 Thy people all were born some hundred years ago. 
 
30 CHESTER. 
 
 Old Rome was once thy guest, beyond a doubt, 
 And many a keepsake to thy hand she gave, 
 
 Trinket, and rusted coin, and lettered stone, 
 Ere with her legions she recrossed the wave, 
 
 And thou dost hoard her gifts with pride and care, 
 
 As erst the Gracchian dame displayed her jewels rare. 
 
 Here, 'neath thy dim Cathedral let us pause, 
 And list the echo of that sacred chime, 
 
 That, when the heathen darkness fled away, 
 Went up at Easter and at Christmas time, 
 
 Chants of His birth, who woke the angel-train, 
 
 And of that bursting tomb, where Death himself was 
 slain. 
 
 Ho ! Mercian Abbey, hast thou ne'er a tale 
 Of grim Wulpherius, with his warriors dread? 
 
 Or of the veiled nuns at vigil pale, 
 
 Who owned the rule of Saxon Ethelfled 1 
 
 Did hopeless love in yon dark cloisters sigh ? 
 
 Or in thy dungeon vaults some hapless victim die? 
 
 And there mid graceful shades is Eaton Hall, 
 With princely gate and Gothic front of pride, 
 
 In modern beauty, though perchance we fain 
 Might choose with hoar antiquity to bide, 
 
 For she, with muffled brow and legend wild, 
 
 Knows well to charm the ear of Fancy's musing child. 
 
CHESTER. 
 
 31 
 
 Baronial splendor decks yon gilded halls, 
 And here in niches cold are armed knights, 
 
 And costly paintings on the lofty walls, 
 And every charm that luxury delights, 
 
 And ample parks, and velvet lawns, where stray 
 
 The ruminating herd, or the white lambkins play. 
 
 But yet the flowers, that with their thousand eyes 
 Look timid up and nurse their infant gem, 
 
 To me are dearer than the gorgeous dome 
 Or fretted arch, that overshadows them. 
 
 Methought their soft lips ask, all bright .with dew, 
 
 The welfare of their friends, that in my country grew. 
 
 Yes, in my simple garden, far away 
 
 Beyond the ocean waves, that toss and roll, 
 
 Your gentle kindred drink the healthful ray, 
 Heaven's holy voice within their secret soul, 
 
 And the same words they speak, so pure and free, 
 
 Unto my loved ones there, that here ye say to me. 
 
 Tuesday, August 25, 1840. 
 
 The features of Chester are peculiar, at least to an 
 American eye. Its dwellings are so constructed, with 
 a story projecting over the side-walks, that the passen- 
 gers move along through covered vestibules ; and at 
 first view, they who are in the streets seem to be in 
 the houses, and they who are in the houses, in the 
 streets. It exhibits the only specimen of ancient for- 
 
32 CHESTER. 
 
 tification in England, with the exception of Carlisle. 
 Its walls are nearly two miles in circumference, and 
 afford an agreeable promenade. The towers, by which 
 they were defended, were anciently placed at bow-shot 
 distance, that they might afford aid to each other, as 
 well as annoy by their arrows a besieging enemy. 
 
 Chester has a Castle where a garrison is stationed, 
 and a Cathedral erected in the fifteenth century, which 
 is 350 feet in length, by 75 in breadth, and the alti- 
 tude of the tower 127. Its most ancient portion, 
 which was originally an abbey, was founded 1160 
 years since, by Wulpherius, king of Mercia. The 
 Danes destroyed it when they took possession of 
 Chester, in 895 ; but it was afterwards restored, and 
 placed under the government of Ethelfleda, daughter 
 of Alfred the Great. Beneath its low-browed arches 
 we were shown the tomb of Henry IV. of Germany, 
 and some Roman relics. Among the latter was a 
 stone, with an obscure Latin inscription, purporting 
 that one thousand paces of the wall were built by the 
 cohort under Ocratius Maximinius. It is well known 
 that the head-quarters of the twentieth Roman legion 
 were at Chester, and that it is supposed to derive its 
 name from Castrum, a camp or military station. Many 
 circumstances led me to explore with peculiar in- 
 terest this antique and fortified town. 
 
 A ride of four miles beyond it brings you to Eaton- 
 Hall, the seat of the Marquis of Westminster. Its 
 principal gate of entrance is said to have been erect- 
 
CHESTER. 33 
 
 ed at the expense of c£10,000 ; and the grounds, 
 which are seven miles in extent, are laid out in parks, 
 interspersed with shrubbery, beautiful flowers, and 
 tasteful porters' lodges. The mansion, a specimen of 
 the modern Gothic, is seven hundred feet in length, 
 and exhibits an imposing range of towers, pinnacles, 
 and turrets. The interior has a costly display of 
 paintings, statuary, sculpture, and gilding. The 
 dining-room, state bed-room, and superb library, one 
 hundred and thirty feet in length, and divided into 
 three compartments, with other richly-furnished apart- 
 ments were shown to us. As it was the first baronial 
 establishment our republican eyes had ever beheld, we 
 regarded it with attention. There was much to ad- 
 mire, especially in the high state of cultivation that 
 marked its environs; yet the mind reverted with a 
 deeper sympathy to the time-worn structures we had 
 just quitted, and preferred to linger among the shad- 
 ows of mouldering antiquity. 
 
 During our ride of ten miles from Chester to East- 
 ham, where we took passage in a steamer for Liver- 
 pool, we had delightful views of the blossomed hedges 
 and cottage-homes of England. And as whatever we 
 see of surpassing excellence in a foreign country, we 
 are naturally desirous of transplanting to our own, we 
 could not avoid wishing that our agricultural friends 
 at home, who are such models of industry and domestic 
 virtue, would be more careful to surround their dwell- 
 ings with comfortable and agreeable objects. Were 
 3 
 
34 CHESTER. 
 
 they to build on a smaller scale, and spare the expense 
 of large rooms, seldom to be used, and never to be 
 warmed, for a fruit enclosure, or a walk of shrubbery, 
 or a garden with flowers, would it not make their 
 young people love home the better, and be happier 
 there % What is lovely to the eye need be no hind- 
 rance to the " things that are of good report." It may 
 be a help to them. If the farmer, instead of making 
 war on all the forest-trees, as if they were Amorites 
 and Jebusites, whom he had been commanded to exter- 
 minate, would save some of those majestic columns of 
 his Maker's workmanship, and even indulge himself 
 in the pleasure of planting others, on the borders of 
 the sunny road, or by the sparkling fountain, he might 
 hear the wearied traveller bless him. And if, instead 
 of counting it lost time to beautify the home where he 
 trains his little ones, he would in his leisure moments 
 nurture a vine, or a rose-plant for them, and teach 
 them to admire the bud opening its infant eye, and the 
 tendril reaching forth its clasping hands, he would find 
 their characters refining under these sweet rural influ- 
 ences, and their hearts more ready to appreciate His 
 goodness, who feedeth the lily on the moorlands, and 
 maketh the " wilderness to blossom as the rose." 
 
KENDAL. 35 
 
 KENDAL. 
 
 Kendal, the eldest child of Westmoreland, 
 With its white homes, and cheerful poplar shades, 
 And graceful bridges o'er the winding Ken, 
 And happy children playing in the streets, 
 Came pleasantly upon us. 
 
 So we paused, 
 Leaving the echo of the tiresome wheels, 
 Rejoiced, amid those rustic haunts to roam, 
 And grassy lanes. 
 
 There was an ancient church, 
 Dark-browed, and Saxon-arched, and ivy-clad; 
 And there amid its hallowed aisles we trod, 
 Reading the mural tablets of the dead, 
 Or poring o'er the dimly-sculptured names 
 Upon its sunken pavement. 
 
 Next, we sought 
 Yon lonely castle, with its ruined towers, 
 Around whose base the tangled foliage, mixed 
 
 O O 7 
 
 With shapeless stones, proclaimed no frequent foot 
 
 Intrudes amid its desolate domain. 
 
 Yet here, the legend saith, thine infant eye 
 
36 KENDAL. 
 
 First saw the light, Catharine ! the latest spouse 
 Of the eighth Tudor's bluff and burly king. 
 Here did thy childhood share the joyous sports 
 That well it loves ? Or did they quaintly set 
 The stiff-starched ruff around thy slender neck, 
 And bid thee sit upright, and not demean 
 Thy rank and dignity ? 
 
 Say, didst thou con 
 Thy horn-book lessons mid those dreary halls, 
 With their dark wainscot of old British oak? 
 Or on the broidered arras deftly trace 
 Some tale of tourney and of regal pomp, 
 That touched perchance the incipient energy 
 Of young ambition to become a queen ?— 
 If it were so, me thinks that latent pride 
 Was well rebuked, perchance purged out entire 
 With euphrasy and rue. 
 
 How didst thou dare 
 To build thy nest where other birds had fallen 
 So fearfully? If e'er the pictured scenes 
 Of earlier years stole to thy palace-home, 
 Pouring their quiet o'er its vexing cares, 
 The cottage-girl, who watched her father's sheep, 
 The peaceful peasant singing at his toil, 
 Meekly content, came there no pang to chase 
 The fresh bloom from thy cheek? 
 
 When in his sleep 
 The despot murmured sullenly and stern, 
 Didst thou not tremble, lest in dreams he saw 
 
KENDAL. 37 
 
 The axe and scaffold, and would madly wake 
 To blend thy fate with that of Ann Boleyn 
 And hapless Howard ? 
 
 True, thy pious soul 
 Had confidence in God, and this upheld 
 In all calamities, and gave thee power 
 To scape the snare ; but yet methinks 't were sad 
 For woman's timid love to unfold itself 
 Within a tyrant's breast, trusting its peace 
 To the sharp thunderbolt. 
 
 And so farewell, 
 Last of the six that rashly spread their couch 
 In the strong lion's den. 
 
 My talk with thee 
 Doth add new pleasure to our quiet stroll 
 Amid the lowly train, who, free from thoughts 
 Of wild ambition, hold their noiseless way. 
 
 Then toward the traveller's home, as twilight drew 
 
 Her dusky mantle o'er the face of things, 
 
 We bent our steps, with many a gathered theme 
 
 For sweet discourse, till welcome evening brought 
 
 Refreshment and repose. To our fair board 
 
 The finny people of the Ken came up, 
 
 Tempting the palate in the varied forms 
 
 Of culinary art, while with the fruits 
 
 That ripen slow 'neath England's shaded skies, 
 
 Were fresh-made cheeses from the creamy bowls, 
 
 Filled by the herds that ruminate all day, 
 
38 KENDAL. 
 
 In pastures richly green. 
 
 So, well content, 
 Beside the shaded lamp we lingering sate, 
 And spoke of home, and of the Power who shields 
 The weary traveller, and doth bid him sleep 
 Secure 'neath foreign skies, cheering his dream 
 With faces of his loved ones far away, 
 And sound of gentle gales that stir the vines 
 O'er his own door. 
 
 And thus he seems to hold 
 Existence in two hemispheres, and draw 
 From nightly visions mid his household joys 
 Fresh strength at morn to run his destined way, 
 God of the stranger ! with new trust in thee. 
 
 Wednesday, August 26, 1840. 
 
 "We found at Kendal a most comfortable retreat at 
 the " Commercial Inn." Though less splendid in its 
 arrangement than some of the establishments which 
 distinguish the larger cities, it comprised in itself, and 
 in the attention of its hosts, every material to satisfy a 
 party, wearied like ourselves with a recent voyage, and 
 happy to refresh our spirits during a day of rain in 
 each other's society. On our return from the lakes of 
 Cumberland, we visited it again, promising to recom- 
 mend it to our friends. Indeed it would be safe to re- 
 commend in England all the means and appliances of 
 a traveller's course, the fine roads, coaches, coach- 
 men, and horses, the cars and arrangements on the 
 
KENDAL. 39 
 
 railways, the scrupulous neatness of the public houses, 
 the excellence of the articles presented at the tables, 
 the respectful attendance of intelligent servants ; and 
 if the price demanded is in proportion, the one who 
 partakes of such benefits should be willing to accord 
 the remuneration. If he is not, he will be very likely 
 to become so, after some experience of the hindrances 
 and discomforts of continental travel. 
 
 In the old church of Kendal, a singular incident 
 took place soon after those civil wars had subsided, 
 which preceded the execution of Charles the First. A 
 Westmoreland gentleman, by the name of Philipson, 
 an adherent to the cause of the king, was on a 
 visit to his brother, who had a pleasant residence on 
 the principal island in the lake of Winandermere. 
 While enjoying that quiet retirement, the house was 
 besieged by some soldiers under the command of Co- 
 lonel Briggs, a parliamentarian officer, who desired to 
 get possession of a person supposed to be so obnoxious 
 to the party in power. The arrival of unexpected 
 forces obliged him to abandon his enterprise. Philip- 
 son being exceedingly spirited determined on retalia- 
 tion. He advanced with a troop of horse to Kendal, 
 where Colonel Briggs was, and hearing that he had 
 gone to church repaired thither, and entering it on 
 horseback rode entirely through it. The consterna- 
 tion of the assembled worshippers was great, and his 
 profanation of the sacred edifice gained him nothing, 
 
40 KENDAL. 
 
 as the object of his search was not there. Probably 
 most readers will be reminded of the poetical use made 
 of this circumstance by Sir Walter Scott, in his 
 Rokeby. 
 
 " Through the gothic arch there sprang 
 A horseman armed, at headlong speed, 
 Sable his cloak, his plume, his steed, 
 All scattered backward as he came, 
 For all knew Bertram Risingham. 
 Three bounds that noble coarser gave, 
 The first has reached the central nave, 
 The second cleared the chancel wide, 
 The third, he was at Wycliffe's side." 
 
LAKE WINANDERMERE. 41 
 
 LAKE WINANDERMERE. 
 
 Oh, sweet Winandermere, how blest 
 
 Is he, who on thy marge may rest, 
 
 Rear his light bower 'neath summer's ray, 
 
 And from the loud world steal away ; 
 
 And here, when twilight calm and pale 
 
 Spreads o'er thy mist a deeper veil, 
 
 List to the ripple on thy shore, 
 
 Or mark the lightly dripping oar, 
 
 Or sink to sleep, when eve shall cease, 
 
 Like thee, with all mankind at peace. 
 
 The angler here, with trolling line, 
 Doth muse from morn till day's decline, 
 And when brown autumn sets its seal, 
 How sharply rings the hunter's steel ; 
 But I, with these no concert keep, 
 Nor aim to vex thy tranquil deep, 
 No barbed hook with pang and start 
 Would bury in the simple heart, 
 Nor work their woe, that wandering free 
 Would dip the oary foot in thee. 
 
42 LAKE WINANDERMERE. 
 
 Fair lakes my own dear land can boast, 
 From inland glades to ocean coast, 
 Through woven copse or thicket green, 
 Their blue eyes deeply fringed are seen, 
 On hillock's side they scoop a nest, 
 Like dew-drop nursed in lily's breast, 
 By Seneca and lone St. Clair, 
 The mirrored maiden braids her hair, 
 And guileless to the searching sun 
 Turns crystal-breasted Horricon. 
 
 Yet couldst thou see our mighty chain 
 From red Algonquin to the main, 
 Those seas on seas, which thundering leap 
 O'er strong Niagara's mountain-steep, 
 And bid St. Lawrence hoarsely pour 
 Round Anticosti's trembling shore, 
 Thou, at their side, bright gem, wouldst be 
 Like timid brooklet to the sea, 
 And highest swoln and tempest-tost, 
 Still, as a noteless speck, be lost. 
 
 But o'er thy brow deep memories glide, 
 And spirit-voices stir thy tide, 
 For thou of her art pleased to tell 
 Queen of the lyre, who loved thee well, 
 And in the Dove's Nest by thy side, 
 Sought from the gazing throng to hide, 
 The laurel o'er her casement darkening, 
 
LAKE WINANDERMERE. 43 
 
 The rose-tree for her footsteps hearkening. 
 I see her ! though in dust she sleeps ; 
 I hear her ! though no lyre she sweeps ; 
 And for her sake so fondly dear 
 I love thee, sweet Winandermere 
 
 Thursday, August 27, 1840. 
 
 A cottage in the neighborhood of Winander- 
 mere, called the " Dove's Nest," derives deep in- 
 terest from having been the favored retreat of Mrs. 
 Hemans, during a part of the summer of 1830. 
 While on a visit to Wordsworth, she was struck with 
 its retired beauty, and was delighted to find that she 
 could engage rooms in it for herself and her boys, for 
 the sojourn of a few weeks. From thence she wrote 
 a friend : 
 
 " Henry is out with his fishing rod, Charles sketch- 
 ing, and Claude climbing the hill above the Dove's 
 Nest. I cannot follow, for I have not strength yet. 
 But in feeling, I think that I am more of a child than 
 any of them. How shall I tell you of all the loveliness 
 by which I am surrounded, of all the soothing, holy influ- 
 ences it seems to be shedding down into my inmost 
 heart. I have sometimes feared within the last two 
 years, that the effect of suffering and of adulation, of 
 feelings too highly wrought and too severely tried, 
 would have been to dry up within me the fountains of 
 such pure and simple enjoyment. But now I knoio 
 that 
 
44 LAKE WINANDERMERE. 
 
 ' Nature never did betray 
 The heart that loved her.' 
 
 " I am so much delighted with the spot, that I scarce- 
 ly know how I shall leave it. The situation is one of 
 the deepest retirement; but the bright lake before me, 
 with all its fairy barks and sails, glancing like things 
 of life over its blue waters, prevents the solitude from 
 being overshadowed by anything like sadness." 
 
 To connect the image of the sweetest of all poet- 
 esses with the scenery of Winandermere, was like add- 
 ing a soul of music to a form of beauty. We fancied 
 her seated in the alcove which she has described, 
 as embosomed with the sweet brier and the moss rose- 
 tree, her sons sporting around her, or listening to her 
 sweet words, and regretted that our visit here should 
 have been ten years too late. 
 
 Winandermere was much wrapped in mists and 
 clouds while we were upon its banks. Yet we had 
 some glimpses of its exceeding beauty. Sails were 
 continually gliding over its surface. It has islands 
 in its centre, and a back-ground of distant moun- 
 tains. It is ten miles in length, but so narrow that its 
 circumference does not exceed twenty three miles. It 
 abounds with fine fish, and is a favorite haunt for wild 
 fowl. Long droughts, or protracted rains, but slightly 
 vary its appearance, though it is said to be subject to 
 strong agitation from winds and storms. 
 
 Americans, accustomed to the broad expanse of Erie 
 
LAKE WINANDERMERE. 45 
 
 and Ontario, or to those mighty inland seas, Huron and 
 Superior, smile to hear the magnitude ofWinander- 
 mere extolled, though they freely accord the meed of 
 loveliness and beauty to this largest of English lakes. 
 
46 GRASSMERE AND RYDAL-WATER. 
 
 GRASSMERE AND RYDAL-WATER. 
 
 O vale of Grassmere! tranquil and shut out 
 From all the strife that shakes a jarring world, 
 How quietly thy village roofs are bowered 
 In the cool verdure, while thy graceful spire 
 Guardeth the ashes of the noble dead, 
 And, like a fixed and solemn sentinel, 
 Holm-Crag looks down on all. 
 
 And thy pure lake, 
 Spreading its waveless breast of azure out 
 'Tween thee and us, pencil, nor lip of man 
 May fitly show its loveliness. The soul 
 Doth hoard it as a gem, and fancy-led, 
 Explore its curving shores, its lonely isle, 
 That, like an emerald clasped in crystal, sleeps. 
 
 Ho, stern Helvellyn ! with thy savage cliffs 
 And dark ravines, where the rash traveller's foot 
 Too oft hath wandered far and ne'er returned, 
 Why dost thou press so close yon margin green 1 
 Like border-chieftain seeking for his bride 
 Some cottage-maiden. Prince among the hills, 
 
GRASSMERE AND RYDAL-WATER. 
 
 That each upon his feudal seat maintains 
 
 Strict sovereignty, hast thou a tale of love 
 
 For gentle Grassmere, that thou thus dost droop 
 
 Thy plumed helmet o'er her, and peruse 
 
 With such a searching gaze her mirrored brow 1 
 
 She listeneth coyly, and her guileless depths 
 Are troubled at a tender thought from thee. 
 And yet, methinks, some speech of love should dwell 
 In scenes so beautiful. For not in vain, 
 Nor with a feeble voice, doth He, who spread 
 Such glorious charms, bespeak man's kindliness 
 For all whom He hath made, bidding the heart 
 Grasp every creature with a warm embrace 
 Of brotherhood. 
 
 Lo ! what fantastic forms, 
 In sudden change are traced upon the sky. 
 The sun doth subdivide himself, and shine 
 On either side of an elongate cloud, 
 Which, like an alligator huge and thin, 
 Pierceth his disk. And then an ostrich seems 
 Strangely to perch upon a wreath of foam, 
 And gaze disdainful on the kingly orb, 
 That lay o'erspent and weary. But he roused 
 Up as a giant, and the welkin glowed 
 With rushing splendor, while his puny foes 
 Vanished in air. Old England's oaks outstretched 
 Their mighty arms, and took that cloudless glance 
 
48 GRASSMERE AND RVDAL-WATER. 
 
 Into their bosoms, as a precious thing 
 To be remembered long. 
 
 And so we turned, 
 And through romantic glades pursued our way, 
 Where Rydal-Water spreads its thundering force, 
 And through the dark gorge makes a double plunge 
 Abruptly beautiful. Thicket, and rock, 
 And ancient summer-house, and sheeted foam, 
 All exquisitely blent, while deafening sound 
 Of torrents battling with their ruffian foes 
 Filled the admiring gaze with awe, and wrought 
 A dim forgetfulness of all beside. 
 
 Thee, too, I found within thy sylvan dell, 
 Whose music thrilled my heart, when life was new, 
 Wordsworth ! mid cliff and stream and cultured rose, 
 In love with Nature's self, and she with thee, 
 Thy ready hand, that from the landscape culled 
 Its long familiar charms, rock, tree, and spire, 
 With kindness half paternal, leading on 
 My stranger footsteps through the garden walk, 
 Mid shrubs and flowers that from thy planting grew ; 
 The group of dear ones gathering round thy board, 
 She, the first friend, still as in youth beloved, 
 The daughter, sweet companion, — sons mature, 
 And favorite grandchild, with his treasured phrase, 
 The evening lamp, that o'er thy silver locks 
 And ample brow fell fitfully, and touched 
 Thy lifted eye with earnestness of thought, 
 
GRASSMERE AND RYDAL-WATER. 49 
 
 Are with me as a picture, ne'er to fade, 
 Till death shall darken all material things. 
 
 Friday, August 28, 1842. 
 
 An excursion to Grassmere and Helvellyn, the falls of 
 Rydal-Water, Stock-Gill-Force, and other points of 
 interest in the vicinity of Ambleside, communicated 
 great pleasure to our party ; but at our return we 
 found it had been purchased by the loss of a call from 
 the poet Wordsworth. Though I had more earnestly 
 desired to see him than almost any distinguished 
 writer, whom from early life had been admired, it 
 was with a degree of diffidence, amounting almost to 
 trepidation, that I accepted the invitation to his house, 
 which had been left at the inn. As I approached his 
 lovely and unpretending habitation, embowered with 
 ivy and roses, I felt that to go into the presence of 
 Europe's loftiest crowned head, would not cost so much 
 effort, as to approach and endeavour to converse with 
 a king in the realm of mind. But the kindness of 
 his reception and that of his family, and the uncere- 
 monious manner in which they make a guest feel as 
 one of them, removed the reserve and uneasiness of a 
 stranger's heart. 
 
 Wordsworth is past seventy years of age, and has 
 the same full, expanded brow, which we see in his 
 busts and engravings. His conversation has that sim- 
 plicity and richness, for which you are prepared 
 by his writings. He led me around his grounds, - 
 
50 GRASSMERE AND RYDAL-WATER. 
 
 pointing out the improvements which he had made, 
 during the last thirty years, and the trees, hedges, 
 and shrubbery which had been planted under his 
 direction. Snatches of the gorgeous scenery of lake 
 and mountain, were visible from different points ; 
 and one of the walks terminated with the near view 
 of a chapel built by his neighbor, the Lady Elizabeth 
 Fleming, on whose domain are both the upper and 
 lower falls of Rydal-Water. In this beautiful com- 
 bination of woods, cliffs, and waters, and solemn tem- 
 ple pointing to the skies, we see the germ of many of 
 his thrilling descriptions ; for his habit is to compose 
 in the open air. He loves the glorious scenery of his 
 native region, and is evidently pleased when others 
 admire it. 
 
 His household consists of a wife, sister, two sons, 
 and a daughter. The eldest of the sons is married, 
 and with a group of five children resides under the 
 same roof, giving to the family a pleasant, patriarchal 
 aspect. A fine boy of five years, who bears the name 
 of his grandfather, and bids fair to possess somewhat 
 of his breadth of brow, is evidently quite a favorite. 
 Among his bright sayings was the question, whether 
 " the Ocean was not the christian-name of the Sea ? " 
 It was delightful to see so eminent a poet, thus pursu- 
 ing the calm tenor of a happy life, surrounded by all 
 those domestic affections and charities, which his 
 pure lays have done so much to cherish in the hearts 
 of others. 
 
TO SOUTHEY. 51 
 
 TO SOUTHEY. 
 
 I thought to see thee in thy lake-girt home, 
 Thou of creative soul ! I thought with thee 
 
 Amid thy mountain solitudes to roam, 
 
 And hear the voice, whose echoes wild and free 
 
 Had strangely thrilled me, when my life was new, 
 With old romantic tales of wondrous lore ; 
 
 But ah ! they told me that thy mind withdrew 
 Into its mystic cell, — nor evermore 
 
 Sate on the lip, in fond, familiar word, 
 
 Nor through the speaking eye her love repaid, 
 
 Whose heart for thee with ceaseless care is stirred, 
 Both night and day ; upon the willow shade 
 
 Her sweet harp hung. They told me, and I wept, 
 As on my pilgrim way o'er England's vales I kept. 
 
 August 28, 1840. 
 
 From Wordsworth, while at Rydal-Mount, I re- 
 ceived the first information of Southey's melancholy 
 
52 TO SOUTHEY. 
 
 state of health and intellect, and resigned, though re- 
 luctantly, my intention of going to Keswick to see 
 him. It was with deep sorrow that I heard how dark 
 a cloud hung over that strong and creative genius, 
 which has long communicated such delight on both 
 sides of the Atlantic, and whose varied and versatile 
 powers seem well characterized in a few of his own 
 sweet lines, as 
 
 " The stream's perpetual flow, 
 That with its shadows, and its glancing lights, 
 Dimples, and threadlike motions infinite, 
 Forever varying, and yet still the same, 
 Like time towards Eternity, glides by." 
 
 A letter, the ensuing spring, from his wife, so wide- 
 ly known by her name of Caroline Bowles, as the 
 writer of some of the truest and most pathetic poetry 
 in our language, made me still more regret, that the 
 short time which then remained to me in England 
 rendered it impossible to visit Greta-Hall. This, and 
 her entire self-devotedness to her suffering husband, 
 induced me to turn with new interest to her volumes, 
 of which an accomplished critic has said, that " no 
 purer models of genuine home-feeling and language 
 could be placed in the hands of a foreigner." The 
 deep pathos of her " Pauper's Death-Bed" must be 
 remembered by all who have read it ; and how simple 
 
TO SOUTHEY. 53 
 
 and touching are the following lines, from one of her 
 latest poems. 
 
 " My father loved the patient angler's art, 
 And many a summer's day, from early morn 
 To latest evening, by some streamlet's side 
 We two have tarried, strange companionship ; 
 A sad and silent man, and joyous child. 
 Yet were those days, as I recall them now, 
 Supremely happy. Silent though he was, 
 My father's eyes were often on his child, 
 Tenderly eloquent, and his few words 
 Were kind and gentle. Never angry tone 
 Repulsed me, if I broke upon his thoughts 
 With childish question. 
 
 But I learned at last, 
 Intuitively learned to hold my peace, 
 When the dark hour was on him, and deep sighs 
 Spoke the perturbed spirit ; only then 
 I crept a little closer to his side, 
 And stole my hand in his, or on his arm 
 Laid my cheek softly ; till the simple wile ' 
 Won on his sad abstraction, and he turned 
 With a faint smile and sighed and shook his head, 
 Stooping toward me ; so I reached at last 
 Mine arm about his neck and clasped it close, 
 Printing his pale brow with a silent kiss." 
 
 In this exquisite picture may we not see the germ 
 
54 TO SOUTHEY. 
 
 of the same tenderness, which now watches night and 
 day in the darkened cell, where a glorious mind has 
 withdrawn from its former intercourse with the living 1 
 I trust to be forgiven for selecting from one of her 
 recent letters, a few passages for the friends, who in 
 this western world have admired, in almost every de- 
 partment of literature, the inventive genius of Dr. 
 Southey, his comprehensive learning, and his aston- 
 ishing industry. 
 
 " You desire to be remembered to him who sang, 
 1 of Thalaba, the wild, and wonderous tale.' Alas, my 
 friend, the dull cold ear of death is not more insensi- 
 ble than his, my dearest husband's, to all communica- 
 tion from the world without. Scarcely can I keep 
 hold of the last poor comfort of believing that he 
 still knows me. This almost complete unconscious- 
 ness has not been of more than six months' standing, 
 though more than two years have elapsed, since he 
 has written even his name. After the death of his 
 first wife, the " Edith" of his first love, who was for 
 several years insane, his health was terribly shaken. 
 Yet for the greater part of a year that he spent with 
 me, in Hampshire, my former home, it seemed per- 
 fectly reestablished, and he used to say, " It had surely 
 pleased God, that the last years of his life should be 
 happy." But the Almighty will was otherwise. The 
 little cloud soon appeared, which was in no long time 
 to overshadow all. In the blackness of its shadow 
 
TO SOUTHEY. 55 
 
 we still live, and shall pass from under it only through 
 the portals of the grave. 
 
 " The last three years have done on me the work of 
 twenty. The one, sole business of my life is that, 
 which I verily believe keeps the life in me, the guard- 
 ianship of my dear, helpless, unconscious husband." 
 
 The heavy calamity which has befallen one of the 
 most gifted minds of our age, and the enduring cour- 
 age of conjugal love which ministers to it, awaken 
 deep sympathy here, as well as in Europe. They re- 
 call and render applicable a few affecting lines, in 
 that noble epic poem of " Roderick," one of the most 
 imperishable monuments of his genius, over whose 
 silent and stricken harp we mourn. 
 
 " God hath upheld her," the old man replied ; 
 
 " She bears this last, and heaviest of her griefs 
 Most patiently, as one who finds in Heaven 
 A comfort, which the world can neither give 
 Nor take away." 
 
56 CARLISLE. 
 
 CARLISLE. 
 
 How fair, amid the depth of summer green, 
 Spread forth thy walls, Carlisle ! thy castled heights 
 Abrupt and lofty, thy cathedral dome 
 Majestic and alone, thy beauteous bridge 
 Spanning the Eden, where the angler sits 
 Patient so long, and marks the browsing sheep 
 Like sprinkled snow amid the verdant vales. 
 
 — Old Time hath hung upon thy misty walls 
 Legends of festal and of warlike deeds. 
 King Arthur's wassail-cup ; the battle-axe 
 
 Of the wild Danish sea-kings ; the fierce beak 
 Of Rome's victorious eagle ; Pictish spear, 
 And Scottish claymore, in confusion mixed 
 With England's cloth-yard arrow. Every helm 
 And dinted cuirass hath some stirring tale. 
 
 — Yet here thou sitt'st as meekly innocent, 
 As though thine eager lip had never quaffed 
 Hot streams of kindred blood. 
 
 Well pleased thou art 
 To hear no more the shout of border feuds, 
 Laying thy frontier annal at the feet 
 
CARLISLE. 57 
 
 Of the two sister kingdoms, who with smile, 
 Arm locked in arm, survey their fair domain. 
 So may the God of love, bless them and thee. 
 Fresh flowers thou giv'st me from " Queen Mary's 
 
 walk," 
 Rich red carnations, though to her thy gifts 
 Were but those bitter weeds and piercing thorns, 
 Which the poor prisoner plucks. 
 
 And so, farewell, 
 Carlisle ! and peace be with thee. Thy sweet scenes 
 And the deep tones of thy cathedral-hymn, 
 Telling our sabbath of the choir of heaven, 
 Went with us as we journeyed. 
 
 Many a change 
 In that delightful landscape cheered the eye, 
 As onward o'er the pleasant banks of Clyde 
 We traced the barer hills and brighter streams 
 Of Caledonia, poor, perchance, in gold, 
 But rich in song ; saw crowned with purple light 
 The Lady of Branksom's towers, the rolling Esk, 
 Where the impetuous young Lord Lochinvar 
 Staid not for ford, the homes of Teviotdale 
 Fast by the Tweed, and last, the classic domes 
 Of beautiful Edina. The long day 
 Sped hastily, and once, as the swift coach 
 Stopped at its destined goal, an ancient dame 
 Came from a neighboring cottage, with such speed 
 As hoary years could make, and earnestly 
 Scanning each passenger, with hurried tone 
 
58 CARLISLE. 
 
 Demanded, " Is he come ? " 
 
 " No ; not to-day ; 
 To-morrow," was the answer. 
 
 So, back she turned, 
 Lifting her shrivelled finger, with a look 
 Half-credulous, half-sorrowing, and still 
 Repeating " aye, to-morrow," homeward went. 
 
 'T is a sad tale. She and her husband led 
 
 A life of humble and of honest toil, 
 
 Content, though poor. One only son they had 
 
 Healthful and bright ; and to their eyes he seemed 
 
 Exceeding fair. The father was a man 
 
 Austere and passionate, and loved his boy, 
 
 As fathers often do, with such a pride, 
 
 That could not bear the humbling of his faults, 
 
 Nor the slow toil to mend them. When he grew 
 
 To a tall lad, the mother's readier tact 
 
 Discerned that change of character, which meets 
 
 With chafing thought the yoke of discipline, 
 
 And humored it : but to the sire he seemed 
 
 Still as a child, and so he treated him. 
 
 When eighteen summers threw a ripening tinge 
 O'er his bold brow, the father, at some fault, 
 Born more of carelessness than turpitude, 
 In anger struck him, bidding him go forth 
 From his own door. The youth, who shared too well 
 The fiery temper of his father's blood, 
 Vowed to return no more. 
 
CARLISLE. 59 
 
 The mother wept, 
 And wildly prayed her husband to forgive 
 And call him back ; but he with aspect stern 
 Bade her be still, and harshly said, the boy 
 Was by her folly and indulgence spoiled 
 Beyond redemption. So she meekly took 
 The tear and prayer into her silent soul, 
 And waited till the passion-storm should slack 
 And die away. It was a night of woe ; 
 But mid its agony she blest her God, 
 That, after hours of tossing, quiet sleep 
 Stole o'er the wrathful man. With the fresh morn 
 Relentings came, and that ill-smothered pang, 
 With which an unruled spirit bears its shame ; 
 And then he bade the woman seek her son. 
 And forth she went. Alas ! it was too late ; 
 He was a listed soldier, for a land 
 Beyond the seas, nor would their little all 
 Suffice to buy him back. 
 
 5 T were long to tell 
 How loneliness, remorse, and sorrow took 
 Their Shylock payment for that passion-gust, 
 And how the father, when his hour was come, 
 Said with his pale, pale lips and hollow voice, 
 " Would that our boy was here," and how the wife 
 In her kind ministrations round his bed, 
 And in her widowed mourning, murmured still 
 His dying words, " would that our boy was here." 
 
60 CARLISLE. 
 
 Years sped, and oft her soldier's letters came, 
 Replete with filial love, and penitence 
 For his rash words. But then the mother's ear 
 Was tortured by the tidings, that he lay 
 Wounded and sick in foreign hospitals. 
 A line traced faintly by his own dear hand 
 Relieved her anguish. He was ordered home 
 Among the invalids. Joy long unknown 
 Sat on her brow. Again to hear his voice, 
 To gaze into his eyes, to part the hair 
 O'er his clear forehead, to prepare his food, 
 And nurse his feebleness, — she asked no more. 
 And so, his childhood's long-forsaken bed 
 Put forth its snowy pillow, and with care 
 She hung a curtain of flowered muslin o'er 
 The little casement, where he used to love 
 To sit and read. The cushioned chair, that cheered 
 The father's days of sickness, should be his, 
 And on the favorite table by its side 
 The hour-glass, with its ever-changing sands, 
 Which pleased him when a boy. 
 
 The morning came. 
 Slow sped the hours ; she heaped the cheerful fire 
 In the small grate, and ere the coach arrived 
 Stood, with a throbbing heart, expectant there. 
 "Is Willy come?" Each traveller intent 
 On his own business made her no reply : — 
 " Coachman ! is Willy here ? " 
 
 "No! No! he's dead! 
 
CARLISLE. 61 
 
 Good woman ! dead, and buried near the coast, 
 Three days ago." 
 
 But when a stranger marked 
 How the strong hues of speechless misery 
 Changed every feature, he in pity said, 
 " Perhaps he '11 come to-morrow." 
 
 Home she turned, 
 Struck to the heart, and wept the livelong night, 
 Insensible to comfort ; and to those, 
 Who came in kind compassion to her side, 
 Answering nothing. 
 
 But when day restored 
 The hour of expectation, with strange zeal 
 She rose, and dressed, and cast her mantle on, 
 And as the coachman checked his foaming steeds 
 Stood closely by his side. " Is Willy here? 
 Has Willy come ? " while he, by pity schooled, 
 Answered " to-morrow ! " 
 
 And thus years have fled ; 
 And though her step grows weaker, and the locks 
 Thinner and whiter on her furrowed brow, 
 Yet duly, when the shrill horn o'er the hills 
 Announceth the approaching passenger, 
 She hurries forth, with wild and wasted eye, 
 To speak her only question, and receive 
 That same reply " to-morrow." 
 
 And on that 
 Poor, single fragment doth her yearning heart 
 Feed and survive. When tottering Reason sank 
 
62 CARLISLE. 
 
 Beneath the shock of grief, maternal Love 
 Caught that one word of hope, and held it high, 
 And grappling to it, like a broken raft, 
 Still breasts the shoreless ocean of despair. 
 
 Monday, August 31, 1840. 
 
 " King Arthur's wassail cup." 
 
 Carlisle, principally distinguished as it was in bor- 
 der-warfare, had also, as it appears by ancient chroni- 
 cles, its share in the festivities of the olden time. 
 
 " The great king Arthur made a royal feast, 
 And kept his merry Christmas at Carlisle, 
 
 And thither came the vassals most and least, 
 From every corner of the British isle." 
 
 Also in an ancient ballad, in Bishop Percy's Reliques, 
 the same allusion is made. 
 
 " In Carlisle dwelt King Arthur, 
 
 A prince of passing might, 
 And there maintained his table round, 
 
 Beset with many a knight, 
 And there he kept his Christmas, 
 
 With mirth and great delight." 
 
 " England's cloth-yard arrow." 
 
 Sir Walter Scott says, " In some of the counties in 
 England, distinguished for archery, shafts of this ex- 
 
CARLISLE. 63 
 
 traordinary length were actually used ; " and he thus 
 alludes to them in Marmion. 
 
 " Fast ran the Scottish warriors there 
 Upon the southern band to stare, 
 And envy with their wonder rose 
 To see such well appointed foes, 
 Such length of shaft, such mighty bows, 
 So large, that many simply thought, 
 But for a vaunt such weapons wrought, 
 And little deemed their force to feel 
 Through links of mail and plates of steel, 
 When rattling upon Flodden-vale 
 The cloth-yard arrows flew like hail." 
 
 " Queen Mary's walk." 
 
 Some carnations, which were given us from a spot 
 called " The Lady's Walk," we carried with us to 
 Edinburgh, and they retained their freshness and 
 beauty for several days after our arrival there. We 
 visited the remains of the turret, in the castle of Car- 
 lisle, where Mary of Scotland was held in confinement, 
 when, after the battle of Langside, she decided to 
 throw herself on the generosity of Elizabeth. We 
 saw also the limits of the promenade, bounded on one 
 side by the moat, where she was permitted to take 
 her daily exercise, guarded by sentinels. Two large 
 ash-trees formerly marked its extreme point, planted, 
 according to tradition, by her own hands. They were 
 
64 CARLISLE. 
 
 numbered among the finest trees of Cumberland, until 
 it was found necessary to cut them down, because 
 they interfered with some architectural design ; — I 
 believe, with the construction of a bridge. 
 
 We spent some time in examining the Castle, and 
 saw a glorious sunset from its heights. It was built 
 in the reign of Edward the Third; and here his unfor- 
 tunate grandson, Richard the Second, rested for a 
 night, when making his humiliating journey, in the 
 custody of the aspiring Bolingbroke, afterwards Henry 
 the Fourth. Here, also, Fergus Mac Ivor was im- 
 prisoned, and led forth to execution. They pretend to 
 show the print of his hand in a rather soft stone, 
 lining the walls of the cell where he was held in 
 captivity. On the parapets, where the cannon are 
 mounted, I observed a fine, ancient dial, with the fol- 
 lowing forcible inscription in gold letters : " Hours 
 and ages are nothing to the Eternal, but as for man, 
 they fix his changeless doom for weal, or woe." 
 
HOLYROOD. 65 
 
 HOLYROOD. 
 
 Old Holyrood ! Edina's pride,, 
 When erst, in regal state arrayed, 
 
 The mitred abbots told their beads, 
 
 And chanted 'neath thy hallowed shade, 
 
 And nobles, in thy palace courts. 
 Revel, and dance, and pageant led, 
 
 And trump to tilt and tourney called, 
 And royal hands the banquet spread ; 
 
 A lingering beauty still is thine, 
 
 Though age on age have o'er thee rolled, 
 Since good king David reared thy walls, 
 
 With turrets proud and tracery bold. 
 
 And still the Norman's pointed arch 
 
 Its interlacing blends sublime 
 With Gothic columns' clustered strength, 
 
 Where foliage starts and roses climb. 
 
(36 HOLYROOD. 
 
 High o'er thy head rude Arthur's Seat 
 And Salisbury Crag in ledges rise, 
 
 Where love the hurtling winds to shriek 
 "Wild chorus to the wintry skies. 
 
 Thy roofless chapel, stained with years, 
 
 And paved with tomb-stones damp and low, 
 
 Yon gloomy vault, whose grated doors 
 The bones of prince and chieftain show 
 
 Unburied, while from pictured hall, 
 In armor decked, or antique crown, 
 
 A strange interminable line 
 
 Of Scotia's kings look grimly down. 
 
 Yet with bold touch hath Fancy wrought, 
 And ranged her airy region wide, 
 
 The features and the form to give, 
 
 Where History scarce a name supplied. 
 
 Methinks o'er every mouldering wall, 
 Around each arch and buttress twine, 
 
 Like rustling banner's dreamy fold, 
 The chequered fate of Stuart's line. 
 
 First of that race, whose early years 
 Dragged slowly on in captive's cell ; 
 
 And he, who at the cannon's mouth 
 In the dire siege of Roxburgh fell ; 
 
HOLYROOD. 67 
 
 And he, who felt the assassin's steel, 
 Though erst with sharper anguish tried 
 
 From rebel son and traitor chief; — 
 Before my sight they seem to glide. 
 
 He too, at Flodden-field who died, 
 The belt of iron round his breast, 
 
 Held his last frantic orgies here, 
 
 And rushed to battle's dreamless rest. 
 
 And Margaret's son and Mary's sire, 
 Methinks I see him, wrapped in gloom, 
 
 Glance coldly on the babe, whose birth 
 Just marked the portal of his tomb : 
 
 " An heir to Scotia's throne, Oh king ! 
 
 A daughter fair ! " the herald said ; — 
 No smile he gave, no hand he raised, 
 
 They touched his forehead ; — he was dead. 
 
 He, too, the anointing oil who bore 
 
 Of Albion on his princely head, 
 Yet basely, near his palace-door, 
 
 Upon the sable scaffold bled, 
 
 In youthful days, when skies were bright, 
 And nought the coming doom betrayed, 
 
 The crown upon his temples placed 
 In yonder chapel's sacred shade. 
 
68 HOLYROOD. 
 
 But most, of Scotia's fairest flower 
 Old Holyrood with mournful grace 
 
 Doth every withered petal hoard, 
 And dwell on each recorded trace. 
 
 I 've stood upon the castled height, 
 Where green Carlisle its turrets rears, 
 
 And mused on Mary's grated cell, 
 Her smitten hopes, her captive tears, 
 
 When from Lochleven's dreary fosse, 
 
 From Langside's transient gleam of bliss, 
 
 She threw herself on queenly faith, 
 On kindred blood, — for this 1 for this ! 
 
 I 've marked along the stagnant moat 
 Her stinted ,walk mid soldiers grim, 
 
 Or listening, caught the burst of woe 
 That mingled with her vesper-hymn ; 
 
 Or 'neath the shades of Fotheringay, 
 
 In vision seen the faded eye, 
 The step subdued, the prayer devout, 
 
 The sentenced victim led to die. 
 
 But simpler relics, fond and few, 
 That in this palace-chamber lie, 
 
 Of woman's lot, and woman's care, 
 Touch tenderer chords of sympathy ; 
 
HOLYROOD. 69 
 
 The arras, with its storied lore, 
 By her own busy needle wrought, 
 
 The couch, where oft her throbbing brow 
 For sweet oblivion vainly sought ; 
 
 The basket, once with infant robes 
 So rich, her own serene employ, 
 
 While o'er each lovely feature glowed 
 A mother's yet untasted joy ; 
 
 The candelabra's fretted shaft, 
 
 Beside whose flickering midnight flame 
 In sad communion still she bent 
 
 With genial France, from whence it came 
 
 Those sunny skies, those hearts refined, 
 The wreaths that Love around her threw, 
 
 The homage of a kneeling realm, 
 The misery of her last adieu ! 
 
 Ah ! were her errors all resolved 
 
 To their first elemental fount, 
 Must not her dark and evil times 
 
 Share deeply in the dire amount? 
 
 We may not say ; we only know 
 Their record is with One on high, 
 
 Who ne'er the unuttered motive scans 
 With partial or vindictive eye. 
 
70 HOLYROOD. 
 
 Yon secret stairs, yon closet nook, 
 
 The swords that through the arras gleam, 
 
 Rude Darnley's ill-dissembled joy, 
 
 Lost Rizzio's shrill, despairing scream, 
 
 The chapel decked for marriage rite, 
 The royal bride, with flushing cheek, 
 
 Triumphant BothwelPs hateful glance, 
 Alas ! Alas ! what words they speak ! 
 
 Dread gift of Beauty ! who can tell 
 The ills and perils round thee strown, 
 
 When warm affections fire the heart, 
 
 And Fortune gives the dangerous throne ; 
 
 And Power's intoxicating cup, 
 
 And Flattery's wile the conscience tames, 
 While strong temptations spread their snare, 
 
 And Hatred every lapse proclaims ? 
 
 But since each trembling shade of guilt 
 None, save the eternal Judge, may know, 
 
 O'er erring hearts, by misery crushed, 
 Let pity's softening tear-drop flow. 
 
 Thursday, Sept. 3, 1840. 
 
HOLYROOD. 71 
 
 " Since good king David reared thy walls." 
 
 The Abbey of Holyrood was founded by David the 
 First, in 1128. The Scottish legend says, that while 
 hunting and separated from his train, he was attacked 
 and overthrown by a wild stag, and rescued from im- 
 pending death by the sudden appearance of an arm 
 from a dark cloud, holding a luminous cross, which 
 so frightened the furious animal, that he fled away 
 into the depths of the forest. The monarch determined 
 to erect a religious house on the very spot of his de- 
 liverance, and to call it Holyrood, or Holy Cross. It 
 might be proper to supply a strong reason for the se- 
 lection of so obscure a site, but scarcely necessary to 
 invent a miracle for so common an occurrence, as the 
 erection of an ecclesiastical edifice by king David, as 
 it is well known that fifteen owe their origin to him ; 
 among which are the fine abbeys of Melrose and Dry- 
 burgh, Kelso and Jedburgh, with the Cathedrals of 
 Glasgow and Aberdeen. The gratitude of the mo- 
 nastic orders, whom he patronized, conferred on him 
 the title of Saint ; but the heavy expenses thus incur- 
 red imposed many burdens upon his realm, and 
 caused James the Sixth, not inappositely, to style him 
 " a saur saint to the crown." 
 
 The first view of Holyrood is in strong contrast 
 with the splendid buildings and classic columns of 
 the Calton-Hill. After admiring the monuments of 
 Dugald Stewart and Nelson, and the fine edifice for 
 
72 HOLYROOD. 
 
 the High School, you look down at the extremity of 
 the Canongate upon the old palace, that, seated at the 
 feet of Salisbury Crag, nurses in comparative desola- 
 tion the memories of the past. Its chapel, floored 
 with tomb-stones and open to the winds of heaven, 
 admonishes human power and pride of their alliance 
 with vanity. 
 
 Through an iron grate we saw in a damp, misera- 
 ble vault the bones of some of the kings of Scotland ; 
 among them those of Henry Darnley, without even 
 the covering of that " little charity of earth," which 
 the homeless beggar finds. In another part of the 
 royal chapel, unmarked by any inscription, are the 
 remains of the lovely young Queen Magdalen, daugh- 
 ter of Francis the First of France, who survived but 
 a short time her marriage with James the Fifth. In 
 the same vicinity sleep two infant princes, by the 
 name of Arthur ; one the son of him who fell at 
 Flodden-field, the other a brother of Mary of Scot- 
 land. Scarcely a single monument, deserving of no- 
 tice as a work of art, is to be found at Holyrood, 
 except that of Viscount Bellhaven, a privy-counsellor 
 of Charles the First, who died in 1639. He is com- 
 memorated by a statue of Parian marble, which is in 
 singular contrast with the rough, black walls of the 
 ruinous tower, where it is placed. It has a diffuse 
 and elaborate inscription, setting forth that " Nature 
 supplied his mind by wisdom, for what was wanting 
 in his education ; that he would easily get angry, and 
 
HOLYROOD. 73 
 
 as easily, even while speaking, grow calm ; and that 
 he enjoyed the sweetest society in his only wife, 
 Nicholas Murray, daughter of the Baron of Abercair- 
 ney, who died in eighteen months after her mar- 
 riage." 
 
 The grave of Rizzio is pointed out under one of 
 the passages to a piazza, covered with a flat stone. 
 Over the mantel-piece of the narrow closet, where 
 from his last fatal supper he was torn forth by the 
 conspirators, is a portrait said to be of him. Its au- 
 thenticity is exceedingly doubtful ; yet it has been 
 honored by one of the beautiful effusions of Mrs. 
 Hemans, written during her visit to Holyrood in 
 1829. 
 
 " They haunt me still, those calm, pure, holy eyes ! 
 
 Their piercing sweetness wanders through my dreams; 
 
 The soul of music, that within them lies, 
 
 Comes o 'er my soul in soft and sudden gleams ; 
 
 Life, spirit, life immortal and divine 
 
 Is there, and yet how dark a death was thine." 
 
 In the gallery at Holyrood, which is 150 feet long, 
 and plain even to meanness, are the portraits of one 
 hundred and eleven Scottish monarchs, the greater 
 part of which must of course be creations of fancy. 
 Some of the more distinguished chieftains are inter- 
 spersed with them. In the line of the Stuarts, we 
 remarked the smallness and delicacy of the hands, 
 
HOLYROOD. 
 
 which historians have mentioned as a marked feature 
 of that unfortunate house. The only female among 
 this formidable assemblage of crowned heads is Mary 
 of Scotland. This her ancestral palace teems with 
 her relics; and however questionable is the identity 
 of some of them, they are usually examined with in- 
 terest by visitants. The antique cicerone, to whom 
 this department appertained, and whose voice had 
 grown hoarse and hollow by painful recitations in 
 these damp apartments, still threw herself into an 
 oratorical attitude, and bestowed an extra emphasis, 
 when any favorite article was to be exhibited, such as 
 " Queen 31ai?y's work-box ! Queen Mairy's candela- 
 bra ! " The latter utensil, it seems, she brought with 
 her from France. Probably some tender associations, 
 known only to herself, clustered around it ; for she 
 was observed often to fix her eyes mournfully upon it, 
 as a relic of happier days. In her apartments, we 
 were shown the stone, on which she knelt at her coro- 
 nation, the embroidered double chair, or throne, on 
 which she and Darnley sat after their marriage, the 
 state-bed, ready to perish, and despoiled of many a 
 mouldering fragment by antiquarian voracity, her 
 dressing-case, marvellously destitute of necessary ma- 
 terials, and the round, flat basket, in which the first 
 suit of clothes for her only infant was laid. These 
 articles, and many others of a similar nature, brought 
 her palpably before us, and awakened our sympathies. 
 There was a rudeness, an absolute want of comfort 
 
HOLYROOD. /D 
 
 about all her appointments, which touched us with 
 pity, and led us back to the turbulent and half civ- 
 ilized men by whom she was surrounded, and from 
 whom she had little reason to expect forbearance as a 
 woman, or obedience as a queen. The closet, to 
 which we were shown the secret stair-case where the 
 assassins entered, seems scarcely of sufficient dimen- 
 sions to allow the persons, who are said to have been 
 assembled there, the simplest accommodations for a 
 repast ; especially if Darnley was of so gigantic pro- 
 portions, as the armor, still preserved there and asserted 
 to be his, testifies. Poor Mary, notwithstanding her 
 errors, and the mistakes into which she was driven 
 by the fierce spirit of her evil times, is now remem- 
 bered throughout her realm, with a sympathy and 
 warmth of appreciation, which failed to cheer her 
 sufferings during life. Almost constantly you meet 
 with memorials of her. In the Castle of Edinburgh, 
 you have pointed out to you a miserable, dark room, 
 about eight feet square, where her son James the 
 Sixth was born ; in the Parthenon, among the gather- 
 ings of the Antiquarian Society, you are shown the 
 cup from which she used to feed her infant prince, 
 and the long white kid gloves, strongly embroidered 
 with black, which she was said to have worn upon 
 the scaffold ; and in the dining-hall at Abbotsford, you 
 start at a most distressing portrait of her, a head in a 
 charger, taken the day after her execution. Near 
 the Cathedral of Peterborough, where her body was 
 
76 HOLYROOD. 
 
 interred, the following striking inscription was once 
 put up in Latin. It was almost immediately removed, 
 and the writer never discovered, and we are indebted 
 to Camden for its preservation. 
 
 " Mary, Queen of Scots, daughter of a king, kins- 
 woman and next heir to the Queen of England, 
 adorned with royal virtues and a noble spirit, having 
 often but in vain implored to have the rights of a 
 prince done unto her, is by a barbarous and tyrannical 
 cruelty cut off. And by one and the same infamous 
 judgment, both Mary of Scotland is punished with 
 death, and all kings now living are made liable to 
 the same. A strange and uncouth kind of grave is 
 this, wherein the living are included with the dead ; for 
 we know that with her ashes the majesty of all kings 
 and princes lies here depressed and violated. But be- 
 cause this regal secret doth admonish all kings of 
 their duty, Traveller ! I shall say no more." 
 
 In the modern portion of Holyrood is a pleasant 
 suite of apartments, which were occupied by Charles 
 the Tenth of France, when he found refuge in Scot- 
 land from his misfortunes at home. They have orna- 
 mented ceilings, and are hung with tapestry. 
 
 The Duke of Hamilton, who is keeper of the palace, 
 has apartments there, as has also the Marquis of 
 Breadalbane. The latter has a large collection of 
 family portraits, among which is a fine one by Van- 
 dyke of Lady Isabella Rich, holding a lute, on which 
 
HOLYROOD. 77 
 
 instrument, we are informed by the poet Waller, she 
 had attained great excellence. 
 
 We found ourselves attracted to make repeated 
 visits to Holyrood, and never on those occasions omit- 
 ted its roofless chapel, so rich in recollections. It re- 
 quired, however, a strong effort of imagination to array 
 it in the royal splendor, with which the nuptials of 
 Queen Mary were there solemnized ; and seventy years 
 afterwards the coronation of her grandson, Charles the 
 First. The processions, the ringing of bells, the gay 
 tapestry streaming from the windows of the city, the 
 rich costumes of the barons, bishops, and other no- 
 bility, the king, in his robes of crimson velvet, attend- 
 ing devoutly to the sacred services of the day, receiv- 
 ing the oaths of allegiance, or scattering through his 
 almoner broad gold pieces among the people, are de- 
 tailed with minuteness and delight by the Scottish 
 chronicles of that period. " Because this was the 
 most glorious and magnifique coronatione that ever 
 was seine in this kingdom," says Sir James Balfour, 
 " and the first king of Greate Britain that ever was 
 crowned in Scotland, to behold these triumphs and 
 ceremonies, many strangers of grate quality resorted 
 hither from divers countries." 
 
 Who can muse at Holyrood without retracing the 
 disastrous fortunes of the house of Stuart, whose 
 images seem to glide from among the ruined arches, 
 where they once held dominion. James the First was 
 a prisoner through the whole of his early life, and 
 
78 HOLYROOD. 
 
 died under the assassin's steel. James the Second 
 was destroyed by the bursting of one of his own can- 
 non at the siege of Roxburgh. James the Third was 
 defeated in battle by rebels headed by his own son, 
 and afterwards assassinated. James the Fourth fell 
 with the flower of his army at Flodden-field, and 
 failed even of the rites of sepulture. James the 
 Fifth died of grief in the prime of life, at the moment 
 of the birth of his daughter, who, after twenty years 
 of imprisonment in England, was condemned to the 
 scaffold. James the First of England, though appa- 
 rently more fortunate than his ancestors, was menaced 
 by conspiracy, suffered the loss of his eldest son, and 
 saw his daughter a crownless queen. Charles the 
 First had his head struck off in front of his own 
 palace. Charles the Second was compelled to fly 
 from his country, and after twelve years' banishment 
 returned to an inglorious reign. James the Second 
 abdicated his throne, lost three kingdoms, died an 
 exile, and was the last of his race who inhabited the 
 palace of Holyrood. 
 
HAWTHORNDEN. 79 
 
 HAWTHORNDEN. 
 
 Though Scotia hath a thousand scenes 
 
 To strike the traveller's eye, 
 Clear-bosomed lakes, and leaping streams, 
 
 And mountains bleak and high ; 
 Yet when he seeks his native clime 
 
 And ingle-side again, 
 'T would be a pity, had he missed 
 
 To visit Hawthornden. 
 
 Down, down, precipitous and rude, 
 
 The rocks abruptly go, 
 While through their deep and narrow gorge 
 
 Foams on the Esk below ; 
 Yet though it plunges strong and bold, 
 
 Its murmurs meet the ear, 
 Like fretful childhood's weak complaint, 
 
 Half smothered in its fear. 
 
 There 's plenty, in my own dear land, 
 
 Of cave and wild cascade, 
 And all my early years were spent 
 
 In such romantic glade : 
 
80 HAWTHORNDEN. 
 
 And I could featly climb the cliff, 
 
 Or forest roam and fen ; 
 But I' ve been puzzled here among 
 
 These rocks of Hawthornden. 
 
 Here, too, are labyrinthine paths 
 
 To caverns dark and low, 
 Wherein, they say, king Robert Bruce 
 
 Found refuge from his foe ; 
 And still amid their relics old 
 
 His stalwart sword they keep, 
 Which telleth tales of cloven heads 
 
 And gashes dire and deep : 
 
 While sculptured in the yielding stone 
 
 Full many a niche they show, 
 Where erst his library he stored, 
 
 (The guide-boy told us so.) 
 Slight need had he of books, I trow, 
 
 Mid hordes of savage men, 
 And precious little time to read 
 
 At leagured Hawthornden. 
 
 Loud pealing from those caverns drear, 
 
 In old disastrous times, 
 The Covenanter's nightly hymn 
 
 Upraised its startling chimes ; 
 
HAWTHORNDEN. 81 
 
 Here too they stoutly stood at bay, 
 
 Or frowning sped along, 
 To meet the highborn cavalier 
 
 In conflict fierce and strong. 
 
 And here 's the hawthorn-broidered nook, 
 
 Where Drummond, not in vain, 
 Awaited his inspiring muse, 
 
 And wooed her dulcet strain. 
 And there 's the oak, beneath whose shade 
 
 He welcomed tuneful Ben, 
 And still the memory of their words 
 
 Is nursed in Hawthornden. 
 
 Flowers ! Flowers ! how thick and rich they grow, 
 
 Along the garden fair, 
 And sprinkle on the dewy sod 
 
 Their gifts of fragrance rare. 
 Methinks from many a heather bell 
 
 Peeps forth some fairy lance, 
 And then a tiny foot protrudes, 
 
 All ready for the dance ; 
 
 Methinks 'neath yon broad laurel leaf 
 
 They hold their revels light, 
 Imprinting with a noiseless step 
 
 The mossy carpet bright ; 
 
82 HAWTHORNDEN. 
 
 And then their ringing laughter steals 
 
 From some sequestered glen, 
 A fitting place for fays to sport 
 
 Is pleasant Hawthornden. 
 
 'T were sweet indeed to linger here, 
 
 And list the streamlet's sound, 
 And see poetic fancies spring 
 
 Up, like the flowers around, 
 Up, as the creeping ivy wreathes 
 
 Its green and gadding spray, 
 And from the gay and heartless crowd 
 
 Steal evermore away. 
 
 Yes, sweet, if life were but a dream, 
 
 And we, on charmed ground, 
 Were free to choose at pleasure's call, 
 
 And not to judgment bound. 
 But Duty spreads a different path, 
 
 And we her call must ken ; 
 And so a kind and long farewell 
 
 To classic Hawthornden. 
 
 Wednesday, September 9, 1840. 
 
 " Down, down, precipitous and rude, 
 The rocks abruptly go." 
 
 The rock, on which the rear-wall of the mansion- 
 house of Hawthornden is built, descends steeply more 
 
HAWTHORNDEN. 83 
 
 than a hundred feet to the narrow passage, or abyss, 
 where the Esk makes its way. This mansion, the seat 
 of Sir Francis Drummond Walker, is a modern struc- 
 ture, but there are broken arches and moss-grown 
 relics of an ancient baronial building, rudely, but 
 strongly fortified. 
 
 *' Where erst his library he stored." 
 
 There are a number of compartments of a honey- 
 comb form, cut in the wall of the caves to which you 
 descend, which bear the name of King Robert Bruce's 
 Library. His sword also is shown at the mansion. 
 
 " And pealing from those caverns drear, 
 In old disastrous times." 
 
 In those dens and subterranean galleries the Cov- 
 enanters, in the days of " Old Mortality," found refuge. 
 From thence also Sir Alexander Ramsay issued 
 forth, and performed some memorable exploits, during 
 the contests between Bruce and Baliol. 
 
 " And there's the Oak, beneath whose shade 
 He welcomed tuneful Ben." 
 
 Drummond usually composed his poems in a ro- 
 mantic nook, scooped from the face of the cliff, and em- 
 bosomed in hawthorn. But when Ben Jonson came 
 
84 HAWTHORNDEN. 
 
 on foot from London, to pass a few weeks with him 
 in his sylvan retreat, he received him under the broad 
 branches of a venerable Oak, addressing him with, 
 
 " Welcome, welcome, royal Ben," 
 to which the poet-laureate replied, 
 
 " Thank ye, thank ye, Hawthornden." 
 The wonderfully romantic scenery of this classic spot, 
 the wild rocks, the winding river, the secluded walks, 
 the glens, the caverns, the ancient oak, the climbing 
 ivy, the garden-seats, the many flowers, are never to 
 be forgotten. Methought the spirit of Drummond 
 still presided there ; and I have seldom felt a stronger 
 desire to linger where I had no right to remain. A 
 laborious walk of two miles brought us to Roslin 
 Chapel, which bears date in 1328, and is still in the 
 possession of the " lordly line of high St. Clair." It 
 is sustaining repairs by the Earl of Roslin, and has 
 some exquisite carvings, and a few designs from Scrip- 
 ture subjects, sculptured in stone of a soft material. 
 Roslin Castle is a fine ruin, but apart from historical 
 association possesses little interest. 
 
THE NECROPOLIS AT GLASGOW. 85 
 
 THE NECROPOLIS AT GLASGOW. 
 
 Come o'er the Bridge of Sighs, some twilight hour, 
 
 When dimly gleams the fair Cathedral -tower, 
 
 And lingering day-beams faintly serve to show 
 
 The tomb-stones mouldering round its base below; 
 
 — Come o'er that bridge with me, and musing think 
 
 What untold pangs have marked this streamlet's brink, 
 
 What bitter tears distilled from hearts of woe, 
 
 Since first its arches spanned the flood below. 
 
 Here hath the mother from her bleeding breast 
 
 Laid the young darling of her soul to rest; 
 
 Here the lorn child resigned the parent stay, 
 
 To walk despairing on its orphan way ; 
 
 Here the riven heart that fond companion brought 
 
 By years cemented with its inmost thought ; 
 
 Here the sad throng in long procession crept, 
 
 To bear the sage, for whom a nation wept, 
 
 Or deep in dust the reverend pastor lay, 
 
 Whose pure example taught to Heaven the way. 
 
 Approach through winding paths yon terrace high, 
 Whose statued column strikes the traveller's eye, 
 
86 
 
 THE NECROPOLIS AT GLASGOW. 
 
 Or rove from cell to cell, whose marble door 
 
 The inhospitable tenants ope no more, 
 
 Or on their tablets read the labored trace, 
 
 That asks remembrance from a dying race, 
 
 Or mark the flowers, whose lips with fragrance flow, 
 
 The sweetest tribute to the loved below. 
 
 Poor child of Judah, exiled and oppressed, 
 How wrapped in shades thy lowly spot of rest ! 
 Type of thy fate, for whom no sunbeam falls 
 In peace and power on Zion's sacred walls; 
 But by strange streams thy silent harp is hung, 
 And captive numbers tremble on thy tongue. 
 Dark is yon gate, through which thy mourners pass 
 To hide their idols 'neath the matted grass, 
 And sad the dirge, no Saviour's name that knows 
 To gild with glorious hope their last repose. 
 Oh ! turn thine eye from Sinai's summit red, 
 Our Elder Sister, fly its thunders dread, 
 List to the Jay that flowed o'er Bethlehem's plain, 
 When star and angel warned the shepherd train ; 
 Thou lov'st our Father's Book, — its seers believe, 
 To thy torn breast the holy cross receive, 
 Bind to the frowning Law the Gospel sweet, 
 And cast thy burdens at Messiah's feet. 
 
 But whether this secluded haunt we tread, 
 Where Caledonia shrouds her cherished dead, 
 
THE NECROPOLIS AT GLASGOW. 87 
 
 Or where the Turk funereal cypress rears, 
 
 Or the poor Cambrian plants his vale of tears, 
 
 Or search Mount Auburn's consecrated glades, 
 
 Mid lakes and groves and labyrinthine shades, 
 
 Or Laurel Hill, where silver Schuylkill flows, 
 
 Quiescent guarding while its guests repose, 
 
 Or near the Lehigh's rippling margin roam, 
 
 Where the Moravian finds his dead a home, 
 
 In lowly grave, by clustering plants o'ergrown, 
 
 That half conceal its horizontal stone, 
 
 One voice, one language, speaks each sacred scene, 
 
 Sepulchral vault, or simpler mound of green, 
 
 One voice, one language, breathes with changeless 
 
 power, 
 Graved on the stone, or trembling in the flower. 
 
 That voice is love for the pale clay, that shrined 
 
 And fondly lodged the never-dying mind, 
 
 Toiled for its welfare, with its burdens bent, 
 
 Wept o'er its woes, and at its bidding went, 
 
 Thrilled at its joys, with zeal obeyed its will, 
 
 And 'neath the stifling clod remembers still. 
 
 Though on the winds its severed atoms fly, 
 
 It hoards the promise of the Archangel's cry, 
 
 Though slain, trusts on, though buried, hopes to rise, 
 
 In ashes fans a fire that never dies, 
 
 And with the resurrection's dawning light 
 
 Shall burst its bonds, revivify, unite, 
 
THE NECROPOLIS AT GLASGOW. 
 
 Rush to its long-lost friend, with stainless grace, 
 And dwell forever in its pure embrace. 
 
 Friday, September 18, 1840. 
 
 The cemetery at Glasgow, called the Necropolis, 
 has a high and pleasant locality on the banks of a 
 stream, surmounted by what is figuratively and appo- 
 sitely called the " Bridge of Sighs." Though it was 
 opened only in 1833, it contains many imposing and 
 costly monuments. A doric column and colossal 
 statue are erected to John Knox on the apex of the 
 hill, and visible to quite a distance. They were placed 
 here several years before the spot was set apart for 
 the purposes of general sepulture. 
 
 It was a bright morning when we walked there, 
 and the sun rested pleasantly upon the homes of the 
 dead, the turrets of the fine old cathedral in its vicin- 
 ity, and the noble city stretching itself beneath. 
 That portion of the cemetery appropriated to the 
 Jews was deeply buried in shades, and had an air of 
 solemnity bordering on desolation. Over the entrance 
 was inscribed, " I heard a voice from Ramah, lamen- 
 tation, mourning, and woe, Rachel weeping for her 
 children, and refusing to be comforted, because they 
 were not." 
 
 On the shaft of a column, which is finished in imi- 
 tation of Absalom's pillar in the King's dale at Jeru- 
 salem, are the stanzas from Byron's Hebrew Melodies, 
 commencing, 
 
THE NECROPOLIS AT GLASGOW. 
 
 " Oh, weep for those, who wept by Babel's stream." 
 How adapted to the dispersion and sorrow of the 
 chosen, yet scattered people is the close of that pa- 
 thetic effusion ; 
 
 " Tribes of the wandering foot and weary breast, 
 Where shall ye flee away and be at rest 1 
 The wild dove hath her nest, the fox his cave, 
 Mankind his country, Israel but a grave." 
 
 On the opposite side of the column is the magnifi- 
 cent poetry of their own prophets. " There is hope 
 in thine end, saith the Lord, that thy children shall 
 come again unto their own border. How hath the 
 Lord covered the daughter of Zion with a cloud in 
 his anger, and cast down from heaven to the earth 
 the beauty of Israel, and remembered not his footstool 
 in the day of his anger. But though he cause grief, 
 yet will he have compassion according to the multitude 
 of his mercies. For he doth not afflict willingly, nor 
 grieve the children of men." 
 
 Glasgow, though not peculiarly picturesque, exhibits 
 on the banks of the Clyde some lovely scenery. It is 
 the first city in Scotland, in point of population, as 
 well as in the spirit of enterprise and active industry. 
 Its botanic garden and splendid Hunterian museum 
 should not be overlooked by visitants. Its public 
 squares are ornamented by statues of Nelson, Pitt, 
 and Wellington, Sir Walter Scott, Sir John Moore, 
 and James Watt, the improver of the steam-engine. 
 
THE NECROPOLIS AT GLASGOW. 
 
 The wealth of its merchants allows them to live in a 
 style of princely liberality, but among the lower class- 
 es are indications of deep wretchedne — 
 
 Our visit to Glasgow was rendered more interesting 
 by occurring at the time of the annual meeting of the 
 •• British Association for the Advancement of Sci- 
 ence.'' Hundreds of distinguished men, from differ- 
 ent lands, were thus convened, and it was delightful 
 to hear them presenting, day after day. in their re- 
 spective section-rooms, the result of their discoveries, 
 or unfolding their theories with earnest and varying 
 eloquence. Here also we saw, for the first time, a 
 gathering of the nobility of Scotland, and occasionally 
 heard speeches from the Marquis of Breadalbane, the 
 President of the Society, from Lord Sandon, Lord 
 M "iinteagle, and others. The collateral interests of 
 morality and benevolence were not overlooked by 
 science, in this her proud festival ; and on the subject 
 of pauperism, and the best modes of affording it per- 
 manent relief. Dr. Chalmers repeatedly spoke with 
 his characteristic fulness and power. He has none 
 of the gracefulness of the practised orator, and his 
 countenance is heavy, until irradiated by his subject. 
 Then mind triumphs over matter, and makes the 
 broad Scotch a pliant vehicle to eloquent thought. 
 He recommended the principle of calling forth the 
 energies of the poor for their own amelioration, with- 
 out the application of any disturbing force : that they 
 should be assisted to elevate themselves, rather than 
 
THE NECROPOLIS AT GLASGOW. 91 
 
 be at once paralyzed and degraded, by casting their 
 households on that stinted bounty whose root is taxation. 
 To enforce his theory he went into many details of 
 great minuteness and simplicity, advising, among 
 other things, the keeping of simple sewing-schools 
 by ladies, two hours of two days in the week, for the 
 indigent female children in their neighborhood ; and 
 frequent visiting, on the part of philanthropists 
 and Christians, to the abodes of ignorance and vice, 
 that the kindly sympathies thus mutually awakened 
 might be enlisted in the great work of reformation. 
 
 The Normal Seminary at Glasgow is an object of 
 interest, to those who feel the importance of a 
 right education in a manufacturing community. Its 
 design is to train teachers, by giving them an oppor- 
 tunity of coming in contact with the young mind, 
 according to the rules of a thorough, and what would 
 seem a correct and beautiful, system. Hundreds of 
 children are assembled in a spacious building, judi- 
 ciously divided into class-rooms, galleries, &c, and 
 with five play-grounds, furnished with abundant appa- 
 ratus for sport and exercise, where the teachers mingle 
 with their pupils, carefully superintending their modes 
 of intercourse and the development of their dispo- 
 sitions and affections, in what they expressively call 
 the " uncovered school-room." I was delighted with 
 their bright countenances, and with the promptness 
 and naivete which marked the replies of some of the 
 youngest classes to the questions of their teachers. 
 
92 THE NECROPOLIS AT GLASGOW. 
 
 The infant department comprises all under six years 
 of age, and the juvenile all from six to fourteen. 
 There is also a school of industry for girls from 
 ten years old and upwards, where the various uses 
 of the needle, which are so inseparably connected 
 with domestic comfort, as well as some of a more 
 ornamental nature, are admirably taught. Moral, 
 physical, and religious training are strenuously com- 
 bined with the intellectual in the system here estab- 
 lished, and a spirit of happiness and order seemed to 
 reign, unmarked by the severity of discipline. The 
 Rev. Mr. Cunningham, formerly a professor in one of 
 the Colleges of the United States, is the respected 
 Rector of the Institution ; and it owes much to the 
 munificent patronage of David Stow, Esq., arthor of 
 a volume entitled " The Training System," which 
 contains an exposition of the plan here pursued, and 
 many valuable hints on elementary education in gen- 
 eral. 
 
 The trainers, who have issued from this Normal 
 Seminary, will have the opportunity of widely exem- 
 plifying its system ; for they are found not only in dif- 
 ferent counties of Scotland, England, and Ireland, 
 but in the West Indies, British America, and the 
 far regions of Australia. Who can compute the 
 benefit that may result from their labors, each in his 
 own separate circle lighting the lamp of knowledge, 
 and scattering the seeds of heaven? Or who can 
 sufficiently estimate the value of those charities, which 
 
THE NECROPOLIS AT GLASGOW. 93 
 
 aid in rightly educating the unformed mind, except 
 that Being who gave it immortality? Thoughts like 
 these mingled with my departure from the commercial 
 metropolis of Scotland, and with the many treasured 
 recollections of its kindness and hospitality. 
 
94 LOCH LOMOND 
 
 LOCH LOMOND. 
 
 While down the lake's translucent tide 
 With gently curving course we glide, 
 Its silver ripples, faint and few, 
 Alternate blend with belts of blue, 
 As fleecy clouds, on pinions white, 
 Careering fleck the welkin bright. 
 
 But lo ! Ben Lomond's awful crown 
 Through shrouding mists looks dimly down ; 
 For though perchance his piercing eye 
 Doth read the secrets of the sky, 
 His haughty bosom scorns to show 
 Those secrets to the world below. 
 
 Close woven shades, with varying grace, 
 And crag and cavern mark his base, 
 And trees, whose naked roots protrude 
 From bed of rock and lichens rude; 
 And where, mid dizzier cliffs are seen 
 Entangled thickets sparsely green, 
 Methinks I trace, in outline drear, 
 Old Fingal with his shadowy spear, 
 
LOCH LOMOND. 95 
 
 His gray locks streaming to the gale, 
 And followed by his squadrons pale. 
 
 Yes, slender aid from Fancy's glass 
 It needs, as round these shores we pass, 
 Mid glen and thicket dark, to scan 
 The wild MacGregor's savage clan, 
 Emerging, at their chieftain's call, 
 To foray or to festival ; 
 While nodding plumes and tartans bright 
 Gleam wildly o'er each glancing height. 
 
 But as the spectral vapors rolled 
 Away in vestments dropped with gold, 
 The healthier face of summer sky, 
 With the shrill bagpipe's melody, 
 Recals, o'er distant ocean's foam, 
 The fondly treasured scenes of home ; 
 And thoughts, on angel-pinions driven, 
 Drop in the heart the seeds of heaven, 
 Those winged seeds, whose fruit sublime 
 Decays not with decaying time. 
 
 The loving child, the favorite theme 
 Of morning hour or midnight dream, 
 The tender friend so lowly laid 
 Mid our own church-yard's mournful shade, 
 The smitten babe, who never more 
 Must sport around its father's door, 
 Return they not, as phantoms glide, 
 And silent seat them at our side ? 
 
96 LOCH LOMOND. 
 
 Like Highland maiden, sweetly fair, 
 The snood and rosebud in her hair, 
 Yon emerald isles, how calm they sleep 
 On the pure bosom of the deep ; 
 How bright they throw, with waking eye, 
 Their lone charms on the passer by ; 
 The willow, with its drooping stem, 
 The thistle's hyacinthine gem, 
 The feathery fern, the graceful deer, 
 Quick starting as the strand we near, 
 While, with closed wing and scream subdued, 
 The osprays nurse their kingly brood. 
 
 High words of praise, the pulse that stir, 
 Burst from each joyous voyager ; 
 And Scotia's streams and mountains hoar, 
 The wildness of her sterile shore, 
 Her broken caverns, that prolong 
 The echoes of her minstrel song, 
 Methinks might catch the enthusiast-tone, 
 That breathes amid these waters lone. 
 Even I, from far Columbia's shore, 
 Whose lakes a mightier tribute pour, 
 And bind with everlasting chain 
 The unshorn forest to the main, 
 Superior's surge, like ocean proud, 
 That leaps to lave the vexing cloud, 
 Huron, that rolls with gathering frown 
 A world of waters darkly down, 
 
LOCH LOMOND. 97 
 
 And Erie, shuddering on his throne 
 At strong Niagara's earthquake tone, 
 And bold Ontario, charged to keep 
 The barrier 'tween them and the deep, 
 
 Who oft in sounds of wrath and fear, 
 And dark with cloud-wreathed diadem, 
 
 Interpreted! to Ocean's ear 
 Their language, and his will to them ; 
 I, — reared amid that western vale, 
 Where Nature works on broader scale, 
 Still with admiring thought and free, 
 Loch Lomond, love to gaze on thee, 
 Reluctant from thy beauties part, 
 And bless thee with a stranger's heart. 
 
 Saturday, September 19, 1840. 
 
98 CORRA LINN. 
 
 CORRA LINN. 
 
 Thou 'rt beautiful, sweet Corra Linn, 
 
 In thy sequestered place, 
 Thy plunge on plunge mid wreathing foam 
 
 Abrupt, yet full of grace, 
 Down, down, with breathless speed thou go'st 
 
 Into thy rock-sown bed, 
 Bright sunbeams on thy glancing robes, 
 
 Rude crags above thy head. 
 
 Thy misty dew is on the trees, 
 
 And forth with gladness meet 
 They reach the infant leaf and bud, 
 
 To take thy baptism sweet. 
 No Clydesdale spears are flashing high, 
 
 In foray wild and rude, 
 But Corra's time-rocked castle sleeps 
 
 In peaceful solitude. 
 
CORRA LINN. 99 
 
 What wouldst thou think, sweet Corra Linn, 
 
 Shouldst thou Niagara spy, 
 That mighty monarch of the West 
 
 With terror in his eye ? 
 Thou 'dst fear him on his Ocean-throne, 
 
 Like lion in his lair, 
 Meek, snooded maiden, dowered with all 
 
 That father Clyde can spare. 
 
 For thou might'st perch, like hooded bird, 
 
 Upon his giant hand, 
 Nor mid his world of waters wake 
 
 A ripple on his strand. 
 He 'd drink thee up, sweet Corra Linn, 
 
 And thou, to crown the sip, 
 Wouldst scarce a wheen of bubbles make 
 
 Upon his monstrous lip. 
 
 Thy voice, that bids the foliage quake 
 
 Around thy crystal brim, 
 Would quaver, like the cricket's chirp, 
 
 Mid his hoarse thunder-hymn. 
 For, like a thing that scorns the earth, 
 
 He rears his awful crest, 
 And takes the rainbow from the skies, 
 
 And folds it round his breast. 
 
100 COKRA LINN. 
 
 Thou ; rt passing fair, sweet Corra Linn, 
 
 And he, who sees thee leap 
 Into the bosom of the flood, 
 
 Might o'er thy beauty weep. 
 But lone Niagara still doth speak 
 
 Of God, both night and day, 
 And force from each terrestrial thought 
 
 The gazer's soul away. 
 
 Tuesday, September 22, 1840. 
 
 " Corra's time-rocked castle." 
 
 The old castle of Corra stands near the cliffs that 
 overhang the Fall, and sometimes, when the river is 
 much swollen by rains, seems, as if moved by the per- 
 cussion of the waters, to nod upon its rocky base. 
 
FAREWELL TO EDINBURGH. 101 
 
 FAREWELL TO EDINBURGH. 
 
 Fair Queen of Caledon, thou sitt'st 
 
 Majestic and alone, 
 The strong arm of the rugged sea 
 
 A girdle round thee thrown, 
 The gorgeous thistle in thy hand, 
 
 That drinks the sunny ray, 
 While graceful on the northern breeze 
 
 Thine unbound tresses play. 
 
 In casket of the massy rock, 
 
 Within yon castled height, 
 Thou lay'st thy rich regalia by, 
 
 Dear to thy heart, and bright, 
 And clasping Albion's proffered hand, 
 
 A tear-drop in thine een, 
 All nobly by her side dost stand, 
 
 Though crownless, yet a queen. 
 
102 FAREWELL TO EDINBURGH. 
 
 I said thou bad'st in castled nook 
 
 Thy loved regalia rest, 
 And changed it for the olive branch, 
 
 That shadoweth brow and breast. 
 For this no more in contest rude, 
 
 Or challenge mad with haste, 
 Or savage shock of border wars, 
 
 Thy sons their blood shall waste. 
 
 No more shalt thou stern watch and ward 
 
 Upon those hill-tops hold, 
 When now the shepherd's voice at eve 
 
 Doth warn his flocks afold ; 
 But freely pour thy glowing soul 
 
 To thrill the tuneful lyre, 
 And mark on Calton's beauteous brow 
 
 Athenian domes aspire ; 
 
 And kindly with thy guiding hand 
 
 Assist the pilgrim wight, 
 Who breathless climbs to seek a seat 
 
 On Arthur's towering height, 
 Or taste from old St. Antoine's well 
 
 Cold waters sparkling free, 
 Or o'er that ruined chapel pore, 
 
 Queen Margaret gave to thee. 
 
 
FAREWELL TO EDINBURGH. 103 
 
 St. Giles, like time-tried sentinel, 
 
 Uplifts his cross on high, 
 And stirs his ancient might to guard 
 
 Thy pristine majesty ; 
 And Learning reareth massive walls 
 
 Thy fairest haunts among, 
 While, as a charmed child, the world 
 
 Doth list thy magic song. 
 
 But settling o'er thy brow I see 
 
 A tinge of mournful thought, 
 For Autumn blights the heather-flower, 
 
 That generous summer brought ; 
 And though I seek a greener clime, 
 
 Where flowers are fair to see, 
 Still, still, sweet queen of Caledon, 
 
 My spirit turns to thee. 
 
 There may indeed be richer realms, 
 
 Where pride and splendor roll ; 
 But thou art skilled to soothe the pang 
 
 That rives the stranger's soul. 
 There may perchance be those who say 
 
 Thy mountain-land is drear; 
 Yet thou hast still the wealth that wins 
 
 The stranger's grateful tear. 
 
104 FAREWELL TO EDINBURGH. 
 
 And when, my weary wanderings o'er, 
 
 I seek my native land, 
 And by mine ingle-side once more 
 
 Do clasp the kindred hand, 
 And when my listening children ask 
 
 For tales of land and sea, 
 They fain a wreath of love will twine, 
 
 Edina dear, for thee. 
 
 Wednesday, September 30, 1840. 
 
 The beauty of Edinburgh, in itself, and in its envi- 
 rons, and the intellectual atmosphere that enwraps it, 
 are eulogized by all. We entered it with high antici- 
 pations, yet they were more than realized. Every 
 day revealed something new, and supplied an un- 
 wearied strength to visit and to admire. 
 
 It seems more than other cities to fasten on the 
 imagination, from the nature of its scenery, the 
 strange events which History has embodied here, and 
 the high native genius which has immortalized all. 
 The contrast between the Old and New Town is most 
 striking ; one, so fresh, bold, and beautiful, the other 
 with its dark, stifling wynds and closes, its gloomy, 
 twelve-storied houses, quaking to their very founda- 
 tions at their own loftiness, seems the abode of myste- 
 rious legends, or spectral imagery. To pass from the 
 classic domes on Calton Hill, or the princely man- 
 sions in Moray Place, and look into the abysses of the 
 Cowgate and Canongate, just when the early glimmer- 
 
FAREWELL TO EDINBURGH. 105 
 
 ing lamps begin to make visible their filth, poverty, 
 and misery, is like a sudden rush from the Elysian 
 fields to the dominions of Pluto. 
 
 The past stands forth with peculiar distinctness in 
 Edinburgh. It has been so well defined by her his- 
 torians, that it mingles with the current of passing 
 things. You can scarcely disentangle, from the web 
 of the present, the associations that throng around 
 you, while standing on the radiated spot in the pave- 
 ment, where the " old cross of Dun-Edin " once rear- 
 ed itself, walking in the purlieus of the Grass-Market, 
 so often saturate with noble blood, or musing amid 
 the corridors and carved ceilings of the Old Parlia- 
 ment-House, you pause at the trap-door, which from 
 the " lock-up-house," eighty feet beneath, gave en- 
 trance to the haggard prisoners into the criminal 
 court, and imagine the tide of agonizing emotions, 
 which from age to age that narrow space has witness- 
 ed. A similar dreaminess and absorption in the past 
 steal over you, when in the rock-ribbed Castle you 
 gaze on the ancient regalia, so bright, yet now so ob- 
 solete ; or while exploring the Register-Office, with 
 its strong stone arches, enter the circular room, with 
 its richly carved and sky-lighted dome, where repose 
 in state the many massy volumes of Scotland's annals; 
 or see in other apartments the decrees and signatures 
 of her kings, for seven hundred years; the illuminated 
 folio, where the articles of Union, in the reign of 
 Queen Anne, were inscribed ; and the repository of 
 
106 
 
 FAREWELL TO EDINBURGH. 
 
 the crests, autographs, and seals of the ancient nobles 
 and Highland chieftains, many of whose hands were 
 less familiar with the pen than with the good clay- 
 more. In the archives of the Antiquarian Society, 
 which are kept in a noble building on the plan of the 
 Parthenon, there seems a sort of blending of antique 
 with modern recollections, as you examine coats of 
 mail, warriors' boots of amazing weight and capacity, 
 the terrible two-handed sword, the cumbrous and 
 cruel instrument of death, strangely called " The 
 Maiden," the pulpit of John Knox, and the joint- 
 stool hurled by Jane Geddes at the head of the dean 
 of Peterborough, who she said was " preaching popery 
 in her lugs," because he essayed to read the Liturgy, 
 just commanded to be used in the churches by 
 Charles the First. 
 
 I have hinted that an unusual perseverance animat- 
 ed us in our explorations of Edinburgh. We seemed 
 neither to feel fatigue, nor to fear satiety. The acme of 
 a traveller's zeal came over us there. It was like a 
 first love, rendered more unquenchable by the re- 
 straints and apprehensions of the voyage, from which 
 we had just escaped. Old Holyrood, the wind-swept 
 eminences of Salisbury and Arthur's Seat, the cold 
 trickling waters of St. Anthony's fountain, the rugged 
 cairn of Nichol Muskat, and the birth-place of the 
 magician who described it, the sweet scenery of 
 Randolph's cliff, the squares, the statues, the drives 
 in the suburbs, the noble University, the prince- 
 
FAREWELL TO EDINBURGH. 107 
 
 ly libraries, the model schools, the hospitals, the 
 churches, even the shops of the lapidaries, where the 
 Scottish pebble is made to take its place among gems, 
 the club-rooms, in whose luxurious arrangement men 
 may sometimes overlook the humbler " blink of their 
 ain fireside," the publishing houses, from whence the 
 influence of genius and learning hath gone forth 
 over Europe and the world ; these, and many other 
 localities which the time would fail to specify, were 
 visited with eagerness, either on their own account, or 
 because they appertained to this Modern Athens. 
 
 The hospitality of Scotland, and the frankness with 
 which she receives the stranger into her heart of 
 hearts, were fully illustrated in her favorite and most 
 intellectual city. For me, it was deepened by that 
 kindness which sudden sickness calls forth in sympa- 
 thetic and Christian hearts. And it was not without 
 surprise, that I, who had maintained a sort of con- 
 cealed homesickness, a nightly yearning after my 
 distant dear ones, found my eyes wet with tears, and 
 a new home-feeling painfully uprooted, at bidding 
 farewell to Edinburgh. 
 
108 
 
 ARBOTSFORD. 
 
 ABBOTSFORD. 
 
 Master of Abbotsford ! 
 
 Magician strange and strong ! 
 Whose voice of power is heard 
 
 By an admiring throng, 
 From court to peasant's cot, — 
 
 We come, but thou art gone, 
 We speak, thou answerest not, — 
 
 Thy work is done. 
 
 Thou slumberest with the noble dead, 
 
 In Dryburgh's solemn pile, 
 Amid the peer and warrior bold, 
 And mitred abbots stern and old, 
 
 Who sleep in sculptured aisle, 
 While Scotia's skies, with azure gleaming, 
 Are through the oriel window streaming, 
 
 Where ivied mosses creep ; 
 And touched with symmetry sublime, 
 The moss-clad towers that mock at time, 
 
 Their mouldering legends keep. 
 
 
ABBOTSFORD. 109 
 
 Yet shouldst thou not have chose 
 
 Thy latest couch at fair Melrose, 
 Whence burst thy first, most ardent song, 
 And swept with murmuring force along, 
 
 Where Tweed in silver flows 1 
 There the young moonbeam quivering faint, 
 O'er mural tablet sculptured quaint, 
 
 Reveals a lordly race, 
 While knots of roses richly wrought, 
 And traeery light as poet's thought, 
 
 The clustered columns grace. 
 There good king David's rugged mien 
 Fast by his faithful spouse is seen, 
 
 And 'neath the stony floor 
 Lie chiefs of Douglas' haughty breast, 
 Contented now to take their rest, 
 
 And rule their kings no more. 
 There, if we heed thy witching strain, 
 The fearless knight of Deloraine 
 Achieved his purpose strange and bold, 
 At rifled tomb and midnight cold ; 
 And there amid the roofless wall, 
 Where blended shower and sunlight fall, 
 With stealthy step and half afraid, 
 The lambkin crops the scanty blade ; 
 While near is seen the seat of stone, 
 
 Whereon thou oft didst rest, 
 When thou hadst tower and transept shown 
 
 To many a grateful guest, 
 
110 ABBOTSFORD. 
 
 And still a voice of friendly tone 
 Doth speak and call thee blest. 
 
 5 T was but a mournful sight to see 
 
 Trim Abbotsford so gay, 
 The rose-trees flaunting there so bold, 
 The ripening fruits in rind of gold, 
 
 And thou their lord away. 
 There stood the lamp, with oil unspent, 
 O'er which thy thoughtful brow was bent, 
 
 When erst with magic skill 
 Unearthly beings heard thy call, 
 And buried ages thronged the hall, 
 
 Obedient to thy will. 
 This fair domain was all thine own, 
 From towering rock to threshold stone ; 
 
 Yet didst thou lavish pay 
 The coin that caused life's wheels to stop, 
 The heart's blood oozing, drop by drop, 
 
 Through the tired brain away ? 
 
 I said thy lamp unspent was there, 
 Thy books arranged in order fair, 
 But none of all thy kindred race 
 Found in those lordly halls a place. 
 Thine only son in foreign lands 
 Leads bravely on his martial bands, 
 And stranger lips, unmoved and cold, 
 The legends of thy mansion told, — 
 
ABBOTSFORD. Ill 
 
 Thy lauded glittering brand and spear, 
 And costly gift from prince and peer, 
 And broad claymore, with silver dight, 
 And hunting-horn of border knight, 
 
 What were such gauds to me? 
 More dear had been one single word, 
 From those whose veins thy blood had stirred 
 
 To Scotia's accents free. 
 
 Yet one there was in humble cell, 
 
 One poor retainer, lone and old, 
 Who of thy youth remembered well, 
 
 And many a treasured story told ; 
 While pride upon her wrinkled face 
 
 Mixed strangely with the trickling tear, 
 As memory from its choicest place 
 Brought forth, in wildly varied trace, 
 
 Thy boyhood's gambols dear ; 
 Or pointed out with withered hand 
 Where erst thy garden-seat did stand, 
 When thou, returned from travel vain, 
 Wrapped in thy plaid and pale with pain, 
 
 Didst gaze with vacant eye, 
 For stern disease had drained the fount 
 
 Of mental vision dry. 
 
 Ah ! what avails with giant power 
 To wrest the trophies of an hour, 
 One moment write with flashing eye 
 Our name on castled turrets high, 
 
112 ABBOTSFORD. 
 
 And yield, the next, a broken trust, 
 To earth, to ashes, and to dust. 
 
 Master of Abbotsford 
 No more thou art ! 
 But prouder trace and mightier word, 
 Than palace-dome or arch sublime 
 Have ever won from wrecking time, 
 
 Do keep thy record in the heart. 
 Thou, who with tireless hand didst sweep 
 Away the damps of ages deep, 
 And fire with wild, baronial strain 
 The harp of chivalry again, 
 And bid its long-forgotten swell 
 Thrill through the soul, farewell ! farewell ! 
 
 Thou, who didst make from shore to shore 
 Bleak Caledonia's mountains hoar, 
 Her clear lakes bosomed in their shade, 
 Her sheepfolds scattered o'er the glade, 
 Her rills with music leaping down, 
 The perfume of her heather brown, 
 Familiar, as their native glen, 
 To differing tribes of distant men, 
 Patriot and bard ! Edina's care 
 Shall keep thine image fresh and fair, 
 Embalming to remotest time 
 The Shakspeare of her tuneful clime. 
 
 Thursday, October 1, 1840. 
 
ABBOTSFORD. 113 
 
 " In Dryburgh's solemn pile." 
 
 Dryburgh is among the most beautiful of the an- 
 cient abbeys of Scotland. The effect of its ruins is 
 heightened by their standing forth in solitary promi- 
 nence, amidst a charming landscape. The Tweed 
 sweeps around them like a crescent, and the lofty 
 back-ground is shrouded in rich foliage, where the 
 oak, the beech, and the mournful yew predominate. 
 Among other noble and striking points of the struc- 
 ture, the windows are conspicuous. One large one, 
 in the southern part of the transept, divided by four 
 mullions, rises to a lofty height, and is seen majesti- 
 cally in the distance ; another, of a circular form, in 
 the western gable of what was formerly the refectory, 
 with the dark foliage seen through it, is singularly 
 picturesque. 
 
 Several stone coffins, or sarcophagi, of apparently 
 great antiquity, have been discovered in these pre- 
 cincts, and are shown with their venerable coating of 
 green moss and mould. In the place appropriated to 
 the burial of the Erskines, or Earls of Mar, we ob- 
 served an inscription bearing date in 1168, and another 
 commemorating the youngest of the thirty-three chil- 
 dren of Ralph Erskine. in the chapter-house, which 
 resembles a spacious cellar, we were surprised by a 
 vast assemblage of figures and busts, in plaster of 
 Paris. They seemed a deputation from every age and 
 clime. We could scarcely have anticpitated, in a ru- 
 8 
 
114 ABBOTSFORD. 
 
 inous vault of Teviotdale, thus to meet Socrates and 
 Cicero and Julius Caesar, Shakspeare and Locke 
 and Brutus — Abbot of Melrose, with his pastoral staff, 
 John Knox, Charles Fox and the Ettrick shepherd, 
 Count Rumford and Benjamin Franklin, and Watt of 
 Birmingham, a strangely assorted and goodly com- 
 pany. 
 
 But the visitant of Dryburgh goes first and last to 
 the grave where, on September 26, 1832, Sir Walter 
 Scott was laid with the Haliburtons, his maternal an- 
 cestors. Around it are gathered many of the objects 
 that in life he loved. Luxuriant vines, with their 
 clasping tendrils, the overhanging ivy, the melancholy 
 cypress, the mellow song of birds, the distant voice of 
 Tweed, Gothic arches with their solemn shadow, and 
 kindred dust reposing near, hallow the poet's tomb. 
 
 " And still, a voice of friendly tone, 
 Doth speak, and call thee blest." 
 
 Our guide through Melrose was Mr. John Bower, 
 quite an original character, and somewhat of an artist, 
 who interspersed his services with anecdotes, to which 
 his broad Scotch dialect imparted additional interest. 
 He is the same person whom Washington Irving thus 
 characterizes, as " the showman of Melrose. He 
 was loud in his praises of the affability of Scott. 
 ' He '11 come here sometimes,' said he, ' with great 
 
ABBOTSFORD. 115 
 
 folks in his company, and the first I'll know of it is 
 hearing his voice calling out Johnny ! Johnny Bower ! 
 and when I go out, 1 5 m sure to be greeted with a 
 joke, or a pleasant word. He '11 stand and crack and 
 laugh wi' me, just like an auld wife, and to think 
 that of a man that has sich an awfu' knowledge o' 
 history." Johnny Bower spoke with enthusiasm of 
 Sir Walter Scott, and requested us to sit on the 
 stone seat, where he used to rest, when fatigued with 
 walking about on his lame limb, to exhibit the favor- 
 ite abbey to his numerous guests. " It was all a trick," 
 said he, " the getting him to be buried at Dryburgh. 
 This was the place. Every body knows that he cam 
 here sax times and mair, to his ance visiting the Dry- 
 burgh ruin." 
 
 On pointing out the marble slab, which covers the 
 dust of Alexander the Second, some remark was made 
 about the period of his accession, to which Johnny 
 Bower, as he called himself, responded in two lines 
 from Marmion : — 
 
 " A clerk might tell what years are flown, 
 Since Alexander filled the throne." 
 
 Large portions of the " Lay of the Last Minstrel " 
 were familiar to him, which he recited when any 
 surrounding object awakened them. Directing our 
 attention to a rough, red stone in the wall, on which 
 were the words, " Here lye the race of the house of 
 Year," or Carr, the present Dukes of Roxburgh, he 
 
116 ABBOTSFORD. 
 
 told us that our " great countryman, Washington Ir- 
 ving, said, ' there was a haill sarmon on the vanity of 
 pomp in that single line.' " After his agency as our 
 guide had terminated, we were invited to his apart- 
 ments, where we saw his wife, and a variety of draw- 
 ings and casts from Melrose, several of which he had 
 himself executed ; and were pleased to have an op- 
 portunity of purchasing some engravings from him. 
 
 The village of Melrose is situated at the foot of 
 the Eildon hills. It has little to interest a traveller, 
 except its famous old Abbey ; and in this it is impos- 
 sible to be disappointed, whether it is seen by the 
 " pale moonlight," or not. The style of its architec- 
 ture, its clustered columns, its niches filled with 
 statues, its exquisite carvings, from whence the leaf- 
 lets, flowers, and fruits stand out with great boldness 
 and a delicate truth to nature, prove that the orna- 
 mental parts must have been executed several centu- 
 ries later than its erection under David the First. 
 Every visitant must admire, on the capital of a column, 
 from whence the roof which it once supported has 
 mouldered away, a carved hand, in exceedingly bold 
 relief, clasping a garland of roses. It was pleasant 
 to see, in a partially enclosed court-yard, a few sheep 
 cropping the herbage that crept up among the stones 
 and between the fragments of fallen pillars, reminding 
 one of the flocks that some tourist has described, as 
 feeding so quietly amid the ruins of the circus of 
 Caracalla, at Rome. 
 
ABBOTSFORD. 117 
 
 " 'T was but a mournful sight to see 
 Trim Abbotsford so gay." 
 
 When we visited Abbotsford, it was rich with a 
 profusion of roses and ripening fruits. Embosomed 
 in shades, it presents an irregular assemblage of turret, 
 parapet, and balcony. The principal hall is hung with 
 armor, and the emblazoned shields of border chief- 
 tains. It is about forty feet in length, and paved with 
 black and white marble. It leads to a room of 
 smaller dimensions called the armory, where are multi- 
 tudes of antique implements of destruction, and curi- 
 osities from various climes. Scott's antiquarian tastes 
 are inwrought with the structure of the building. 
 Here and there is a wall or pannel, richly carved from 
 the oak of Holyrood, and the old palace of Dunferm- 
 line. We were also shown a chimney-piece from 
 Melrose, and told that there was a roof from Roslin 
 Chapel, and a gate from Linlithgow. In the drawing- 
 room, dining-room, and breakfast-parlor, are many 
 pictures, and gifts from persons of distinction. There 
 are chairs presented by the Pope and by George the 
 Fourth, an ebony writing-desk, by George the Third, 
 and ornaments in Italian marble, by Lord Byron. 
 
 The magnificence of the library strikes every eye. 
 It is sixty feet, by fifty, and contains more than twenty 
 thousand volumes, beautifully arranged. It has a bold 
 projecting window, commanding a lovely view of 
 rural scenery and the classic Tweed. Shakspeare's 
 
118 
 
 ABBOTSFORD. 
 
 bust and his own, by Chantry, and a full-length por- 
 trait of his eldest son, in military costume, are among 
 the ornaments of this noble apartment. It is a pleas- 
 ing instance of the filial piety of this eldest and only 
 surviving son, that every article throughout the man- 
 sion remains, by his orders, in exactly the same situ- 
 ation in which it was left by his father. The books, 
 the antiquarian relics, all remain in their places, and 
 the last suit of clothes that he wore is preserved under 
 a glass case in his closet. 
 
 But it was in the smaller room, used as a study, 
 that one most feelingly realizes the truth, that 
 
 " Hushed is the harp, the minstrel gone ! " 
 
 It is lighted by only one window, and its furniture is 
 extremely simple. I think there was but one chair in 
 it, beside the one that he was accustomed to occupy. 
 Here was the working spot, where, dismissing all ex- 
 traneous objects, he bent his mind to its mighty tasks. 
 We were told that the lamp over the mantel-piece, by 
 which he wrote, he was in the habit of lighting him- 
 self. It was still partially filled with oil. But the eye 
 that drew light from it, and threw the mental ray to 
 distant regions, was closed in the darkness of the 
 grave. 
 
 It was in this apartment that, after his mind had re- 
 ceived its fatal shock from disease, he made his last 
 ineffectual effort to write. The sad scene can never 
 be as well described, as in the words of Lockhart. 
 
ABBOTSFORD. 119 
 
 " He repeated his desire so earnestly to be taken to 
 his own room, that we could not refuse. His daugh- 
 ters went into his study, opened his writing desk, and 
 laid paper and pens in the usual order. I then moved 
 him through the hall into the spot where he had 
 always been accustomed to work. When the chair 
 was placed at the desk, and he found himself in the 
 old position, he smiled and thanked us, and said, 
 ' Now give me my pen, and leave me for a little to 
 myself.' Sophia put the pen into his hand, and he 
 endeavoured to close his fingers upon it. But they 
 refused their office, and it dropped upon the paper. 
 He sunk back among his pillows, silent tears rolling 
 down his cheeks. But composing himself by and by, 
 he motioned to me to wheel him out of doors again. 
 After a little while he dropt into a slumber. On his 
 awaking, Laidlaw said to me, ' Sir Walter has had a 
 little repose.' ' No, Willie,' he replied, ' no repose 
 for Sir Walter but in the grave.' " 
 
 " Yet one there was, in humble cell, 
 One poor retainer, lone and old." 
 
 After walking about the grounds of Abbotsford, we 
 found in a small, smoky hut, the widow of Purdie, so 
 long Scott's forester, and confidential servant. She 
 told us stories of the Laird with zeal and pleasure. 
 Her wrinkled face lighted up as she spoke of the days 
 of his prosperity, when his house overflowed with 
 
120 ABBOTSFORD. 
 
 guests. She dwelt mournfully upon his kind farewell 
 at her door, when he left for his continental tour, and 
 the sad change in his appearance after his return. 
 We were the more pleased to listen to her tales, and 
 see her honest sympathy, from having just been an- 
 noyed by a different demeanor in the person appointed 
 to show the apartments at Abbotsford. We had been 
 forewarned of this by Johnny Bower, who told us that 
 we should be waited upon by an English woman, who 
 felt little interest in Sir Walter, whom she had never 
 seen, and who would try to hurry us through our re- 
 searches. " But ne'er ye mind thaut," said he, " staund 
 firm." Yet we did not find it quite so easy to 
 " staund firm" almost forcibly hastened as we were 
 from room to room, our questions answered in a most 
 laconic style, and the explanations that we desired 
 denied. The cause of this singular want of attention 
 seemed to be, in some measure, to be ready for another 
 party who appeared upon the grounds, and whose ex- 
 pected fee she was probably impatient to add to our 
 own. Yet it is desirable that a spot like Abbotsford, 
 one of the "Mecca-shrines" of Scotland, should be 
 exhibited to pilgrims, either by a native of its clime, 
 or at least by one not deficient in the common courtesy 
 of a guide. 
 
 A picture of Tom Purdie, the faithful servant, 
 hangs in the dining-room at Abbotsford, in the vicinity 
 of dukes and princes. And near the Abbey of Mel- 
 rose is his grave, and monument, with this inscription 
 from the pen of his beloved master. 
 
ABBOTSFORD. 121 
 
 In grateful remembrance 
 
 of the faithful and attached services 
 
 of twenty-two years, 
 
 and in sorrow for the loss of a humble, but sincere friend, 
 
 this stone was erected by 
 
 Sir Walter Scott, of Abbotsford. 
 
 Here lies the body of Thomas Purdie, 
 
 Wood-Forester, at Abbotsford, 
 
 who died 29th of October, 1829, aged sixty-two years. 
 
 "Thou hast been faithful over a few things ; 
 I will make thee ruler over many things." 
 
 Matt. xxv. 21. 
 
122 HUNTLEY-BTIRN. 
 
 HUNTLEY-BURN. 
 
 Imp of the CauldshiePs shaded tarn, 
 
 Whence hast thou such a sparkling eye? 
 
 Such pleasant, voice, thy tales to tell ? 
 Such foot of silver dancing by? 
 
 Like merry child of sombre sire, 
 
 Thou charm'st the glen with playful wile, 
 
 Till the dark boughs that o'er thee droop 
 Imbibe the magic of thy smile. 
 
 A favorite sprite thou wert of him, 
 
 Who left to Abbotsford a name ; 
 And to each zone of earth bequeathed 
 
 Some planted scion of .his fame. 
 
 Thou gav'st him gentle thoughts, at twilight dim, 
 And now to us dost bear remembrance sweet of him. 
 
 October 1, 1840. 
 
HUNTLEY-BURN. 123 
 
 Huntley-Burn is a romantic stream issuing from a 
 small lake, or tarn, on the estate at Abbotsford, and 
 running a course of the wildest beauty, during which 
 it falls over a steep bank into a natural basin, over- 
 hung with the mountain-ash. It passes through a spot 
 called the Rhymer's Glen, where, according to tra- 
 dition, " Tarn the Rhymour " used to hold intercourse 
 with the Fairy Queen. It is in the vicinity of some 
 of the plantings of Sir Walter Scott, and a place 
 where he loved to wander by himself and with his guests. 
 It was also still more endeared to him by the neighbor- 
 ing residence of the Ferguson family, with whom his 
 own were in habits of delightful intimacy. To their 
 hospitable roof he used to resort, when wearied with 
 an irruption of visitants, or that vapid flattery, with 
 which the heartless thought to compensate for their 
 intrusions on his valuable time, which he sometimes 
 complained to his friends was " pecked away by tea- 
 spoonfuls." 
 
 Mention is made of the death of one of the young 
 ladies of the family at Huntley-Burn, in a touching 
 tribute of Lockhart to his departed wife, in the third 
 volume of that interesting memorial of her father, 
 which his powerful pen has completed for posterity. 
 
 " She, whom I may now sadly record as, next to 
 Sir Walter himself, the chief ornament and delight of 
 all our social meetings, she, to whose love I owed my 
 own place in them, Scott's eldest daughter, the one 
 of all his children, who in countenance, mind, and 
 
124 
 
 HUNTLEY-BURN. 
 
 manners most resembled him, and who indeed was 
 as like him in all things, as a gentle, innocent woman 
 can ever be to a great man, deeply tried and skilled in 
 the struggles and perplexities of active life, she too 
 is no more ; and the very hour that saw her laid in 
 her grave, her dearest friend, Margaret Ferguson, 
 breathed her last also." 
 
SHEEP AMONG THE CHEVIOTS. 125 
 
 SHEEP AMONG THE CHEVIOTS. 
 
 Graze on, graze on, there comes no sound 
 
 Of border-warfare here, 
 No slogan-cry of gathering clan, 
 
 No battle-axe, or spear, 
 No belted knight in armor bright, 
 
 With glance of kindled ire, 
 Doth change the sports of Chevy-Chase 
 
 To conflict stern and dire. 
 
 Ye wist not that ye press the spot, 
 
 Where Percy held his way 
 Across the marches, in his pride, 
 
 The " chiefest harts to slay ; " 
 And where the stout Earl Douglas rode 
 
 Upon his milk-white steed, 
 With " fifteen hundred Scottish spears," 
 
 To stay the invaders' deed. 
 
126 SHEEP AMONG THE CHEVIOTS. 
 
 Ye wist not, that ye press the spot 
 
 Where, with his eagle eye, 
 King James, and all his gallant train, 
 
 To Flodden-field swept by. 
 The queen was weeping in her bower, 
 
 Amid her maids that day, 
 And on her cradled nursling's face 
 
 Those tears like pearl-drops lay. 
 
 For madly 'gainst her native realm 
 
 Her royal husband went, 
 And led his flower of chivalry 
 
 As to a tournament ; 
 He led them on, in power and pride, 
 
 But ere the fray was o'er, 
 They on the blood-stained heather slept, 
 
 And he returned no more. 
 
 Graze on, graze on, there 's many a rill 
 
 Bright sparkling through the glade, 
 Where you may freely slake your thirst, 
 
 With none to make afraid. 
 There 's many a wandering stream that flows 
 
 From Cheviot's terraced side, 
 Yet not one drop of warrior's gore 
 
 Distains its crystal tide. 
 
SHEEP AMONG THE CHEVIOTS. 127 
 
 For Scotia from her hills hath come, 
 
 And Albion o'er the Tweed, 
 To give the mountain breeze the feuds 
 
 That made their noblest bleed ; 
 And like two friends, around whose hearts 
 
 Some dire estrangement run, 
 Love all the better for the past, 
 
 And sit them down as one. 
 
 Friday, Oct. 2, 1340. 
 
 Among the features of Scottish scenery, which after 
 crossing the Tweed begin to reveal themselves, are 
 the little circular sheep-cotes at the base of the bare 
 hills. The different races of sheep, and their com- 
 parative merits, are subjects of earnest discussion 
 among the northern farmers. In some regions of the 
 Cheviots the flocks have been noted for the produc- 
 tiveness of their fleece. 
 
 After the removal of Scott to his rural residence at 
 Ashestiel, in writing on this subject he says, " for 
 more than a month my head has been fairly tenanted 
 by ideas, neither literary nor poetical. Long sheep 
 and short sheep, and such kind of matters, have made 
 a perfect sheepfold of my understanding." The Et- 
 trick shepherd relates an apposite anecdote of one of 
 his interviews with him in 1801. "During the soci- 
 ality of the evening, the discourse ran much on the 
 different breeds of sheep. The original black-faced 
 Forest breed being always called the short sheep, and the 
 
128 SHEEP AMONG THE CHEVIOTS. 
 
 Cheviot race the long sheep, disputes at that period ran 
 very high about the practicable profits of each. Scott, 
 who had come into our remote district only to collect 
 fragments of legendary lore, was bored with everlasting 
 discussion about long and short sheep. At length, put- 
 ting on a serious, calculating face, he asked Mr. Wal- 
 ter Bryden ' How long must a sheep actually measure, 
 to come under the denomination of a long sheep 1 ' 
 He, not perceiving the quiz, fell to answer with great 
 simplicity, 'It's the woo' (wool) it's the woo' that 
 makes the difference. The lang sheep ha'e the short 
 woo', and the short sheep ha'e the lang woo' ; and 
 these are only jist kind o' names we gie' em.' Scott 
 found it impossible to preserve his gravity, and this 
 incident is wrought into his story of the ' Black 
 Dwarf.' " 
 
THE GIPSY MOTHER. 129 
 
 THE GIPSY MOTHER. 
 
 Gipsy, see, with fading light, 
 How the camp-fire blazes bright, 
 Where thy roving people steal 
 Gladly to their evening meal. 
 Tawny urchins, torn and bare, 
 And the wrinkled crone is there 
 Who pretends with scowling eye 
 Into fate's decrees to pry, 
 And the credulous to show 
 Golden fortunes, free from woe. 
 
 Why beneath the hedge-row lone, 
 Sit'st thou on that broken stone, 
 Heedless of the whoop and call 
 To their merry festival ? 
 Masses rich of raven hair 
 Curtain o'er thy forehead rare, 
 Thou 'It be missed amid their glee, 
 Wherefore stay'st thou 1 
 Ah ! I see 
 On a babe thy dark eye resting, 
 
130 THE GIPSY MOTHER. 
 
 Closely in thy bosom nesting, 
 And 't is sweeter far I know, 
 Than at proudest feast to glow, 
 Full contentment to dispense 
 Thus to helpless innocence. 
 
 Doth the presence of thy child 
 Make thy flashing glance so mild? 
 Thou, who with thy wandering race 
 Reared mid tricks and follies base, 
 Ne'er hast seen a heavenly ray 
 Guiding toward the better way ? 
 Feel'st thou now some latent thrill, 
 Sorrowing o'er a life of ill 1 
 Some incitement pure and good, 
 Dim, and faintly understood? 
 Stranger ! 't is the prompting high 
 Of a mother's ministry, 
 Yield to that transforming love, 
 Let it lead thy soul above. 
 
 Dost thou muse with downcast eye 
 On thine infant's destiny ? 
 Alien birth, and comrades vile, 
 Harsh control, or hateful wile, 
 Till thy prescient heart forlorn 
 Sickens at its lot of scorn ? 
 One there is, to whom is known 
 All a mother's secret moan, 
 
THE GIPSY MOTHER. 131 
 
 He, who heard the bitter sigh 
 Of that lone one's agony, 
 When the water-drop was spent, 
 And no spreading branch or tent 
 Sheltered from the burning sky, 
 Where she laid her son to die, 
 Bade an angel near her stand, 
 
 And a fountain's silver track 
 Murmuring mid the desert sand 
 
 Call from death her darling back. 
 Oh ! to Him who still doth deign 
 Pity for their outcast pain, 
 Whom proud man with haughty eye 
 Scarce regards, and passes by ; 
 Who amid the tempest-shock 
 Roots the wild vine on the rock, 
 And protects the bud to bless 
 The untrodden wilderness, 
 Lift thine eye with tear-drops dim, 
 Cast thy bosom's fear on Him. 
 He who heeds the ravens' cry 
 In their hopeless misery, 
 Deigns to feed them when they pine, 
 Cares he not for thee and thine? 
 
 Gipsy Mother ! lone and drear, 
 Sad am I to leave thee here, 
 For the strong and sacred tie 
 Of thy young maternity 
 
132 THE GIPSY MOTHER. 
 
 Links thee unto all who share 
 In its pleasures or its care, 
 All who on their yearning breast 
 Lull the nursling to its rest, 
 And though poor and low thou art, 
 Makes thee sister in their heart. 
 Gipsy Mother ! strangely fair, 
 God be with thee in thy care. 
 
 Newcastle upon Tyne, 
 October 3, 1840. 
 
 Our approach to Newcastle was in the evening. 
 Lights from an encampment of gipsies, nickered and 
 twinkled like the torch of the glow-worm, while here 
 and there a spot of more sustained brilliance revealed 
 preparations for their nightly repast. A few children, 
 with wild elf-locks, glided about, and suddenly disap- 
 peared. Occasionally, among the young females, 
 may be seen traces of comeliness, and of the grace 
 that Nature teaches. 
 
 The number of this singular people is not great in 
 England, though it is difficult correctly to compute 
 it, from their roving and scarcely tangible modes of 
 existence. The men are sometimes seen vigorously 
 laboring, among the hay-makers and hop-gatherers, 
 in the counties of Surrey and Kent. 
 
 Henry the Eighth, during whose reign the gipsies 
 first appeared in Great Britain, enacted severe laws 
 against them as vagrants, which were enforced by 
 
THE GIPSY MOTHER. 133 
 
 Elizabeth and Anne. In Scotland, they were in early 
 times treated with more mildness, and the gude wife, 
 who gave them a night's hospitality, was often pleased 
 to find that they remembered her afterwards by some 
 slight gift, perhaps a horn spoon for her child. In the 
 construction of this article, and of simple baskets, 
 they are skilful, and likewise officiate as tinkers and 
 rude musicians. Pilfering and palmistry are said to 
 be indigenous among them ; yet, like our aboriginal 
 Americans, they have some strong traits of character, 
 susceptibilities both of revenge and of gratitude. 
 Though their race have been for ages regarded with 
 contempt or indifference, there have always been in- 
 dividuals to extend to them pity or kindness, and 
 within the last twenty or thirty years, a few Christian 
 philanthropists have been desirous to enlighten their 
 ignorance, and ameliorate their condition. Among 
 these, Mr. Hoyland, of the Society of Friends, has 
 been persevering in this mission of mercy. He has 
 visited their encampments, and sought to gain influ- 
 ence over them for their good. A grey-haired woman 
 of more than eighty years of age told him she had 
 many children, and nearly fifty grandchildren, not one 
 of whom had ever been taught to read. He embodied 
 the result of his observations in a volume published 
 in 1816, which contains much interesting information, 
 and is itself a monument of that true benevolence, 
 which in the homeless wanderers among the highways 
 
134 THE GIPSY MOTHER. 
 
 and hedges, recognises the possessors of an immortal 
 soul. 
 
 I mentioned that our entrance into Newcastle upon 
 Tyne was under the shadow of evening. Day re- 
 vealed it to be a busy and thriving place, many parts 
 of it exceedingly well-built, though a strong contrast 
 is visible between the new and old portions of the 
 town. An elegant bridge connects it with Gateshead. 
 The churches of All Saints and St. Nicholas are 
 imposing structures ; and the spire of the last is lofty 
 and beautiful. 
 
 Newcastle is celebrated for the excellence of its 
 coal. Its collieries are extensively wrought, and the 
 boats that cover the Tyne are loaded with it. We 
 had an opportunity of observing its highly combusti- 
 ble nature. The morning after our arrival at the 
 hotel, the atmosphere being rather chill, we ordered a 
 fire in our parlor, and the servant by plunging a heated 
 poker into a large, well-filled grate, ignited it immedi- 
 ately. The evening landscape was lighted by other 
 fires than those of the gipsy encampment, and we 
 were told they were put in action, to burn the smaller 
 and unsaleable fragments of bituminous coal into 
 charcoal. 
 
 Newcastle was a Roman station, and the remains 
 of the wall built as a protection against the Scots and 
 Picts by the Emperors of Rome, on abandoning the 
 island, are still plainly discernible. 
 
york minster; 135 
 
 YORK MINSTER. 
 
 I stood within a Minster of old time, 
 Ornate and mighty. Like a mount it reared 
 Its massy front, with pinnacle and tower, 
 Augustly beautiful. The morning sun 
 Through noblest windows of refulgent stain 
 Mullioned, and wrought with leafy tracery, 
 Threw o'er the pavement many a gorgeous group 
 Of cherubim and seraphim and saint, 
 And long robed patriarch, kneeling low in prayer, 
 While as his golden finger changed the ray, 
 Fresh floods of brilliance poured on all around. 
 
 — O'er the long vista the delighted eye 
 Bewildered roved, transept, and nave, and choir, 
 And screen elaborate, and column proud, 
 
 And vaulted roof that seemed another sky. 
 
 — Methinks I hear a murmur, that 't is vain 
 To note mine etchings of an older world, 
 Since all their vague impressions fall as short 
 Of abbey or cathedral, as the wing 
 
 Of the dull beetle, that would scale their heights. 
 
136 YORK MINSTER. 
 
 — It may be so. I 'm sure 't is loss of time, 
 
 For me to speak of pediment and tower, 
 
 Saxon or Norman, and debate with warmth, 
 
 Whether the chevrar-work, and foliage knots 
 
 Are of the third or second Gothic school ; 
 
 The wise man knows, perchance, the school-boy too. 
 
 But poets' cobweb line hath ever failed 
 
 To measure these aright, and set them forth 
 
 With Euclid's skill. Go see them for yourselves. 
 
 Yet can we people every vacant niche, 
 
 And mend the headless statue, and restore 
 
 The rusted relics of a buried age, 
 
 And spread the velvet pall the moth did eat 
 
 All fresh and lustrous o'er the ancient dead. 
 
 So be ye patient with us, and not ask 
 
 The admeasurement of transept or of nave, 
 
 But let us perch like bird, where'er we choose, 
 
 And weave our fleeting song, as best we may. 
 
 Fain would I tell you, what a world of sound 
 
 Came from that pealing organ, when its soul 
 
 Mixed with the chanter's breath bade arch and aisle 
 
 Re-echo with celestial melody. 
 
 Its mighty tide bore off the weeds of care 
 
 And sands of vanity, and made the words, 
 
 Such common words as man doth speak to man, 
 
 All tame and trifling to the immortal soul. 
 
 I would not say devotion may not be 
 
 As heartfelt, in the humblest village church 
 
 That flecks the green ; but yet, it seemeth fit, 
 
YORK MINSTER. 137 
 
 That those, who thus from age to age have been 
 Unresting heralds of the Eternal Name, 
 Should deck themselves in princely garniture, 
 As Heaven's ambassadors. 
 
 To Him who bade 
 The broad-winged cherubs beautify the Ark 
 That taught His worship to the wilderness, 
 And mitred Aaron stand in priestly robes, 
 And Zion's temple wear its crown of rays, 
 Like a king's daughter, thou majestic pile, 
 Dost show thy reverence by thy glorious garb, 
 And with a lofty tone require of man 
 Unceasingly that incense of the heart, 
 Which he doth owe to God. 
 
 And when he drops 
 Thy lesson in the grave, and fades away, 
 With what unwrinkled patience dost thou teach 
 Each new-born race Jehovah's awful name, 
 And press upon their infant lips His praise. 
 — Again we came, and on the Sabbath-day, 
 And marked amid the throng of worshippers 
 A poor old man, bent low with years of toil. 
 His garb was humble, and his lowly seat 
 Fast by the reader in the sacred desk, 
 Because, methought, his ear was dull to sound. 
 It seemed as if his travel had been sore, 
 Along the barren wilds of poverty, 
 But yet that mid its flint-stones he had found 
 That pearl of price, which the rich merchantman 
 
138 YORK MINSTER. 
 
 Too oft o'erlooketh on his prosperous way. 
 
 Meekly he bowed, nor cast a wandering glance 
 
 Toward kingly scutcheon, or emblazoned arms 
 
 Of prince and peer, but listened earnestly, 
 
 As for his life, to what the King of kings 
 
 Commanded or forbade. When solemnly 
 
 The deep responsive litany invoked 
 
 Aid and deliverance by the agony 
 
 And cross of Christ, his trembling hands he raised 
 
 Horny, and brown with labor, while a tear 
 
 Crept slowly down its furrowed path. 
 
 Old Man ! 
 Thou hast within thee that which shall survive 
 This temple's wreck, and if aright I read 
 Our Master's spirit in thy moistened eye, 
 That which shall wear a crown, when earthly thrones 
 Have name no more. 
 
 And then we knelt us down 
 Around the altar, in that solemn feast 
 Which Jesus in his dark betrayal-night 
 Enjoined on his disciples. There we took 
 The broken bread and cup, remembering Him 
 In all his lowliness, in all his love, 
 Who sought the straying sheep. 
 
 So lift thy crook, 
 Shepherd Divine ! that we may follow thee 
 Where'er thou will'st to lead, nor miss thy fold, 
 When the slant beams of life's declining day 
 Call home the wanderers to eternal rest. 
 
 York, Monday, October 5, 1840. 
 
YORK MINSTER. 139 
 
 It seems impossible to be disappointed in York 
 Minster, however high may have been previous expec- 
 tations. When you first gain a view of this mountain 
 of ecclesiastical architecture, or at entering cast your 
 eye through a vista of 524 feet, or from the tesselated 
 marble pavement gaze through column and arch up to 
 the ribbed and fretted dome, 99 feet above you, or 
 catch the light of a thousand wreathed and trembling 
 rainbows, through gloriously refulgent windows, you 
 are lost in wonder and astonishment. Its different 
 parts, nave, transept, choir, chapter-house, and crypt, 
 with the rich decorations of screen, statue, tracery, 
 and monument, where sleep the illustrious dead, re- 
 quire many surveys, and repay all with the fulness of 
 admiration. The original erection on this site is of 
 geat antiquity, and the present edifice, though more 
 than one hundred and fifty years in building, displays, 
 amid variety of taste and style, great unity of design. 
 It has loftily withstood the attacks of time and the 
 depredations of war, but some portions have been 
 considerably injured by recent conflagration, and are 
 now in the process of repair. The magnificent swell 
 of the organ, and the majesty and sweetness of the 
 chants, especially during the Sabbath's worship, seem- 
 ed unearthly. Twice on every week-day the service 
 of prayer and praise ascends from this venerable ca- 
 thedral, and it is a touching thought, that its great heart 
 of stone keeps alive that incense to Jehovah, which too 
 
140 YORK MINSTER. 
 
 often grows dim and cold on the altar of the living 
 soul. 
 
 York is situated in a rich vale, of a peninsular form, 
 between the rivers Ouse and Fosse, and equi-distant 
 from the capital cities of Scotland and England. It 
 is fortified, and tradition says, that Agricola planned 
 and labored upon its walls. However this may be, it 
 was early distinguished by the Romans, during their 
 dynasty in Britain. The Emperor Adrian made it his 
 residence as early as the year 134, and it was the 
 camp, the court, and the sepulchre of Severus. Here, 
 about 272, Constantine the Great was born, and here 
 in the imperial palace his son Constantius died. The 
 footsteps of old Rome upon this spot are attested by 
 altars, inscriptions, seals, and sepulchral vessels, which 
 have been from age to age exhumed. Not more than 
 thirty years since, some workmen, in digging the foun- 
 dation of a house, struck about four feet below the 
 surface on a vault of stone, strongly arched with Ro- 
 man bricks. It contained a coffin, enclosing a slender 
 human skeleton, with the teeth entire, supposed to be 
 a female of rank, who had lain there at least one thou- 
 sand four hundred years. Near her head was a small 
 glass lachrymatory, and not far from her tomb was 
 found an urn containing ashes and calcined bones of 
 another body. Still more recently, the remains of a 
 tesselated pavement, with other relics, have been found 
 and presented to the Yorkshire Philosophical Society. 
 Our own antiquarian tastes were easily and simply 
 
YORK MINSTER. 141 
 
 gratified, by finding in various repositories during our 
 walks slight utensils, such as boxes, vases, inkstands, 
 and candlesticks, wrought and neatly polished from 
 the charred beams of the venerable Minster. 
 
 It is impossible to explore the city of York, without 
 reverting to the scenery of the past, which History 
 has so indelibly traced, as almost to give it existence 
 among the objects that surround us. Imagination re- 
 kindles on the neighboring hill the fires of the funeral 
 pile of Severus, or recalls the tumult of the sanguinary 
 battles of Towton and Marston Moor, fought in the 
 vicinity, one of which terminated the bitter wars of 
 the Roses, and the other, through the imprudence of 
 Prince Rupert, crushed the hopes of the Royalists. 
 
 We fancy that we listen to the chimes of the first 
 Christmas, as it was here celebrated by Prince Arthur, 
 or gather traits of its more splendid observance, under 
 Henry the Third or Edward the Second, from the 
 pages of the old Chroniclers. Still following the an- 
 nals of war, we perceive the blood of Scot, Pict, and 
 Dane, Roman, Saxon, and Norman, mingling beneath 
 these walls. Sack and siege darken the picture. 
 William the Conqueror, flushed with success and 
 domination, held his armies for six months before 
 these walls, until famine compelled capitulation, and 
 then satiated his vengeful cruelty by the slaughter of 
 the nobility and gentry, and the devastation of the 
 whole country between York and Durham. 
 
 In the wars under Charles the First, a siege by the 
 
142 YORK MINSTER. 
 
 parliamentary forces was endured for several months, 
 which some of the present inhabitants are fond of say- 
 ing would have been longer withstood, had not Fair- 
 fax pointed a battery of cannon against the venerable 
 Cathedral, and threatened to destroy that glory of 
 their ancestors. 
 
 We may now hope with regard to York, that the 
 days of its warfare and mourning are ended, and the 
 traveller is gratified to find the turmoil of the battle- 
 field exchanged for the Christian cares of the Hos- 
 pital, the Dispensary, the Retreat for the Insane, the 
 Institution for the education of the Blind, the Charity 
 Schools, and the twenty parish churches that diversify 
 its bounds. 
 
BIRMINGHAM AND SHEFFIELD. J 43 
 
 BIRMINGHAM AND SHEFFIELD. 
 
 'T is something to be called 
 The " toyshop of a continent," by one 
 Whose voice was fame. And yet a name like this 
 Hath not been lightly earned. Hard hammerings 
 And fierce ore-meltings, mid a heat that threats 
 To vitrify the stones, have wrought it out, 
 On the world's anvil. 
 
 Ponderous enginery, 
 And sparkling smithies, and a pallid throng, 
 Who toil, and drink, and die, do service here, 
 And countless are the forms, their force creates, 
 From the dire weapon sworn to deeds of blood, 
 That sweeps with sharp report man's life away, 
 To the slight box, from whence the spinster takes 
 Her creature-comfort, or the slighter orb 
 Of treble-gilt, which the pleased school-boy finds 
 On his new suit, counting the shining rows 
 With latent vanity. 
 
 Well pleased I marked 
 This strange creativeness, because I knew 
 That Birmingham had stretched an iron hand 
 
144 BIRMINGHAM AND SHEFFIELD. 
 
 Across the Atlantic wave, and grappled close 
 
 My country in that league of amity, 
 
 Which commerce loves. And whatsoe'er shall bind 
 
 Those lands in unity, is dear to me, 
 
 Whether the links be metal, or the threads 
 
 Of silky filament by genius thrown 
 
 From clime to clime, or those which science knits 
 
 In firmer mesh, as erst the sorceress wove 
 
 The strong man's locks. 
 
 Here too were fabrics rich 
 That taste might covet, cabinet and screen, 
 Table and tray, with pearly shell inlaid, 
 And bright with tints of landscape or of flower. 
 Here glass in chrystal elegance essays 
 To emulate the diamond, and we saw 
 The flaming fount from whence its glories came, 
 And how the glowing cylinder expands 
 Into those broad and polished plates, that deck 
 The abodes of princes. 
 
 Many a curious thing 
 Was shown us too at Sheffield, ornaments, 
 And thousand-bladed knives, and fairy tools 
 For ladies fingers, when the thread they lead 
 Through finest lawn ; and silver richly chased, 
 To make the festal board so beautiful, 
 That unawares the tempted matron's hand 
 Invades her husband's purse. 
 
 But as for me, 
 Though the whole art was patiently explained, 
 
BIRMINGHAM AND SHEFFIELD. 145 
 
 From the first piling of the earthy ore, 
 
 In its dark ovens, to its pouring forth 
 
 With brilliant scintillations, in the form 
 
 Of liquid steel ; or its last lustrous face, 
 
 And finest net-work ; yet I 'm fain to say 
 
 The manufacturing interest would find 
 
 In me a poor interpreter. I doubt 
 
 My own capacity to comprehend 
 
 Such transmutations, and confess with shame 
 
 Their processes do strike my simple mind 
 
 Like necromancy. And I felt no joy 
 
 Among the crucibles and cutlery, 
 
 Compared to that, which on the breezy heights 
 
 Met me at every change, or mid the walks 
 
 Of the botanic garden, freshly sprang 
 
 From every flower. 
 
 There was a quiet lodge 
 From whence peered forth, as guardian of the place, 
 A mighty dog of true St. Bernard's breed, 
 With such a forehead as phrenologists 
 Delight to analyze, and in his port 
 The lamb and lion mixed ; yet all unlike 
 That classic Cerberus, who gnashed and growled 
 At the Hesperides, and pleased to change 
 His slippery footing mid the Alpine rocks, 
 And midnight conflicts with the avalanche, 
 To doze among the birds who nestle here, 
 All prodigal of song. 
 
 But Sheffield, sure, 
 10 
 
146 BIRMINGHAM AND SHEFFIELD. 
 
 Hath more to boast, than plants whose greenness fades, 
 
 Or riches of the mine. She pointed out, 
 
 With ready hand and graceful warmth of heart, 
 
 The sweet Moravian poet, he who saw 
 
 Through Fancy's glass the " World before the Flood," 
 
 And told its doings to our grosser ear. 
 
 He oft hath given Devotion's lip the words 
 
 She sought but could not find ; and sure, high praise 
 
 Is due to him, who steadily devotes 
 
 His heaven-given talents to their highest end, 
 
 And ne'er disjoins them from the Maker's praise. 
 
 Such meed is thine, Montgomery, meek in heart, 
 
 And full of Christian love. 
 
 We said farewell 
 Reluctantly to those, who like tried friends, 
 Though newly seen, had marked each fleeting hour 
 With deeds of kindness, and as through the scenes 
 Of glorious beauty, hill and dale and tower, 
 Swept on our light post-chaise, of them we spake 
 Such words as glowing gratitude inspires. 
 
 There stood a cottage, near a spreading moor, 
 
 Just where its heathery blackness melted down 
 
 Into a mellower hue. Fast by its side 
 
 Nestled the wheat-stock, firmly bound and shaped 
 
 Even like another roof-tree, witnessing 
 
 Fair harvest and good husbandry. Some sheep 
 
 Roamed eastwards o'er the common, nibbling close 
 
 The scanty blade, while toward the setting sun 
 
BIRMINGHAM AND SHEFFIELD. 147 
 
 A hillock stretched overshadowed by a growth 
 
 Of newly-planted trees. 'T would seem the abode 
 
 Of rural plenty and content. Yet here 
 
 A desolate sorrow dwelt, such as doth wring 
 
 Plain honest hearts, when what had long been twined 
 
 With every fibre is dissected out. 
 
 Beneath the shelter of those lowly eaves 
 An only daughter made the parents glad 
 With her unfolding beauties. Day by day 
 She gathered sweetness on her lonely stem, 
 The lily of the moorlands. They, with thoughts 
 Upon their humble tasks, how best to save 
 Their little gains, or make that little more, 
 Scarce knew that she was beautiful ; yet felt 
 Strange thrall upon their spirits when she spoke 
 So musical, or from some storied page 
 Beguiled their evening hour. 
 
 And when the sire 
 Descanted long, as farmers sometimes will, 
 Upon the promise of his crops, and how 
 The neighbors envied that his corn should be 
 Higher than theirs, and how the man, who hoped 
 Surely to thrive, must leave his bed betimes, 
 Or of her golden cheese the mother told, 
 She with a filial and serene regard 
 Would seem to listen, her young heart away 
 Mid other things. 
 
 For in her lonely room, 
 
148 BIRMINGHAM AND SHEFFIELD. 
 
 She had companions that they knew not of, 
 Books that reveal the sources of the soul, 
 Deep meditations, high imaginings, 
 And ofttimes, when the cottage lamp was out, 
 She sat communing with them, while the moon 
 Looked through her narrow casement fitfully. 
 Hence grew her brow so spiritual, and her cheek 
 Pale with the purity of thought, that gleamed 
 Around her from above. 
 
 The buxom youth, 
 Nursed at the ploughshare, wondering eyed her charms, 
 Or of her aspen gracefulness of form 
 Spoke slightingly. Yet when they saw the fields 
 Her father tilled well clad with ripening grain, 
 And knew he had no other heir beside, 
 They, with unwonted wealth of Sunday clothes, 
 And huge, red nosegays flaunting in their hands, 
 Were fain to woo her. And they marvelled much 
 How the sweet fairy, with such quiet air 
 Of mild indifference, and with truthful words 
 Kind, yet determinate, withdrew herself 
 To chosen solitude, intent to keep 
 A maiden's freedom. 
 
 But in lonely walks, 
 What time the early violets richly blent 
 Their trembling colors with the vernal green, 
 A student boy, who dwelt among the hills, 
 Taught her of love. There rose an ancient tree, 
 The glory of their rustic garden's bound, 
 
BIRMINGHAM AND SHEFFIELD. 149 
 
 Around whose rough circumference of trunk 
 A garden seat was wreathed ; and there they sat, 
 Watching gray-vested twilight, as she bore 
 Such gifts of tender, and half-uttered thought 
 As lovers prize. When the thin-blossomed furze 
 Gave out its autumn sweetness, and the walls 
 Of that low cot with the red-berried ash 
 Kindled in pride, they parted ; he to toil 
 Amid his college tasks, and she to weep. 
 
 — The precious scrolls, that with his ardent heart 
 So faithfully were tinged, unceasing sought 
 
 Her hand, and o'er their varied lines to pore 
 Amid his absence, was her chief delight. 
 
 — At length they came not. She with sleepless eye, 
 And lip that every morn more bloodless grew, 
 Demanded them in vain. And then the tongue 
 
 Of a hoarse gossip told her, he was dead ; 
 Drowned in the deep, and dead. 
 
 Her young heart died 
 Away at those dread sounds. Her upraised eye 
 Grew large, and wild, and never closed again. 
 " Hark, hark ! he calleth, I must hence away," 
 She murmured oft, but faint and fainter still, 
 Nor other word she spake. 
 
 And so she died. 
 
 And now that lonely cottage on the moor 
 Hath no sweet visitant of earthly hope, 
 
150 BIRMINGHAM AND SHEFFIELD. 
 
 To cheer its toiling inmates. Habit-led, 
 
 They sow, and reap, and spread the daily board, 
 
 And steep their bread in tears. 
 
 God grant them grace 
 To take this chastisement, like those who win 
 A more enduring mansion, from the blast 
 That leaveth house and home so desolate. 
 
 Tuesday, Oct. 6, 1840. 
 
 Among the manufactories of Birmingham, which 
 our limited time allowed us to examine, we were 
 much pleased with an extensive one of plate glass, in 
 the possession of the Messieurs Chance. There we had 
 politely explained to us, by the proprietors, the process 
 of blowing that beautiful material, first into a cylin- 
 drical form, and afterwards giving it with emory the 
 last exquisite polish. We visited the manufactures of 
 bronze and silver, and the repository for that of 
 papier-mache , and could scarcely believe that those 
 delicate ornamental articles, trays, tables, cabinets, 
 etc., inlaid with pearl, and radiant with the richest 
 hues of the pencil, sprang from a rude fabric of coarse, 
 brown pasteboard. 
 
 We were pleased to see the spacious town-hall, one 
 of the lions of Birmingham, brilliantly lighted, and 
 filled with an immense audience, assembled to ad- 
 vance the cause of missions, and listening to eloquent 
 addresses from its advocates, and from some who 
 
BIRMINGHAM AND SHEFFIELD. 151 
 
 had been sent forth, as laborers among the benighted 
 heathen in distant zones. 
 
 In Sheffield, we were taken by the Messieurs San- 
 derson, to their celebrated establishment for making 
 and refining steel, and saw it poured in its liquid state, 
 from flame-hot crucibles, with the most brilliant scin- 
 tillations. Through their attention we were also 
 shown the various processes of silver-plating ; and also 
 the fair botanic garden and conservatory, which af- 
 forded sensible relief from the heat and mystery of 
 metallic exhibitions. Afterwards we visited the show- 
 rooms of Rogers and Sons, and among their al- 
 most endless variety of cutlery, silver, and ivory, saw 
 tinder a glass-case the knife with 1838 blades, so often 
 marvelled at by travellers. The prospects from the 
 heights around Sheffield are variegated and beauti- 
 ful. Yet more interesting than any combination of 
 hill and dale, inasmuch as mind must ever hold 
 superiority over matter, was an interview with the 
 poet Montgomery, who came to call on us at our 
 hotel. He is small of stature, with an amiable coun- 
 tenance, and agreeable, gentlemanly manners. His 
 conversation is unassuming, though occasionally en- 
 livened by a vein of pleasantry. Some of the company 
 happening to remark, that they were not aware of his 
 having been born in Scotland, he replied that he 
 had left it in his early years, adding with naivete, 
 " You know Dr. Johnson has said, there is hope of a 
 Scotchman if you catch him young." 
 
152 BIRMINGHAM AND SHEFFIELD. 
 
 We left Birmingham and Sheffield with warm feel- 
 ings of gratitude for the kind attentions which had 
 marked our stay in both places, and which will always 
 mingle with our recollections of their scenery. 
 
CHATSWORTH AND HADDON HALL. 153 
 
 CHATSWORTH AND HADDON HALL. 
 
 I 've heard the humid skies did ever weep 
 In merry England, and a blink of joy 
 From their blue eyes was like a pearl of price. 
 Mine own indeed are sunnier, yet at times 
 There comes a day so exquisitely fair, 
 That with its radiance and its rarity 
 It makes the senses giddy. 
 
 Such an one 
 Illumined Chatsworth, when we saw it first, 
 Set like a gem against the hanging woods 
 That formed its background. Herds of graceful deer, 
 Pampered perchance until they half forget 
 Their native fleetness, o'er the ample parks 
 Roamed at their pleasure. From the tower that crests 
 The eastern hill, a floating banner swayed 
 With the light breezes, while a drooping Ash, 
 Of foliage rich, stood lonely near the gates, 
 Like the presiding genius of the place, 
 Unique and beautiful. Their silver jet 
 The sparkling fountains o'er the freshened lawns 
 
154 CHATSWORTH AND HADDON HALL 
 
 Threw fitfully, and gleaming here and there, 
 The tenant-statues with their marble life 
 Peopled the shades. 
 
 But wondering most we marked 
 A princely labyrinth of plants and flowers, 
 All palace-lodged and breathing forth their sweets 
 On an undying summer's balmy breast. 
 And well might wealth expend itself for you, 
 Flowers, glorious flowers ! that dwelt in Eden's 
 
 bound, 
 Yet sinned not, fell not, and whose silent speech 
 Is of a better Paradise, where ye, 
 Catching the essence of the deathless soul, 
 Shall never fade. 
 
 Throughout the noble pile 
 Pictures and spars and vases, and the show 
 Of alabaster, porphyry, and gold, 
 Blend with a lavishness, that ne'er offends 
 The eye of taste. Had I the skill to tell 
 Featly of halls, that like Arabia's dream 
 O'erflow with all that Fancy can devise, 
 To strike, to charm, to dazzle, and delight, 
 Here were full scope. But I have dwelt too long 
 Within a simple forest-land, to know 
 The fitting terms for such magnificence. 
 So, from the painted ceilings, and the light 
 Of costly mirrors, 't was relief to seek 
 The shaded gallery of sculptured forms, 
 And taste the luxury of musing thought. 
 
CHATSWORTH AND IIADDON HALL. 155 
 
 Spin on, most beautiful. 
 
 There 's none to mock 
 Thy humble labors here. Gay Cupid clasps 
 The unscathed butterfly, sweet Hebe smiles, 
 Latona, mid her children, cries to Jove, 
 Achilles mourns his wound, Endymion sleeps, 
 The Mother of Napoleon wears the grace 
 Canova gave, and proud Borghesa rears 
 Her head in majesty, yet none despise 
 Thy lowly toil. 
 
 Even thus it was of old, 
 That woman's hand, amid the elements 
 Of patient industry and household good, 
 Reproachless wrought, twining the slender thread 
 From the slight distaff, or in skilful loom 
 Weaving rich tissues, or with varied tints 
 Of bright embroidery, pleased to decorate 
 The mantle of her lord. And it was well; 
 For in such sheltered and congenial sphere 
 Content with duty dwelt. 
 
 Yet few there were, 
 Sweet Filatrice, who in their homely task 
 Found such retreat, or such good company, 
 To elevate their toils. And we, who roam 
 Mid all this grand enchantment, proud saloon, 
 And solemn chapel, with its voice of God, 
 Or lose ourselves amid the wildering maze 
 Of plants and buds and blossoms, uttering forth 
 Mute eloquence to Him, are pleased to lay 
 
156 CHASTWORTH AND HADDON HALL. 
 
 Our slight memorial at thy snowy feet. 
 Next, on to Haddon Hall. The postern low, 
 And threshold, worn with tread of many feet, 
 Receive us silently. How grim and grey 
 Yon tall, steep fortalice above us towers ! 
 Its narrow apertures, like arrow-slits, 
 Jealous of heaven's sweet air, its dreary rooms 
 Floored with rough stones, its uncouth passages 
 Cut in thick walls, bespeak those iron times 
 Of despotism, when o'er the mountain-surge 
 Rode the fierce sea-king, and the robber hedged 
 The chieftain in his moat. 
 
 A freer style 
 Of architecture clearly, as a chart, 
 Defines the isthmus of that middle state, 
 After the Conquest, when the Saxon kernes 
 With their elf-locks receded. Coarsely mixed 
 Norman with Gothic, stretch the low-browed halls, 
 Their open rafters brown with curling smoke. 
 Hearth-stone and larder, as for giant race, 
 Tell of rude, festal doings, when in state 
 The stalwart baron, seated on the dais, 
 Serf and retainer lowlier ranged around, 
 Gave hospitality at Christmas-tide, 
 The roasted ox, the boar, with holly crowned, 
 And mighty venison pasty, proudly borne 
 'Tween a stout brace of ancient serving-men. 
 The elements of rude and gentle times 
 Were ill concocted then, and struggling held 
 
CHATSWORTH AND HADDON HALL. 157 
 
 Each other in suspension, or prevailed 
 Alternately. " Barbaric pearl and gold " 
 Were roughly set ; and cumbrous arras hid 
 The iron-hasped and loosely-bolted doors. 
 Broad-branching antlers of the stag were then 
 The choicest pictures, and the power to quaff 
 Immense potations from the wassail-bowl 
 Envied accomplishment.! 
 
 But Haddon tells 
 Still of another age, and suits itself 
 To their more courtly manners. Carvings rich, 
 And gilded cornices, and chambers hung 
 With tapestry of France, and shapely grate 
 Instead of chimney huge, and fair recess 
 Of oriel window, mark the advancing steps 
 Of comfort and refinement. 
 
 Here moved on, 
 In stately minuet, lords with doublet slashed, 
 And ladies rustling in the stiff brocade; 
 And there, the deep-mouthed hounds the chase pur- 
 sued, 
 The maiden ruling well her palfrey white, 
 With knight and squire attendant. 
 
 Hear we not 
 Even now their prancing steeds? 
 
 'T is passing strange ! 
 Dwell life and death in loving company ? 
 Why bloom those flowers, with none to inhale their 
 sweets 1 
 
158 
 
 CHATSWORTH AND HADDON HALL. 
 
 Who trim yon beds so neatly ; and remove 
 
 Each withered leaf; and keep each straggling bough 
 
 In beautiful obedience? 
 
 — Come they back, 
 They of the by-gone days, when none are near, 
 And with their spirit-eyes inspect the flowers 
 That once they loved 1 Toil they in shadowy ranks 
 Mid these deserted bowers, then flit away t 
 
 They seem but just to have set the goblet down, 
 As for a moment, yet return no more. 
 The chair, the board, the couch of state are here, 
 And we, the intrusive step are fain to check, 
 As though we pressed upon their privacy. 
 Whose privacy ? The dead? A riddle all ! 
 And we ourselves are riddles. — 
 
 While we cling 
 Sill to our crumbling hold, so soon to fall 
 And be forgotten, in that yawning gulph 
 That whelms all past, all present, all to come, 
 Oh, grant us wisdom, Father of the Soul, 
 To gain a changeless heritage with Thee. 
 
 Wednesday, October 7, 1840. 
 
 " a floating banner swayed 
 With the light breeze — " 
 
 The approach to Chatsworth is over gently rising 
 
CHATSWORTH AND HADDON HALL. 159 
 
 grounds, and on an eminence towards the east, we 
 observed from the old Hunting Tower, embosomed in 
 woods, the flag flying, which announced that the Duke 
 of Devonshire, the master of this magnificent domain, 
 was at home. Immediately after entering the central 
 gate, by the Porter's lodge, we paused to admire a 
 fine weeping Ash, whose rich, dark foliage, drooping 
 to the ground, forms within its circumference an arch 
 of exceeding beauty. It was removed hither from 
 Derby, about ten years since, at an expense of .£1000; 
 and though it had attained the age of forty years on 
 its transplantation, flourishes unchanged in its new 
 home. The grounds of Chatsworth cover an area of 
 eleven miles, diversified by lawns, plantations, and 
 pleasure-grounds. Large flocks and herds luxuriate 
 in the pastures, and deer, so fat as to forfeit a portion 
 of their fleetness, beautify the parks. 
 
 It would be in vain to attempt a description of this 
 splendid establishment. Dazzled as the eye may be 
 with its internal decorations, I could not but consider 
 the conservatory as its chief glory. It extends several 
 hundred feet, its lofty roof resting on iron pillars, and 
 entirely covered with large plates of glass, furnish- 
 ing a spacious carriage-drive, through plants and flow- 
 ers from every region of the earth. Some of these 
 are of surpassing beauty, and all refreshed by waters 
 artificially distributed, and cheered by a perpetual 
 summer, as if a second Paradise fostered their bloom. 
 
160 CHATSWORTH AND HADDON HALL. 
 
 " Spin on, most beautiful." 
 
 In the sculpture-gallery at Chatsworth, among noble 
 forms, and groups apparently instinct with life, we 
 were attracted by the statue of a young spinning-girl, 
 from the chisel of a German artist. She is called the 
 Filatrice, and stands in a simple and graceful attitude 
 upon the fragment of a granite column, brought from 
 the Roman Forum. Here, as in other choice collec- 
 tions of the masters of sculpture, we were reminded 
 of Thomson's descriptive lines, — 
 
 " Minutely perfect all ! — Each dimple sunk, 
 And every muscle swelled, as Nature taught. 
 In tresses braided fresh the marble waved, 
 Flowed in loose robe, or thin, transparent veil, 
 Sprang into motion, — softened into flesh, — 
 Was fired with passion, or refined to soul." 
 
 " Next, on to Haddon-Hall." 
 
 It is well to see Chatsworth and Haddon-Hall in 
 the same day. The contrast of their features deep- 
 ens the impression which each leaves on the mind. 
 The overwhelming splendor of one prepares you to 
 relish and to reverence the silent, mournful majesty of 
 the other. You pass as from a Roman triumph, to Ma- 
 rius sitting among the ruins of Carthage. 
 
 This touching relic of the olden time occupies an 
 
CHATSWORTH AND HADDON HALL. 161 
 
 elevation, overshadowed by large trees, from whence 
 it looks down upon the fair valley and bright waters 
 of the Wye. Its most ancient portions date back 
 900 years, into the Saxon dynasty. William the Nor- 
 man, who was liberal in parcelling out the good things 
 of the conquered realm among his relatives and ad- 
 herents, gave it to his natural son, Peveril. Thence, 
 by marriage, it passed to the Vernons, and again, in 
 the same manner, to the house of Manners, who now 
 hold the dukedom of Rutland. In exploring its de- 
 serted halls, it is easy to scan three distinct styles of 
 architecture, which as clearly define three differing 
 states of social and domestic manners. The tall grey 
 Eagle Tower, with its round loop-holes and prison- 
 like apartments, recalls those days of despotism and 
 danger, when castellated buildings were fortresses of 
 defence against the Danish pirate, or the roaming out- 
 law. This period extended from the close of the 
 Saxon dynasty, through the reigns of some of the 
 Plantagenets, while the Peverils and Avenels bore 
 rule at Haddon Hall. Huge fire-places, immense lar- 
 ders, chopping-blocks on which a whole ox might be 
 laid, heavy oak tables, and the old wicket, through 
 which every stranger received, if he desired, a trench- 
 er of substantial food and a cup of ale, mark the 
 succeeding era of rude feasting and free hospitality. 
 The third era, brought in the more lofty ceilings, 
 richly gilt, the halls panneled with oak, the carved 
 cornices, and the bay windows, decorated with armo- 
 11 
 
162 CHATSWORTH AND HADDON HALL. 
 
 rial bearings. The various improvements made by the 
 houses of Vernon and Manners may be plainly traced ; 
 the first of which obtained possession of this baronial 
 mansion in the time of Henry the Sixth, and the lat- 
 ter, during the reign of Queen Elizabeth. So liberal 
 was the housekeeping of Haddon, that 140 servants 
 were employed and maintained there, by the first duke 
 of Rutland, in the time of Queen Anne. Now all is 
 silence and loneliness within its bounds. Two hundred 
 years have elapsed since it was inhabited. But the late 
 Duchess of Rutland, having been much attached to 
 its scenery, was solicitous that it should be kept in 
 good preservation, as a specimen of other days. Her 
 wishes have been scrupulously obeyed, and thus the 
 antiquarian taste, and the reflecting mind, continue 
 to find high gratification from a visit to this deserted 
 mansion. 
 
 " Chambers hung 
 With tapestry of France." 
 
 The state bedroom at Haddon Hall is still adorned 
 with ancient hangings of Gobelines. Their subjects 
 seem to be taken from the imagery of ^Esop's Fables. 
 The bed is surmounted by a canopy of green silk vel- 
 vet, fourteen feet in height, and lined with thick 
 white satin. Its embroidered curtains were wrought 
 by the needle of the Lady Eleanor, wife of Sir Rob- 
 
CHATSWORTH AND HADDON HALL. 163 
 
 ert Manners, and are a commendable trophy of her in- 
 dustry. But the hands of pilferers have been so busy 
 in abstracting shreds and fragments of this rich, 
 antique couch, that it has been found necessary to 
 protect it by an enclosure, something like the railing 
 erected around the bed of Mary of Scotland, in the 
 old Holyrood palace. 
 
164 MATLOCK. 
 
 MATLOCK, 
 
 It would be most ungrateful, not to speak, 
 
 Matlock ! of thee. Thy dwellings mid the cliffs, 
 
 Like a Swiss village, or the hanging nest 
 
 Of the wild bird, thy fairy glens scooped out 
 
 From the deep jaws of mountain fastnesses, 
 
 Thy pure, pure air, the luxury of thy baths, 
 
 Thy donkey rides amid the pine-clad hills, 
 
 Or o'er the beetling brow of bold Maeson, 
 
 Spying perchance in some close-sheltered nook 
 
 The pale lutea and red briony, 
 
 Or infant waterfall, that leaps to cast 
 
 Its thread of silver to the vales below, 
 
 Thy long and dark descents to winding caves, 
 
 Where sleep the sparkling spars, the thousand forms, 
 
 Which art doth give them to allure the eye, 
 
 And decorate the mansion, lamp, and vase, 
 
 And pedestal, and toy, these all conspire 
 
 In sweet confusion to imprint thee deep 
 
 On memory's page. 
 
 But when the thunder rolls, 
 Yon silent cliffs forget their quietude, 
 
MATLOCK. 165 
 
 And like the watchmen when the foe is near 
 Shout to each other. 
 
 Every rifted peak 
 Takes up the battle-cry, and volleying pours 
 Reverberated peals, till the hoarse cloud 
 Expends its vengeance, and exhausted sweeps 
 O'er the unanswering dales. 
 
 See where yon rocks, 
 Fretted and ribbed as if the storms had snatched 
 The sculptor's chisel, and amid their freaks 
 Channeled and grooved and wrought without a plan, 
 Lift their worn frontals. Here and there, the trees 
 Insert themselves perforce against the will 
 Of the stern crags, by coarse and scanty earth 
 Nurtured in contumacy, while the blasts 
 Do sorely wrench and warp them, well resolved 
 To punish such usurpers ; still they cling 
 And gather vigor from adversity. 
 On, — by those crevice-holders to the lawns 
 Of Willersly, and to its garden-heights, 
 And gaze astonished on the scene below. 
 
 Lo ! with what haste the full-orbed Moon doth steal 
 Upon the footsteps of departing day, 
 Eager to greet the landscape that she loves. 
 Strong Derwent murmurs at the intrusive shades, 
 That fringe his banks to shut him from her smile, 
 And higher as her queenly car ascends 
 Outspreads a broader bosom to her beam. 
 
166 
 
 MATLOCK. 
 
 Most beautiful ! It fits not speech like mine, 
 Soul-stirring scene, to set thy features forth 
 In their true light. I have no hues that reach 
 Glories like thine. The watery tint alone 
 That moisteneth in the eye may tell of thee. 
 
 Yet should I ever, from my distant home 
 Tempted to roam, dare the wild deep once more 
 For Albion's sake, — I'd watch two summer-moons 
 Waxing and waning o'er the purple peaks 
 Of Derbyshire, and from the sounding brass 
 And tinkling cymbal of absorbing care 
 Or vanity, and from the thunder-gong 
 Which the great world doth strike, delighted hide 
 In quiet Matlock, lulled by Nature's charms, 
 And hourly gleaning what she saith of God. 
 
 Thursday, October 8, 1840. 
 
 Our visit to Matlock was one of unmixed satisfac- 
 tion. We had not been instructed to expect the 
 romantic prospect that burst upon us, almost cheating 
 us into the belief that we had wandered into one of 
 the wild villages of Switzerland. Our descent from 
 the post-chaise was simultaneous with taking a seat 
 upon some well-bred donkeys, which, with their necks 
 decorated with blue ribbands, were standing under 
 the windows of our Hotel upon the Green. The ex- 
 citement of thus traversing the mountain heights, and 
 the odd appearance of our cavalcade so grotesquely 
 
31ATL0CK. 1G7 
 
 mounted, each steed occasionally urged onward by the 
 voice or staff of the guides, afforded us much amuse- 
 ment. Afterwards our walks and purchases among 
 the shops, where the rich Derbyshire spars are pre- 
 sented in an endless variety of articles for ornament 
 and utility, the enchanting prospects that met us at 
 every turn, and the bright sunny skies that cheered 
 us during our whole stay in Matlock, made our time 
 there glide away, as a fairy dream. One of our enter- 
 tainments was to climb a steep hill, and entering an 
 aperture on its brow, explore a mine 3000 feet in 
 length, and gradually descending to 400 beneath the 
 surface. A less laborious and more agreeable recrea- 
 tion was to visit the groves and heights of Willersly 
 Castle. Bold masses of rock mingle with the foliage of 
 lofty trees, and the richest velvet turf creeps to their 
 very base. The prospect in the rear of the castle is 
 one of the most delightful that we saw in Derbyshire. 
 The pleasure-grounds, gardens, and hot-houses, with 
 their fine productive graperies and pineries, were more 
 interesting to us Americans, from the circumstance, 
 that the founder of this goodly mansion, the late Sir 
 Richard Arkwright, was the architect of his own for- 
 tune. He was the youngest of thirteen children of a 
 poor man in Preston, in the county of Lancashire. 
 By native vigor of mind and great perseverance, he 
 overcame the many difficulties and discouragements 
 of his humble station. After much opposition, he 
 succeeded in establishing 'here the first cotton-mill 
 
168 MATLOCK. 
 
 on improved principles. The benefit thus conferred 
 on his country was felt and acknowledged, and in this 
 same neighborhood the industrious and faithful me- 
 chanic, having received the honor of knighthood, com- 
 menced at the age of fifty the erection of the fine 
 edifice, bearing the name of Willersly Castle. Moved 
 by that piety which formed a part of his character, he 
 endowed and began to build a beautiful stone chapel 
 in the vicinity of the castle. Dying before its com- 
 pletion, it was finished by his son, whom he left one of 
 the richest commoners in England. The charity 
 schools connected with it, and which number several 
 hundred scholars, are also kept up entirely at his ex- 
 pense ; and it gave us pleasure to find that the ladies 
 of the family took a warm personal interest in them. 
 The elevation of industry and merit from obscurity, 
 and their union with active benevolence and piety, 
 which we have so often been permitted to see in our 
 own dear land, seemed if possible to become a still 
 more beautiful lesson, amid the aspiring rocks and 
 romantic glens of Derbyshire. 
 
THE SLEEPING SISTERS. 1G9 
 
 THE SLEEPING SISTERS, 
 
 IN THE LICHFIELD CATHEDRAL. 
 
 Hush • hush ! tread lightly, 't were not meet 
 
 So sweet a dream to break, 
 Or from that tender, clasping hand 
 
 The snowdrop's leaflet shake, 
 
 Or drive away the angel smile, 
 
 That lights each gentle face, 
 For waking life would surely fail 
 
 To shed so pure a grace. 
 
 Hear'st thou their breathing, as they sleep 
 
 On pillow lightly prest ? 
 Is aught on earth so calm and deep 
 
 As childhood's balmy rest ? 
 
 A quiet couch those sisters find 
 
 Within these hallowed walls, 
 Where shaded light through storied pane 
 
 In solemn tinture falls, 
 
170 THE SLEEPING SISTERS. 
 
 Tracing our Lord's ascending flight 
 
 Up to his glorious throne, 
 Who took the guileless in His arms, 
 
 And blest them as His own. 
 
 O beautiful ! — but when the soul 
 
 In Paradise doth walk, 
 There springeth up no angry blast 
 
 To bow the floweret's stalk ; 
 
 There springeth up no cloud to mar 
 
 Affection pure and free, 
 And blessed as this peaceful sleep, 
 
 Such may their waking be. 
 
 Friday, Oct. 9, 1840. 
 
 The sculpture of Chantrey has seldom been more 
 touchingly exhibited than in the two sleeping sisters, 
 the only children of the Rev. Mr. Robinson, formerly 
 a prebendary of Lichfield Cathedral. They are en- 
 twined in each other's arms, the youngest holding in 
 her hand a few snowdrops. Their forms are of per- 
 fect proportion, and every muscle seems wrapped in 
 deep repose. You touch the pillow, ere you are con- 
 vinced that it is not downy, and the sweep of the 
 mattress, and the light folds of their graceful drapery, 
 are all admirably chiseled out of a single block of 
 the purest marble. The epitaph is in harmony with 
 the beauty and pathos of the monument. 
 
THE SLEEPING SISTERS. 171 
 
 " Ellen Jane, and Marianna, 
 
 Only Children 
 
 of the late Rev. William Robinson, 
 
 And Ellen Jane, his Wife. 
 
 Their affectionate Mother, 
 
 In fond remembrance of their heaven-loved innocence, 
 
 Consigns their remembrance to this Sanctuary, 
 
 In humble gratitude 
 
 For the glorious assurance, that 
 
 Of such is the Kingdom of God.'" 
 
 This exquisite work of genius is placed under the 
 beautiful eastern window of stained glass, in the south 
 choral aisle, in Lichfield Cathedral. Somewhat simi- 
 lar in its effect on the feelings is a monument in 
 Ashbourne Church, to the only daughter of Sir Brooke 
 Boothby, a child of five years of age. On a low 
 white marble pedestal is a mattress, where the little 
 sufferer reclines, her sweet face expressive both of 
 pain and patience. Her beautiful hands, clasped to- 
 gether, rest near her head. The only drapery is a 
 frock, flowing loosely, and a sash, whose knot is twist- 
 ed forward, as in the restlessness of disease. You 
 imagine that she has just turned, in the tossings of 
 fever, to seek a cooler spot on her pillow, or an easier 
 position for her wearied form. The inscription is in 
 four languages ; — 
 
172 THE SLEEPING SISTERS. 
 
 To Penelope, 
 
 Only child of Sir Brooke and Susanna Boothby. 
 
 She was in form and intellect most exquisite. 
 
 The unfortunate parents confided their all to this frail bark, 
 
 And the wreck was total. 
 
 I was not in safety ; neither had I rest ; 
 
 Neither was I quiet; 
 
 And this trouble came. 
 
 The bereaved father was one of the benefactors of 
 Lichfield Cathedral, and a testimony is there record- 
 ed to the zeal and generosity with which he obtained 
 for it, in 1802, while travelling in Germany, speci- 
 mens of the most splendid stained glass, executed in 
 the sixteenth century, illustrating a variety of Scrip- 
 ture subjects, and sufficient to fill seven large win- 
 dows. This Cathedral, and its monuments seemed in 
 a state of good preservation, and many of its epitaphs 
 were of singular excellence. Among the latter we 
 noticed one to Dr. Samuel Johnson, accompanied by 
 a marble bust of the great man, whose nativity Lich- 
 field is proud to claim. 
 
STRATFORD UPON AVON. 173 
 
 STRATFORD UPON AVON. 
 
 What nurtured Shakspeare mid these village-shades, 
 Making a poor deer-stalking lad, a king 
 In the broad realm of mind 1 
 
 I questioned much 
 Whatever met my view, the holly-hedge, 
 The cottage-rose, the roof where he was born, 
 And the pleached avenue of limes, that led 
 To the old Church. And pausing there, I marked 
 The mossy efflorescence on the stones, 
 Which, kindling in the sun-beam, taught me how 
 Its little seeds were fed by mouldering life, 
 And how another race of tiny roots, 
 The fathers of the future, should compel 
 From hardest-hearted rocks a nutriment, 
 Until the fern-plant and the ivy sere 
 Made ancient buttress and grim battlement 
 Their nursing-mothers. 
 
 But again I asked, 
 " What nurtured Shakspeare 1 " The rejoicing birds 
 Wove a wild song, whose burden seemed to be, 
 He was their pupil when he chose, and knew 
 
174 STRATFORD UPON AVON. 
 
 Their secret maze of melody to wind, 
 Snatching its sweetness for his winged strain 
 With careless hand. 
 
 The timid flowerets said, 
 " He came among us like a sleepless bee, 
 And all those pure and rarest essences, 
 Concocted by our union with the skies, 
 Which in our cups or zones we fain would hide, 
 He rifled for himself and bore away." 
 
 — The winds careering in their might replied, 
 " Upon our wings he rode and visited 
 
 The utmost stars. We could not shake him off. 
 Even on the fleecy clouds he laid his hand, 
 As on a courser's mane, and made them work 
 With all their countless hues his wondrous will." 
 
 — And then meek Avon raised a murmuring voice, 
 What time the Sabbath-chimes came pealing sweet 
 Through the umbrageous trees, and told how oft 
 Along those banks he wandered, pacing slow, 
 
 As if to read the depths. 
 
 Ere I had closed 
 My questioning, the ready rain came down, 
 And every pearl-drop as it kissed the turf 
 Said, " We have been his teachers. When we fell 
 Pattering among the vine-leaves, he would list 
 Our lessons as a student, nor despise 
 Our simplest lore." 
 
STRATFORD UPON AVON. 175 
 
 And then the bow burst forth, 
 That strong love-token of the Deity 
 Unto a drowning world. Each prismed ray 
 Had held bright dalliance with the bard, and helped 
 To tint the woof in which his thought was wrapped 
 For its first cradle-sleep. 
 
 Then twilight came 
 In her grey robe, and told a tender tale 
 Of his low musings, while she noiseless drew 
 Her quiet curtain. And the queenly moon, 
 Riding in state upon her silver car, 
 Confessed she saw him oft, through chequering 
 
 shades, 
 Hour after hour, with Fancy by his side, 
 Linking their young imaginings, like chains 
 Of pearl and diamond. 
 
 Last, the lowly grave, — 
 Shakspeare's own grave, — sent forth a hollow tone, 
 — "The heart within my casket read itself, 
 And from that inward study learned to scan 
 The hearts of other men. It pondered long 
 In those lone cells, where nameless thought is born, 
 Explored the roots of passion, and the founts 
 Of sympathy, and at each sealed recess 
 Knocked, until mystery fled. Hence her loved bard 
 Nature doth crown with flowers of every hue, 
 And every season, and the human soul 
 Owning his power, shall at his magic touch 
 Shudder, or thrill, while age on age expires." 
 
 October 11, 1840. 
 
176 STRATFORD UPON AVON. 
 
 Many circumstances conspired to make our visit to 
 Stratford upon Avon one of peculiar interest. We 
 had the finest autumnal weather, and so perfect a full 
 moon, that our researches could be continued in the 
 evening, almost as well as during the day. 
 
 The native place of Shakspeare is not strikingly 
 picturesque, and the habitudes of its people reveal no 
 distinctive character. We fancied that the urchins 
 playing about the streets were somewhat more noisy 
 and insubordinate, than English children are wont to 
 be. Possibly they were striving to be like the re- 
 nowned bard, in those points of character most easily 
 imitable. His name is in almost every mouth, and 
 you can scarcely turn a corner but what some vestige 
 of him meets the eye. It would seem that he, who 
 throughout life was the least ambitious, the most care- 
 less about his fame, of all distinguished men, was, by 
 the very echo of that fame, after the lapse of centu- 
 ries, to give the chief impulse to some five or six 
 thousand persons, dwelling on the spot where he first 
 drew breath. There are the Shakspeare relics, the 
 Shakspeare statue, the Shakspeare Theatre, the Shaks- 
 peare Hotel, the Shakspeare bust, the Shakspeare 
 tomb ; — every body tells you of them, — every body 
 is ready to rise, and run, and show them to the stran- 
 ger. The ancient house and chamber, where he was 
 born, are humble even to meanness. Yet walls, and 
 ceilings, and casketed albums, are written over, and 
 re-written, with the names of pilgrim-visitants from 
 
STRATFORD UPON AVON. 177 
 
 various climes, — princes, nobles, poets, philosophers, 
 and sages. 
 
 Among the buildings which we noticed in our ex- 
 cursions, were some in the cottage style, taste- 
 fully adorned, and of graceful proportions. We ob- 
 served a pleasant, commodious mansion, near the 
 church where Shakspeare's dust reposes, devoted to 
 the instruction of young ladies, and met several class- 
 es of them returning from their walk, a bright-browed 
 and apparently happy throng. Methought the pursuit 
 of knowledge might be sweet, amid such localities and 
 associations. 
 
 But among the most interesting features of our visit 
 to Stratford upon Avon were the services of the Sab- 
 bath in this same old Church. The approach to it is 
 through a long green vista, the trees having been 
 trained while young, to bend and interlace their 
 branches. The Avon flows by its walls, and as we 
 wandered on its green margin, a chime, softened by 
 distance, was borne over its peaceful waters, with 
 thrilling melody. A grove of young willows is planted 
 here, and all that is picturesque in the village seems 
 to be concentrated in this vicinity. The inroads of 
 time upon the Church have been carefully repaired, 
 and its interior is agreeable. It has some stately 
 monuments, and the architecture of the chancel is 
 beautiful. The celebrated bust of Shakspeare is near 
 it, in a niche upon the northern wall. A cushion is 
 before it, and the right hand holds a pen, and the left 
 12 
 
178 
 
 STRATFORD UPON AVON. 
 
 a scroll. The forehead is high and noble, and as the 
 likeness was executed soon after his death, it may be 
 supposed to convey some correct resemblance of his 
 countenance. It was formerly in bright colors, but is 
 now covered with a coat of white paint. Not far from it 
 is the spot where his ashes rest, with the quaint adju- 
 ration ; 
 
 " Good friend, for Jesus' sake forbear 
 To dig the dust enclosed here ; 
 Blest be the man that spares these stones, 
 And curst be he that moves my bones." 
 
 Near him his wife reposes, with a Latin inscription 
 on a small metallic tablet. On the tomb of their 
 daughter Susannah, the wife of John Hall, who died 
 in 1649, at the age of 66, the following epitaph was 
 formerly legible ; — 
 
 " Witty above her sex, but that 's not all, 
 Wise to salvation, was good Mistress Hall ; 
 Something of Shakspeare was in that, but this 
 Was of that Lord, with whom she 's now in bliss; 
 Oh passenger ! hast ne'er a tear 
 
 To weep for her who wept with all ? 
 Who wept, yet set herself to cheer 
 
 Them up with comforts cordial ? 
 Her love shall live, her mercy spread, 
 When thou hast ne'er a tear to shed." 
 
 With our feet resting almost on the very spot where 
 the remains of the geeat poet slumber, we listened to 
 
STRATFORD UPON AVON. 179 
 
 the sacred services of the Church, and to three ser- 
 mons, from three different clergymen. In the first we 
 were reminded of the love of the Redeemer, from the 
 text, "Draw us, and we will run after thee;" — in 
 the second, of the necessity of repentance, from the 
 warning of Ezekiel, " I have no pleasure in the death 
 of him that dieth, saith the Lord, wherefore turn your- 
 selves, and live ye ; " — and in the last, at evening, of 
 the duty and privilege of mental communion with the 
 Father of our spirits, from the injunction, " Continue 
 in prayer." 
 
 At the close of the services in the afternoon, we 
 saw what was then to us a new scene, the distribution 
 of bread to the poor. It is not uncommon for benev- 
 olent persons to leave legacies for this form of chari- 
 ty. It was touching to see what numbers pressed for- 
 ward to present a ticket, and receive their share. The 
 greater part of the recipients were aged and decrepit, 
 or else appeared to be the parents of large families ; 
 and the eyes of many a child fixed earnestly upon the 
 fair wheaten loaves which were dealt out, and from 
 which it was expecting to make its evening meal. 
 After noticing the distribution of this bounty, and 
 hoping that in the comfort it communicated the living 
 bread, by which the soul is nourished, might not be 
 forgotten, we took a walk in the green and quiet 
 church-yard. The quaint epitaphs, and the style of 
 some of the antique tombstones, occupied our atten- 
 tion. There was one, of a coarse brown material, 
 
180 STRATFORD UPON AVON. 
 
 and with a double head, which commemorated in 
 parallel lines, the birth and death of two females, — 
 the singular construction and orthography of whose 
 inscription I carefully transcribed. 
 
 " Death creeps abought on hard, 
 And steals abroad on seen, 
 Hur darts are suding and hur arows Keen, 
 Hur Strocks are deadly, com they soon or late, 
 When being Strock, Repentance is to late, 
 Death is a minut, full of suding sorrow, 
 Then Live to day, as thou may'st dy to Morrow. 
 Anno Domony, 1690." 
 
WARWICK CASTLE. 181 
 
 WARWICK CASTLE. 
 
 Stout Guy of Warwick, may we pass unharmed 
 Thy wicket-gate ? And wilt thou not come forth, 
 With thy gigantic mace to break our bones, 
 Nor seethe us in thy caldron, whence of yore 
 The blood-red pottage flowed ? 
 
 A glorious haunt 
 Thy race have had 'neath these luxuriant shades 
 From age to age. Around the mighty base 
 Of the time-honored castle, lifting high 
 Rampart and tower and battlement sublime, 
 Winds the soft-flowing Avon, pleased to clasp 
 An infant islet in her nursing arms. 
 Anon her meek mood changes, and in sport 
 She leaps with frolic foot from rock to rock, 
 Taking a wild dance on their pavement rude; 
 Then half complaining, half in weariness 
 Resumes her quiet way. 
 
 Would that I knew 
 The very turret in this ancient pile, 
 Where the sixth Henry had his tutelage, 
 Wearing with tasks ten tedious years away. 
 
182 
 
 WARWICK CASTLE. 
 
 The mother's tear was on his rounded cheek, 
 When stately Beauchamp took him from her arms, 
 An infant of five summers to enforce 
 His knightly training. Pressed the iron hand 
 Of chivalry all harshly on his soul, 
 Keeping its pulses down, till the free stream 
 Of thought was petrified ? Perchance the sway 
 Of such stern tutor might have bowed too low 
 What was too weak at first ; and so, poor king, 
 Thou wert in vassalage thy whole life long, 
 The scorn of lawless spirits, on thy brow 
 Wealing a crown indeed, but in thy breast 
 Hiding the slave-chain. 
 
 In yon lofty hall, 
 Hung round with ancient armor, interspersed 
 With branching antlers of the hunted stag, 
 Fancy depictureth a warrior-shade, 
 The swarth king-maker, he who bore so high 
 His golden coronet, and on his shield 
 The Bear and ragged Staff. At his rough grasp 
 The warring roses quaked, and like the foam 
 That crests the wave one moment, and the next 
 Dies at its feet, alternate rose and sank 
 The crowned heads of York and Lancaster. 
 — Gone are those days with all their deeds of arms, 
 Their clangor echoing loud from shore to shore, 
 Rousing the " shepherd-maiden " from her flocks, 
 To buckle on strange armor and preserve 
 The endangered Gallic throne. 
 
WARWICK CASTLE. 183 
 
 With traveller's glance 
 We turned from Warwick's castellated dome, 
 Wrapped in its cloud of rich remembrances, 
 And took our pilgrim way. There many a trait 
 Of rural life we gathered up, to fill 
 The outline of our picture, shaded strong 
 By the dark pencil of old feudal times. 
 
 We saw a rustic household wandering forth 
 That cloudless afternoon, perchance to make 
 Some visit promised long, for each was clad 
 With special care as on a holiday. 
 The father bore the baby awkwardly 
 In his coarse arms, like tool or burden used 
 About his work, yet kindly bent him down 
 To hear its little murmur of delight. 
 With a more practised hand the mother led 
 One who could scarcely totter, its small feet 
 Patting unequally, — from side to side 
 Its rotund body balancing. Alone, 
 Majestic in an added year, walked on 
 Between the groups another ruddy one. 
 She faltereth at the style, but being raised 
 And set upon the green sward, how she shouts, 
 Curvets, and gambols like a playful lamb, 
 Plucking with pride and wonder, here and there, 
 Herbling or flower, o'er which the baby crows, 
 One moment, and the next, with chubby hand 
 Rendeth in pieces like a conqueror. 
 
184 WARWICK CASTLE. 
 
 On went the cottage-group, and then there came 
 
 A poor old man, unaided and alone, 
 
 Clad in his alms-house garments. Slow he moved 
 
 And painfully, nor sought the human eye 
 
 As if expectant of its sympathy. 
 
 He hath no children in his face to smile, 
 
 No friend to take him by the withered hand, 
 
 Yet looketh upward, and his feeble heart 
 
 Warms in the pleasant sunshine. 
 
 Yea, look up ! — 
 The world hath dealt but harshly, and old Time, 
 That cunning foe, hath all thy nerves unstrung, 
 And made thy thin blood wintry. Yet look up ; — 
 The pure, pure air is thine, the sun is thine, 
 And thou shalt rise above them, if thy soul 
 Cling to its Saviour's skirts. So be not sad 
 Or desolate in spirit, but hold on 
 A Christian's faithful journey to the land, 
 Where palsied limbs and wrinkles are unknown. 
 
 Monday, October 12, 1840. 
 
 The old Porter, in his lodge at the embattled gate- 
 way, was pleased to show the gigantic armor, and 
 other relics, of Guy of Warwick, and to speak of his 
 marvellous feats, and redoubtable valor. 
 
 Among these, his having slain a Saracen giant, and 
 a wonderful dun cow, were not forgotten. " Here," said 
 the narrator, " is his seething pot. It holds exactly 102 
 gallons." And warming as he proceeded, he told 
 
WARWICK CASTLE. 185 
 
 how, when the son of the present Earl came of age, 
 it was thrice filled with punch, and how at each 
 precious concoction 18 gallons of brandy, 18 of spirit, 
 and 100 lbs. of sugar were consumed. 
 
 In the green-house we were gratified by seeing the 
 celebrated antique vase, found at the bottom of a lake, 
 in the villa of the Emperor Adrian, near Tivoli. It 
 is of white marble, and among the finest specimens of 
 ancient sculpture. Vine-branches, exquisitely wrought, 
 form its handles, and grapes, leaves, and tendrils 
 cluster gracefully around its brim. We were told 
 that it was capable of containing 136 gallons, and 
 stands upon a pedestal, with a Latin inscription. 
 
 Among the pictures in Warwick Castle, is a grand 
 one of Charles the First, by Vandyke. The king in 
 armor is seated on a grey horse, so majestic, yet so 
 melancholy, that you almost imagine him endued with 
 a prophetic spirit, and in the midst of regal grandeur 
 saddened by his future fate. Bernard de Foix, Duke 
 of Espernon and Valette, holds his helmet as a page. 
 Vandyke executed three splendid equestrian paintings 
 of this monarch. The other two are at Hampton 
 Court and Windsor Castle. 
 
 In passing through the town of Warwick we visited 
 St. Mary's Church, a venerable structure, whose foun- 
 dation claims the antiquity of a Saxon origin. It is 
 built in the form of a cross, and its proportions are 
 symmetrical. " You '11 see the Beechem tombs, sure ! " 
 said our guide, leading the way to an adjoining edi- 
 
186 
 
 WARWICK CASTLE. 
 
 fice. I scarcely knew from his mode of pronunciation 
 that he meant the Beau champ chapel, the most stately 
 and costly one in the kingdom, with the exception of 
 that of Henry the Seventh, in Westminster Abbey. 
 Its entrance is through an ornamented vestibule, the 
 richness of its painted glass is striking, and many of 
 its monuments elaborate. Near the northern wall is 
 the tomb of Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester, the 
 favorite of Queen Elizabeth, and her host during the 
 princely festivities of Kenilworth, when for seventeen 
 days the hand of the great clock at the castle was 
 ever pointing to the hour of banquet. There also 
 slumber the remains of his countess, under the same 
 gorgeous canopy with himself, supported by Corin- 
 thian columns. Poor Amy Robsart ! how instinctively 
 turns the heart to thee, and to the fearful secrets of 
 Cumnor Hall. Near the southern wall of the chapel 
 are entombed the remains of his infant son, " the 
 noble Impe, Robert of Dudley, Baron of Denbigh," 
 and heir presumptive to the earldom of Warwick. 
 In the centre is the monument of its founder, Rich- 
 ard Beauchamp, the great Earl of Warwick, who held 
 offices of the highest trust and power under Henry 
 the Fourth and Fifth, and conducted the education of 
 Henry the Sixth. During the exercise of his office, as 
 Regent of France, he died at Rouen, in 1439, and his 
 body was brought over in a stone coffin for interment 
 here. His monument displays his recumbent statue in 
 fine brass,clad in a full suit of plate armor. In a curious 
 
WARWICK CASTLE. 187 
 
 old biography of him, it is told how " erle Richard by 
 the auctoritie of the hole parliament was maister to king 
 Henrie the 6th, and so he contynowed till the yonge 
 king was 16 yere of age." A drawing in the same 
 book represents him in his robes and coronet, taking 
 the infant monarch from his nurse's arms, the Queen 
 and Bishop of Winchester standing by with sorrow- 
 ful countenances. The round, unthinking face of the 
 boy expresses no sympathy in their regret ; though he 
 probably soon learned to realize the contrast between 
 the delights of the royal nursery, and the training of 
 his stately tutor, who, we learn from history, insisted 
 peremptorily on the privilege of inflicting personal 
 chastisement, and subjected his pupil to many severe 
 restrictions. This iron rule pressed heavily upon the 
 weak mind of the unfortunate Henry, whose touching 
 epitaph at Windsor cannot be read without pity. 
 
 " Here, o'er the ill-fated king the marble weeps, 
 And fast beside him vengeful Edward sleeps, 
 Whom not the extended Albion could contain, 
 From old Belerium to the northern main, 
 The grave unites ; where even the great find rest, 
 And blended lie the oppressor and the opprest." 
 
188 KENILWORTH. 
 
 KENILWORTH. 
 
 I always longed for ruins. When a child, 
 
 Living where rifted rocks were plentiful, 
 
 I fain would climb amid their slippery steeps, 
 
 Shaping them into battlement, and shaft, 
 
 And long-drawn corridor, and dungeon-keep, 
 
 And haunted hall. Not but our own fresh groves 
 
 And lofty forests were all well enough, 
 
 But Fancy gadded after other things, 
 
 And hinted that a cloistered niche, or roof 
 
 Of some grey abbey, with its ivy robe, 
 
 Would be a vast improvement. So, I thought 
 
 To build a ruin ; and have lain awake, 
 
 Thinking what stones and sticks I might command, 
 
 And how I best could range them, in some nook 
 
 Of field or garden. But the years sped on, 
 
 And then my castles in the air came down 
 
 So fast, and fell in such fantastic forms 
 
 At every step, that I was satisfied, 
 
 And never built a ruin. 
 
 When at last, 
 I roamed among the wrecks of Kenil worth, 
 
KENILWORTH. 
 
 189 
 
 Assured my feet were on the very spot, 
 
 Where haughty Dudley for the haughtier queen 
 
 Enacted such a show of chivalry, 
 
 As turned the tissues of Arabia pale. 
 
 I lingered there, and through the loop-holes grey 
 
 Gazed on the fields beneath, and asked a tale 
 
 Of what they might remember. The coarse grass 
 
 Fed in the stagnant marsh perked up its head, 
 
 As though it fain would gossip ; but no breeze 
 
 Gave it a tongue. 
 
 Where is thy practised strain 
 Of mirth and revelry, O Kenilworth ! 
 Banquet, and wassail-bowl, and tournament, 
 And incense offered to the gods of earth 1 
 The desolation, that befel of yore 
 The cities of the plain, hath found thee out, 
 And quelled thy tide of song. 
 
 Deserted pile ! 
 Sought they, who reared thee, for a better house 
 Not made with hands ? Or by thy grandeur lured, 
 Dreamed they to live forever, and to call 
 Their lands by their own names? 
 
 Where Caesar's tower 
 Hides in a mass of ivy the deep rents 
 That years have made, methinks we still may see 
 The watchful warder lay his mace aside, 
 And through his pent-horn blow a mighty blast, 
 To warn his master, the good, stalwart knight, 
 Geoffry de Clinton, that his patron-king, 
 
190 
 
 KENILWORTH. 
 
 The Norman Beauclerc, with a hunting train, 
 Swept o'er the Warwick hills, intent to prove 
 His hospitality, perchance to explore 
 His new-reared fortress. 
 
 Let a century pass, — 
 And from yon bastion, with a fiery glance, 
 That speaks the restless and vindictive soul, 
 Simon de Montfort counts his men at arms, 
 Warning his archers that their bows be strong, 
 And every arrow sharply ring that day, 
 Against their lawful sovereign. 
 
 Change hath swept 
 With wave on wave the feudal times away, 
 And from their mightiest fabrics plucked the pride. 
 The patriarchs, and the men before the flood, 
 Who trod the virgin greenness of the earth, 
 While centuries rolled on centuries, dwelt in tents, 
 And tabernacles, deeming that their date 
 Was all too short, to entrench themselves, and hold 
 Successful warfare with oblivious death. 
 But we, in the full plentitude and hope 
 Of threescore years and ten, (how oft curtailed ! ) 
 Add house to house, and field to field, and heap 
 Stone upon stone; then shuddering, fall and die : — 
 While in our footsteps climb another race, 
 Graves all around them, and the booming knell 
 Forever in their ears. 
 
 The humbling creed, 
 That all is vanity, doth force a way 
 
KENILWORTH. 191 
 
 Into the gayest heart, that trusts itself 
 
 To ruminate amid these buried wrecks 
 
 Of princely splendor and baronial pomp. 
 
 Methinks the spirit of true wisdom loves 
 
 To haunt such musing shades. The taller plants 
 
 Sigh to the lowly ones, and they again 
 
 Give lessons to the grass, and now and then 
 
 Shake a sweet dewdrop on it, to reward 
 
 Its docile temper ; while each leaf imprints 
 
 Its tender moral on the passer-by, — 
 
 " Ye all, like us, must fade." 
 
 Here comes a bee, 
 From yon forsaken bower, as if to watch 
 Our piracies upon her honey-cups, 
 Perchance, with sting to guard them. Light of wing ! 
 Hast e'er a hive amid those tangled boughs 1 
 We '11 not invade thy secrecy, nor thin 
 Thy scanty hoard of flowers. Let them bloom on ; 
 Why should we rob the desert of a gem, 
 Which God hath set, to help its poverty 1 
 
 It seems like an illusion still, to say, 
 I 've been at Kenilworth. But yet 't is true. 
 And when once more I reach my pleasant home, 
 In Yankee land, should conversation flag 
 Among us ladies, though it seldom does, 
 When of our children, and our housekeeping, 
 And help we speak, yet should there be a pause, 
 I will bethink me in that time of need 
 
192 
 
 KENILWORTH. 
 
 To mention Kenilworth, and such a host 
 Of questions will rain down, from those who read 
 Scott's wizard pages, as will doubtless make 
 The precious tide of talk run free again. 
 
 And when I 'in sitting in my grandame chair, 
 If e'er I live such honored place to fill, 
 I '11 hush the noisy young ones, should they tease 
 And trouble their Mamma, with sugared bribes 
 Of tales from Kenilworth. 
 
 Monday, Oct. 12, 1840. 
 
 Masses of luxuriant ivy clasped and enfolded the 
 crumbled walls and mouldering turrets of Kenilworth, 
 which once resounded with the revels of nobility and 
 royalty. I was not prepared to find it so entire a ruin. 
 The absence of all living inhabitants must plead my 
 excuse for seeking an interview with its founder, Geofiry 
 de Clinton, the clear-minded and plain-spoken knight, 
 who was so often favored in his fortalice with a visit 
 from the courtly monarch, Henry the First ; as well as 
 for imagining, on yonder broken heights, the lofty form 
 and frowning features of Simon de Montfort, who, 
 scarcely a century after, summoned his retainers, and 
 led the malcontent barons to the battle-field against 
 his sovereign, Henry the Third. 
 
WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 193 
 
 WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 
 
 Unclasp the world's close armor from thy heart, 
 
 Dismiss the gay companion from thy side, 
 And if thou canst, elude the practised art 
 And dull recitative of venal guide ; 
 So shalt thou come aright, with reverent tread, 
 Unto this solemn city of the dead ; 
 Nor uninstructed mid its haunts abide, 
 But o'er the dust of heroes moralize, 
 And learn that humbling lore, which makes the spirit 
 wise. 
 
 How silent are ye all, ye sons of song, 
 
 Whose harps the music of the earth did make ! 
 How low ye sleep amid the mouldering throng, 
 Whose tuneful echoes keep the world awake, 
 While age on age their fleeting transit take ! 
 How damp the vault, where sweeps their banner-fold, 
 
 Whose clarion-cry made distant regions quake ! 
 How weak the men of might ! how tame the bold ! 
 Chained to the narrow niche, and locked in marble 
 cold. 
 
 13 
 
194 
 
 WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 
 
 He of lost Paradise who nobly sang, 
 
 Whose thought sublime above our lower sphere 
 Soared as a star ; and he, who deftly rang 
 The lyre of fancy, o'er the smile and tear, 
 Ruling supreme ; and he, who taught the strain 
 To roll Pindaric o'er his native plain ; 
 He too, who poured o'er Isis' streamlet clear 
 Unto his Shepherd Lord the hymn of praise, 
 I bow me at your shrines, ye great of other days. 
 
 " / himo that my Redeemer livcth." Grave 
 Deep on our hearts, as on thy stony scroll, 
 
 That glorious truth which a lost world can save, 
 Oh German minstrel ! whose melodious soul 
 Still in the organ's living breath doth float, — 
 Devotion soaring on its seraph-note, — 
 
 Or with a wondering awe the throng control, 
 
 When from some minster vast, like thunder-chime, 
 
 The Oratorio bursts in majesty sublime. 
 
 Here rest the rival statesmen, calm and meek, 
 Even as the child, whose little quarrel o'er, 
 
 Subdued to peace, doth kiss his brother's cheek, 
 And share his pillow, pleased to strive no more. 
 Yes, side by side they sleep, whose warring word 
 Convulsed the nations, and old ocean stirred ; 
 
 Slight seem the feuds that moved the crowd of yore, 
 To him who now in musing reverie bends, 
 Where Pitt and Fox dream on, those death-cemented 
 friends. 
 
WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 195 
 
 And here lies Richard Busby, not with frown, 
 As when his little realm he ruled severe, 
 
 Nor to the sceptred Stuart bowed him down, 
 But held his upright course, with brow severe ; 
 Still bears his hand the pen and classic page, 
 While the sunk features marked by furrowing age, 
 
 And upraised eye, with supplicating fear, 
 Seem to implore that pity in his woe, 
 Which to the erring child, perchance, he failed to show. 
 
 Mary of Scotland hath her monument 
 
 Fast by that mightier queen of kindred line, 
 
 By whom her soul was to its Maker sent, 
 Ere Nature warned her to His bar divine ; 
 It is a fearful thing, thus side by side 
 To see the murderer and the murdered bide, 
 
 And of the scaffold think, and strange decline 
 That wrung the Tudor's weary breath away, 
 And of the strict account at the great reckoning day. 
 
 Seek ye the chapel of yon monarch proud, 
 
 Who rests so gorgeous mid the princely train ? 
 
 And sleeps he sweeter than the humbler crowd, 
 Unmarked by costly arch or sculptured fane ? 
 I 've seen the turf-mound of the village hind, 
 Where all unsheltered from the wintry wind, 
 
 Sprang one lone flower of deep and deathless stain ; — 
 That simple faith which bides the shock of doom, 
 When bursts the visioned pomp that decked the sa- 
 trap's tomb. 
 
196 
 
 WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 
 
 Dim Abbey ! 'neath thine arch the shadowy past 
 O'ersweeps our spirits, like the banyan tree, 
 
 Till living men, as reeds before the blast, 
 
 Are bowed and shaken. Who may speak to thee, 
 Thou hoary guardian of the illustrious dead, 
 With unchilled bosom or a chainless tread ? 
 
 Thou breath'st no sound, no word of utterance free, 
 
 Save now and then a trembling chant from those, 
 
 Whose Sabbath worship wakes amid thy deep repose. 
 
 For thou the pulseless and the mute hast set, 
 As teachers of a world they loved too well, 
 
 And made thy lettered aisles an alphabet, 
 
 Where wealth and power their littleness may spell, 
 And go their way the wiser, if they will ; 
 Yea, even thy chisel's art, thy carver's skill, 
 
 Thy tracery, like the spider's film-wrought cell, 
 But deeper grave the lessons of the dead, 
 Their bones beneath our feet, thy dome above our head. 
 
 A throng is at thy gates. With lofty head 
 
 The unslumbering city claims to have her will, 
 
 She strikes her gong, and with a ceaseless tread 
 Circleth thy time-scathed walls. But stern and still, 
 Thou bear'st the chafing of her mighty tide, 
 In silence brooding o'er thy secret pride, 
 
 The moveless soldiers of thy citadel ; 
 
 Yet wide to Heaven thy trusting arms dost spread, 
 Thine only watch-word, God! God and the sacred dead! 
 
 London, Monday, Oct. 19, 1840. 
 
WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 197 
 
 "Oh German minstrel." 
 
 The monument of Handel bears a full length statue, 
 which is said to be a striking likeness of the original. 
 The attitude is noble and expressive. One arm rests 
 on a group of musical instruments, and the counte- 
 nance displays the delighted abstraction of listening 
 to an angel's harp from the clouds above. In allusion 
 to his composition of the " Messiah," there is inscrib- 
 ed, on a scroll by his side, the sublime passage, " I 
 know that my Redeemer liveth." Only his name, and 
 the dates of his birth and death are added, the marble 
 most happily comprehending in itself both his charac- 
 ter and eulogy. Apart from its own fitness and beau- 
 ty, it is viewed with interest as the last work of the 
 eminent sculptor, Roubiliac. 
 
 " Nor to the sceptred Stuart bowed him down." 
 
 The anecdote of Dr. Busby walking with his hat 
 on, when Charles the Second came to visit his cele- 
 brated school at Westminster, and the reason given 
 by him to the king, that " if his boys supposed there 
 was a man in the realm greater than himself, he should 
 never be able to govern them," is well known. The 
 severity of his sway as a teacher is equally well authen- 
 ticated. Yet with whatever majesty he arrayed him- 
 self, it would seem to have been devoted to the interests 
 of science, and to the improvement of those under 
 
198 
 
 WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 
 
 his care. The mode by which he pursued those 
 ends was not so peculiar two hundred years since, 
 as now, nor would it be now so obnoxious in Eng- 
 land, as among us. Some modification of his strict- 
 ness is still retained there, and its good effects are 
 still visible in every school that you visit, in the 
 order, obedience, and acquisition of the pupils. Dr. 
 Busby raised the character of Westminster school to 
 a high rank, by his learning and indefatigable indus- 
 try, and died on the verge of 90, in the possession of 
 his intellectual faculties, with the reputation of pro- 
 found learning and piety. Amid all the authority with 
 which he surrounded his office, he showed kindness to 
 studious pupils, and was anxious to advance their re- 
 ligious as well as scholastic improvement. The Rev. 
 Phillip Henry, who was long under his care, while he 
 bears testimony to the severity of his discipline, 
 speaks of the affection with which he regarded dili- 
 gent boys, and the zeal with which he strove to pre- 
 pare those, w r ho were religiously disposed, for the more 
 solemn duties of their faith, " for which, he adds, the 
 Lord recompense him a thousand fold into his bosom." 
 
 " A throng is at thy gates. 
 
 The contrast between the silence of this receptacle 
 of the mouldering dead, and the ceaseless press and 
 tumult of the living throng without, is strangely im- 
 
WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 199 
 
 pressive. The restlessness and rush of the people, in 
 the most populous parts of London, are among the 
 best helps to a stranger in forming an idea of its mag- 
 nitude. At first there is a dreaminess, an uncertainty 
 whether one is, of a very truth, in the " world's great 
 wilderness capital." Parts of it are so much like 
 what have been seen at home, that we try to fancy we 
 are still there. Names, too, with which we have been 
 familiar from the lispings of our earliest lessons in 
 geography, or whose imprint was in the most precious 
 picture books of our nursery, assist this illusion. 
 Paternoster Row, Temple Bar, Charing Cross, The 
 Strand, Fleet Street, Bolt Court, from whose sombre 
 windows it is easy to imagine Dr. Johnson still looking 
 out, are to us as household words. But when you see 
 the press and struggle of the living mass, at high noon, 
 through some of the most frequented streets, or when, 
 on some thronged Sabbath in St. Paul's, listen to the 
 tread of the congregation, like the rush of many 
 waters, upon the marble pavement of that vast ornate 
 pile, you begin to realize that you are indeed in the 
 midst of two millions of human beings. A kind of 
 suffocating fear steals for a moment over you, lest you 
 might never get clear of them, and breathe freely in 
 your own native woods again ; and then comes a deep 
 feeling, that you are as nothing among them ; that you 
 might fall in the streets and die, unnoticed or trodden 
 down ; that with all your home-indulgence, self-esteem, 
 and vanity about you, you are only a speck, a cypher, 
 
200 WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 
 
 a sand upon the sea-shore of creation ; a humiliating 
 consciousness, heavy, but salutary. 
 
 Two millions of human beings ! Here they have 
 their habitations, in every diversity of shelter, from 
 the palace to the hovel, in every variety of array, from 
 the inmate of the royal equipage to the poor street- 
 sweeper. Some glittering on the height of wealth 
 and power, others sinking in the depths of poverty 
 and misery. Yet to every heart is dealt its modicum 
 of hope, every lip hath a taste of the bitter bread of 
 disappointment. Death, ever taking aim among them, 
 replenishes his receptacles night and day, while in 
 thousands of curtained chambers, how many arms 
 and bosoms earnestly foster the new-born life, that he 
 may have fresh trophies. For earth and the things of 
 earth, for fancies and forms of happiness, all are 
 scheming, and striving, and struggling, from the little 
 rill; working its way under ground in darkness and si- 
 lence, to the great crested wave, that with a thunder- 
 ing echo breaks on the shore of eternity. 
 
ANNE BOLEYN. 201 
 
 ANNE BOLEYN. 
 
 ON SEEING IN THE TOWER OF LONDON THE AXE WITH WHICH 
 ANNE BOLEYN WAS BEHEADED. 
 
 Minion of Fate severe ! 
 Who, drunk with beauty's blood, 
 
 In spite of Time dost linger here, 
 Frowning with visage drear, 
 Like blackened beacon on the wrecking flood, 
 Say ! when Ambition's dream 
 First lured thy victim's heart aside, 
 Why, like a serpent didst thou hide, 
 Mid clustering flowers, and robes of pride, 
 Thy warning gleam 1 
 Hadst thou but once arisen, in vision dread, 
 From glory's fearful cliff her startled step had fled. 
 
 Ah ! little she reck'd, when St. Edward's crown 
 So heavily pressed her tresses fair, 
 That with sleepless wrath its thorns of care 
 
 Would rankle within her couch of down ! 
 
202 ANNE BOLEYN. 
 
 To the tyrant's bower, 
 In her beauty's power, 
 She came as a lamb to the lion's lair, 
 As the light bird cleaves the fields of air, 
 And carols blithe and sweet, while Treachery weaves 
 its snare. 
 
 Think ! what were her pangs as she traced her fate 
 On that changeful monarch's brow of hate? 
 What were the thoughts which at midnight hour 
 Thronged o'er her soul in yon dungeon-tower? 
 Regret, with pencil keen, 
 Retouched the deepening scene : 
 Gay France, which bade with sunny skies 
 Her careless childhood's pleasures rise, 
 Earl Percy's love, his youthful grace ; 
 Her gallant brother's fond embrace; 
 Her stately father's feudal halls, 
 Where proud heraldic annals decked the ancient walls. 
 
 Wrapped in the scaffold's gloom, 
 Brief tenant of that living tomb 
 She stands ! the life-blood chills her heart, 
 And her tender glance from earth does part; 
 But her infant daughter's image fair 
 In the smile of innocence is there, 
 It clings to her soul, mid its last despair ; 
 And the desolate queen is doomed to know 
 How far a mother's grief transcends a martyr's woe. 
 
ANNE BOLEYN. 203 
 
 Say ! did prophetic light 
 Illume her darkened sight, 
 Painting the future island-queen, 
 Like the fabled bird, all hearts surprising, 
 Bright from blood-stained ashes rising, 
 Strong, energic, bold, serene? 
 Ah no ! the scroll of time 
 Is sealed ; and hope sublime 
 Rests but on those far heights, which mortals may not 
 climb. 
 
 The dying prayer with trembling fervor speeds 
 For that false monarch, by whose will she bleeds : 
 For him, who listening on that fatal morn, 
 Hears her death-signal o'er the distant lawn 
 
 From the deep cannon speaking, 
 Then springs to mirth, and winds his bugle horn, 
 
 And riots, while her blood is reeking : 
 For him she prays, in seraph tone, 
 
 " Oh ! be his sins forgiven, 
 Who raised me to an earthly throne, 
 And sends me now, from prison lone, 
 
 To be a saint in Heaven." 
 
 Tower, Oct. 20, 1840. 
 
204 LADY JANE GREY's PRISON WINDOW. 
 
 LADY JANE GREY'S PRISON WINDOW. 
 
 Up, up this dizzy stair, for here she went 
 To her dark prison-room, the sweetly fair, 
 
 Around whose cradle wealth and power had bent, 
 And classic learning strewed its garlands rare : 
 
 The guiltless martyr for a father's fault, 
 
 That strong ambition which o'erleaped the truth, 
 
 And placed her shrinking on another's throne, 
 To whelm in hapless woe her blooming youth. 
 
 Here, on this grated window let me lean, 
 
 From whence she gazed upon that fearful sight, 
 
 The life-blood of her bosom's dearest lord ; 
 
 Her pale lip shuddering, yet her pure eye bright 
 
 With faith the same sharp path to tread, and meet 
 The idol of her love at their Redeemer's feet. 
 
 Tuesday, Oct. 20, 1840. 
 
 The objects of interest comprised within the pre- 
 cincts of the Tower are almost without number. 
 
THE TOWER. 
 
 205 
 
 Some, however, which were the most zealously shown, 
 were to me, from a deficiency of military taste, the 
 least pleasing ; for instance, the two hundred thousand 
 stand of arms, arranged in an imposing manner, and 
 quantities of cannon, captured from many countries. 
 The corroded guns of the Royal George, drawn by 
 the diving-bell from their long sojourn in the deep, 
 agreeably restored the plaintive verses of Cowper, so 
 often sung among the ditties of childhood : 
 
 " Toll for the brave, 
 
 The brave that are no more, 
 All sunk beneath the wave, 
 Fast by their native shore. " 
 
 The destructive weapons and instruments of tor- 
 ture, taken from the Spanish armada, are exhibited in 
 connexion with a waxen effigy of Queen Elizabeth 
 on horseback, going to return thanks at St. Paul's 
 for the defeat of that terrible armament, by the artillery 
 of Heaven, which she caused to be kept in memory 
 by a medal with the inscription, " Thou didst blow 
 with thy wind, the sea covered them." I placed my 
 thumb in the screws, which the Dons provided for 
 their English neighbors, touched the edge of the axe 
 that beheaded Anne Boleyn, felt the rugged block, 
 which had been so oft saturated with noble blood, 
 ascended the narrow, winding stair, to the turret, whose 
 walls the martyrs had indented with their names and 
 
206 THE TOWER. 
 
 etchings, and climbing still higher, looked from the 
 grated window, whence gazed the lovely Lady Jane 
 Grey, on the headless body of Lord Guilford Dudley, 
 and entered the low, miserable dungeon, where Sir 
 Walter Raleigh was nightly locked, while his chainless 
 mind solaced itself with the composition of history. 
 
 Afterwards in a darkened room we were shown, 
 through a rampart of iron bars, England's regalia, 
 sceptre, ampulla, and christening font, the crown of 
 poor Anne Boleyn, that of James the First, and the new 
 one made for Victoria, sparkling with precious stones, 
 and valued at two millions sterling. 
 
 The warders of the tower, with their flat hats or 
 caps, encircled with wreaths, and laced frock-coats, 
 lead the mind back to the time of Henry the Eighth, 
 who established that gorgeous costume. I formed 
 quite a friendship for the line of equestrian kings, 
 knights, and cavaliers, from Henry the Sixth to 
 James the First, who were ranged in full armor ; and 
 regretted their loss, when the subsequent conflagration 
 at the tower destroyed so many relics, that time and 
 tradition had made precious to mankind. 
 
OXFORD. 207 
 
 OXFORD. 
 
 Turret, and spire, and dome ! 
 
 How proud they rise, 
 Clasped in the arms of elmy avenues, 
 Each with its robe of wisdom or of power 
 Around it, like a mantle. Glorious thoughts, 
 Born of the hoary past, and mighty shades 
 Nurtured in silence, and made eloquent 
 Here, in these cloistered cells, for after times, 
 Meet him, who museth here. 
 
 I sat me down 
 Upon a quiet seat, o'erhung with boughs 
 Umbrageous, at my feet a dimpling stream, 
 The silver Cherwell, verdant meadows spread 
 Broadly around, where roamed the antlered deer 
 At. pleasure, while serene a snowy flock 
 Reposed or ruminated. 
 
 Did some cloud 
 Burst with an inborn melody ? Or harp, 
 Instinct with numbers of the minstrel king, 
 Pour forth an echo strain 1 It was thy song, 
 Oh Addison ! and this the chosen spot 
 
208 OXFORD- 
 
 Where thou didst sing of Him, who should prepare 
 Thy pasture, and by living waters lead, 
 And the unslumbering Shepherd of thy soul 
 Be evermore. 
 
 And then there seemed to pass 
 In shadowy host the great of other days, 
 Arm linked in arm, in high communion sweet, 
 Blessing the haunts where Learning forged for them 
 Imperishable armor ! 
 
 But we turned 
 From their entrancing company, to walk 
 Among the living, and to scan the tomes 
 In halls and alcoves hoarded, row on row, 
 Which in their plenitude might half confuse 
 The arithmetician's skill ; and see the light 
 With rainbow pencil through the storied panes 
 Of old St. Magdalen, so solemnly 
 Teach the cold pavement of the things of heaven, 
 A tender, tinted lesson, which the heart 
 Sometimes in deeper flintiness receives, 
 Unkindled, unreflected. Next, to hear 
 St. Mary's wondrous chant, at evening hour, 
 As though the earth to angels bade good night, 
 And they replied, hosanna; then, to stand 
 Beneath the pure eye of the watching stars, 
 Where on the winds their eddying ashes rose, 
 Who earthly mitre for a martyr's crown 
 In flames exchanged. 
 
 Methoucrht the scene returned 
 
OXFORD. 209 
 
 Unfadingly before us. Then, as now, 
 
 Fled was the summer-flush, though Autumn's breath 
 
 Delayed to sear the leaf, that o'er the tide 
 
 Of gentle Isis hung. Up through the mass 
 
 Of woven foliage went the holy towers, 
 
 And classic domes, where throned Science points 
 
 To Alfred's honored name. 
 
 See the rude throng, — 
 Dark glaring brows, and blood-shot, fiery eyes, 
 And preparations dire for fearful pangs 
 Of ignominious death. Yet all around, 
 The sparkling waters, and benignant skies, 
 And trees, with cool, embracing arms, allure 
 To thoughts of mercy. Still unpitying man 
 Heeds not, relents not, though sweet Nature kneels, 
 And sheds her holy tear-drops on his heart, 
 To melt the savage purpose. 
 
 Through dense crowds 
 Exulting led, there comes a noble form, 
 Majestic of demeanor, and arrayed 
 In sacerdotal robe. Those lips, which oft 
 'Neath some cathedral's awe-imposing arch 
 Warned with heaven's eloquence a tearful throng, 
 Now, in this deep adversity, essay 
 The same blest theme. With brutal haste they check 
 The unfinished sentence, they who used to crouch 
 To his high fortunes, or with shouts partake 
 His flowing bounty. Smitten on the mouth, 
 14 
 
210 OXFORD. 
 
 In silent dignity of soul he stands 
 Unanswering, though reviled. 
 
 Lo ! at his side, 
 Worn out with long imprisonment, they place 
 The venerable Latimer. With years 
 His footsteps falter, but his soul is firm, 
 And his fixed eye, like the first martyr's, seems 
 To read unfolding heaven. The gazing throng, 
 The stake, the faggot, and the cutting sneer, 
 Are nought to him. Wrapped in his prison-garb, 
 The scorn of low malignity is he, 
 Whom pomp and wealth had courted, at whose voice 
 The pious Edward wept that childlike tear, 
 Which works the soul's salvation, and his sire, 
 Boisterous and swoln with passion, stood reproved 
 Like a chained lion. 
 
 Now the narrow space 
 'Twixt life and death the dial's point hath run, 
 And quick, with sacrilegious hand they bind 
 The guiltless victims. 
 
 But the one, who seemed 
 The lowest bent with age, now strongest rose 
 To give away his spirit joyously ; 
 And throwing off his prison-garments stood 
 In fair, white robes, as on his spousal day. 
 Then Ridley, in whose veins the pulse beat strong 
 With younger life, girded himself to bear 
 The burning of his flesh, while Faith portrayed, 
 In glorious vision to his dazzled sight, 
 
OXFORD. 211 
 
 The noble army of those martyred ones, 
 Who round God's altar wait. 
 
 With wreathing spires 
 Up went the crackling flame, and that old man, 
 Triumphant o'er his anguish, boldly cried, 
 " Courage, my brother ! We this day do light 
 A fire in Christendom, that ne'er shall die." 
 Then on his shriveled lip an angel's smile 
 Settled, and life went forth as pleasantly 
 As from a couch of down. 
 
 But Ridley bore 
 A longer sorrow. Oft with sigh and prayer 
 He gave his soul to Jesus, ere the flame 
 Dissolved that gordian knot which bound it fast 
 To tortured clay. At length his blackened corse 
 Fell at the feet of Latimer, who raised 
 Still a calm brow to heaven. Almost it seemed 
 That even in death the younger Christian sought, 
 By posture of humility, to pay 
 Deep homage to his venerated guide 
 And father in the gospel. 
 
 'T was a sight 
 To curb demoniac rage. Low stifled sounds 
 Of pity rose, and many a murmurer mourned 
 For good king Edward, to the grave gone down 
 In early sanctity. And some there were 
 To ban the persecuting Clueen, who fed 
 The fires of Smithfield with the blood of saints, 
 And dared to kindle in these hallowed vales 
 
212 
 
 Her bigot wrath. 
 
 A chosen few there were, 
 Who sad and silent sought their homes, to weep 
 For their loved prelates ; yet no railing word, 
 Or vengeful purpose breathed, but waiting stood 
 For their own test of conscience and of faith 
 Inflexible. 
 
 This was the flock of Christ. 
 
 Tuesday, Oct. 27, 1840. 
 
 On the evening of our arrival at Oxford, we were 
 admonished of being in the classic atmosphere of the 
 University, by the tones of the " Mighty Tom," the 
 great bell of Christ Church, which weighs 17,000 lbs., 
 and at ten minutes after nine tolls 101 times, the 
 number of the established students, or fellows of that 
 College. In our subsequent visit to that Institution, 
 where the sons of the nobility are educated, we saw 
 their tables spread in the spacious hall, 115 feet in 
 length, and 50 in height, built by Cardinal Wolsey, 
 in the days of his magnificence. His portrait, in 
 crimson robes, was hanging near that of his Master, 
 Henry the Eighth, whose capricious temper wrought 
 his destruction. A rude, triangular garden-chair, 
 which he used to occupy, when superintending the 
 workmen upon the grounds, or the edifice, is still 
 preserved in the library ; and seating myself within 
 its no very luxurious purlieus, the pathos of his dying 
 words seemed to come freshly over me : 
 
OXFORD. 
 
 213 
 
 " Give me a little earth for charity." 
 
 Our researches in the Bodleian and Radcliffe libra- 
 ries, the former of which contains 400,000 volumes, 
 with countless manuscripts, delighted us exceedingly ; 
 as did also the architecture of those time-honored 
 structures, in which, and in the illustrious men nur- 
 tured within their walls, Oxford so justly glories. 
 The evening before our departure, after listening to 
 the sublime chants in the beautiful chapel of New 
 College, we went to stand on the spot, near Baliol, 
 where, on the 16th of October, 1555, Latimer, 
 bishop of Worcester, and Ridley, bishop of Lon- 
 don, expired at the stake. And it seemed, if not 
 a natural combination, surely a touching climax, 
 for thought to rise from the high, historical associa- 
 tions that cluster around the fanes of learning and 
 piety, to the unshrinking faith of that " blessed com- 
 pany of martyrs," who through much tribulation en- 
 tered into eternal rest. 
 
214 
 
 DOVER. 
 
 Out on the Shakspeare cliff, and look below ! 
 Seest thou the samphire-gatherer ? He no more 
 Pursues his fearful trade, as when the eye 
 Of Avon's bard descried him. But the height 
 Is still as dizzy, and the ruffian winds 
 Come from their conflict with the raging seas 
 So vengefully, that it is hard to hold 
 A footing on the rock. 
 
 The moon is forth 
 In all her queenly plenitude, and scans 
 The foaming channel with a look of peace, 
 But ill returned. For such a clamor reigns 
 Between the ploughing waves and unyoked blasts, 
 That the hoarse trumpet of the mariner 
 Seems like the grass-bird's chirp. 
 
 And yet 't is grand 
 To gaze upon the mountain-surge, and hear 
 How loftily it hurls the challenge back 
 To the chafed cloud, and feel yourself a speck, 
 An atom, in His sight, who rules its wrath, 
 To whom the crush of all the elements 
 
DOVER. 215 
 
 Were but a bursting bubble. 
 
 Cliffs of chalk, 
 Old Albion's signal to the mariner, 
 Encompass Dover, with their ramparts white, 
 As in her vale, half-deafened by the surge, 
 She croucheth down. Within their yielding breasts, 
 Deep excavations, and dark wreaths of smoke 
 Mysterious, curling upward to the cloud, 
 Reveal the soldier's home. 
 
 With Roman pride 
 The ancient Pharos in its dotage points 
 To Csesar, and the castellated walls 
 Of yon irregular fabric speak of war : — 
 While France, who through the curtaining haze 
 
 peers out 
 Faint on the far horizon, boasts how oft 
 The bomb-fires blazed, and the tired sentinel 
 Kept watch and ward against her warrior step, 
 Or threatened purpose. 
 
 Yet 't is sweeter far, 
 In yon sequestered vales and hamlets small, 
 To note the habitudes of rural life, 
 Safe from such hurly 'twixt the sea and shore, 
 As shreds the rock in fragments. 
 
 Twining round 
 Trellis or prop, or o'er the cottage wall 
 Weaving its wiry tendrils, interspersed 
 With the rough serrate leaf, profuse and dark, — 
 The aromatic hop, the grape of Kent, 
 
216 DOVER. 
 
 Lifts its full clusters, of a paler green, 
 Loved for the simple vintage. 
 
 Many a tale 
 Of interest and sympathy is rife 
 Among the humble harvesters of Kent ; 
 And one I heard, which I remember still. 
 In a lone hamlet, the narrator said, 
 I saw a funeral. Round the open grave 
 Gathered a band of thoughtful villagers, 
 While pressing nearest to its shelving brink, 
 A slender boy of some few summers stood, 
 Sole mourner, with a wild and wishful eye 
 Fixed on the coffin. When they let it down 
 Into the darksome pit, and the coarse earth 
 From the grave-digger's shovel falling gave 
 A hollow sound, there rose such bitter wail, 
 Prolonged and deep, as I had never heard 
 Come from a child. 
 
 Then he, who gave with prayers 
 The body to the dust, when the last rite 
 Was over, turned with sympathizing look, 
 And said ; 
 
 " Poor boy, your mother will not sleep 
 In this cold bed forever. No ! — as sure 
 As the sweet flowers, which now the frost hath 
 
 chilled, 
 Shall hear the call of spring, and the dry grass 
 Put on fresh greenness, she shall rise again, 
 And live a life of joy." 
 
217 
 
 Bleak autumn winds 
 Swept through the rustling leaves, and seemed to 
 
 pierce 
 The shivering orphan, as he bowed him down 
 All desolate, to look into the pit. 
 But from the group a kindly matron came, 
 And led him thence. 
 
 When spring returning threw 
 Her trembling colors o'er the wakened earth, 
 I wandered there again. A timid step 
 Fell on my ear, and that poor orphan child 
 Came from his mother's grave. Paler he 'd grown, 
 Since last I saw him, and his little feet 
 With frequent tread had worn the herbage down 
 To a deep, narrow path. He started thence, 
 And would have fled away. But when I said 
 That I had stood beside him, while they put 
 His mother in the grave, he nearer drew, 
 Inquiring eagerly, — 
 
 " Then did you hear 
 The minister, who always speaks the truth, 
 Say that she 'd rise again 1 — that just as sure 
 As spring restored to life the grass and flowers, 
 She would come back ? " 
 
 " Yes. — But not here, my son ; 
 Not to live here." 
 
 " Yes, here, this is the spot 
 Where she was laid. So here she '11 rise again, 
 Just where they buried her. I marked it well, 
 
218 
 
 DOVER. 
 
 And night and morning, since the grass grew green, 
 I've come to watch. Sometimes I press my lips 
 Close to the place where they laid down her head, 
 And call, and tell her that the flowers have come, 
 And now 'tis time to wake. See too the seeds 
 I planted here ! seeds of the flowers she loved, 
 Break the brown mould. But yet she does not come, 
 Nor answer to my voice." 
 
 " She cannot come 
 To you, on earth, but you shall go to her." 
 
 " I go to her ! " and his thin hands were clasped 
 So close, that every bone and sinew seemed 
 Fast knit together. " Shall I go to her ? 
 Let me go now." 
 
 Then, with a yearning heart, 
 I told him of the Book that promiseth 
 A resurrection, and eternal life 
 To them who sleep in Jesus, — that the word 
 Of God's unerring truth could ne'er deceive 
 The trusting soul, that kept His holy law 
 Obediently, and his appointed time 
 With patience waited. 
 
 " Then I '11 wait His time, 
 And try to do His will, if I may hope, 
 After this body dies, to rise again, 
 And live once more with mother." 
 
 So he turned 
 From that low grave, with such a piteous look 
 
219 
 
 Of soul subdued, and utter loneliness, 
 
 As haunted memory, like a troubled dream. 
 
 Time sped away, and when again I passed 
 That quiet village, I inquired for him, 
 And one who knew him told me how he prized 
 The Blessed Book, which teacheth that the dead 
 Shall rise again, and o'er its pages hung 
 Each leisure moment, with a wondering love, 
 Until he learned of Jesus, and laid down 
 All sorrow at his feet. 
 
 But then there came 
 A fearful sickness, and in many a cot 
 Were children dead, and he grew ill, and bore 
 His pain without complaint, and meekly died, 
 And went to join the mother that he loved. 
 
 Saturday, Nov. 7, 1840. 
 
 "Deep excavations, and dark wreaths of smoke." 
 
 In the towering cliffs of Dover, which are chalk, 
 with a mixture of flint stones, are cut various subter- 
 ranean ways, magazines, and barracks for soldiers. 
 The latter are capable of containing more than 2000 
 men, and are constructed in the side of perpendicular 
 precipices, to which you ascend, by an internal wind- 
 ing stair-case, some two hundred steps. Light and 
 air are conveyed to them by well-like apertures in the 
 
220 DOVER, 
 
 chalk, or by openings on the face of the cliffs ; and 
 an intelligent traveller has said, that " the chimneys, 
 coming up forty feet through the mountain, shoot out 
 their smoke, as if they were the flues of some Cyclo- 
 pean artificers, whose forges were in the bowels of the 
 earth." 
 
 " The ancient Pharos in its dotage points 
 To Caesar." 
 
 The remains of the Pharos, on Castle-Hill, furnish 
 incontestable proof of Roman workmanship, though 
 no decided evidence can be adduced that it was erect- 
 ed by Julius Caesar, as tradition is fond of asserting. 
 The commanding situation of Dover caused it to be 
 held as a military post by the ancient Britons, and 
 that it was fortified by the Romans is admitted by 
 the most discriminating historians. 
 
 " The aromatic hop, the grape of Kent." 
 
 The culture of the hop has long been a distinguish- 
 ing feature of the County of Kent. Old Michael 
 Drayton exclaims ; 
 
 " O famous Kent ! 
 What county can this isle compare with thee? 
 Which hath within thyself all thou couldst wish, 
 Rabbits and venison, fruits, hops, fowl and fish," &c. 
 
221 
 
 And a more modern poet describes with greater 
 particularity this predominating vegetable. 
 
 " On Cantium's hills, 
 The flowery hop, with tendrils climbing round 
 The tall, aspiring pole, bears its light head 
 Aloft, in pendent clusters." 
 
 The name of Cantium, which was given to this 
 county by Caesar, is referred by Camden to the word 
 Canton, or Cant, signifying corner, because it stretched 
 out in the form of a large angle, comprehending the 
 south-east coast of the island. 
 
 Though our journey from London to Dover was 
 principally performed amidst a violent rain, we were 
 not precluded from some observation of the finely 
 varied country through which we were passing. 
 
 Rochester Cathedral, which, notwithstanding the 
 storm, we found opportunity to visit, is of early Saxon 
 origin, and suffered much under William the Con- 
 queror, and at the Reformation. It has statues of 
 Henry the Second, and his queen, Matilda, but not 
 many monuments to illustrious men. It is the small- 
 est of the cathedrals in England, and belongs to the 
 smallest diocese. 
 
 Canterbury Cathedral towered up like a mountain 
 through the dimness of twilight. The edifice which 
 originally occupied its site was burned by the Danes, 
 during their siege of the city in 1011, and rebuilt in 
 
222 
 
 DOVER. 
 
 the course of the same century. It contains the tomb 
 of Becket, whose blood was spilt before its altar, at 
 the instigation of Henry the Second. It has also the 
 monuments of Henry the Fourth, and his queen ; 
 the Black Prince, and many other distinguished char- 
 acters, both of ancient and modern times. 
 
 The whole of our stay in Dover was marked by 
 wind and tempest. In an evening promenade, some- 
 what overrating our powers of adhesion to the rocks 
 that we traversed, we were near being blown from the 
 Shakspeare cliff into the surges that boiled beneath. 
 Dover Castle and its reminiscences of the vigilance, 
 with which the English troops here kept guard against 
 the vaunted invasion of the Corsican, induced one of 
 our party to describe a caricature, executed at that 
 time in London, which gave great satisfaction to the 
 people. Bonaparte is represented on the very verge 
 of the coast of Calais, eagerly pointing a spyglass to- 
 wards the heights of Dover, where John Bull, in full 
 military uniform, and with his usual portly figure, is 
 perambulating at leisure. 
 
 "Says Boney to Johnny, I'm coming to Dover, 
 Says Johnny to Boney, 't is doubted by some ; 
 But says Boney, what if I really come over ? 
 Then doubtless, says Johnny, you '11 be overcome." 
 
 It was not without some misgivings, heightened 
 probably by those November fogs and rains, which in 
 
DOVER. 223 
 
 the English clime make demands on the most elastic 
 spirit, that we prepared to cross the angry Channel, 
 and enter another foreign land. A discourse to which 
 we listened in Trinity Church, the Sunday before 
 leaving Dover, seemed to impart strength to our faith, 
 both by its spirit and the passage on which it was 
 founded, " Lord, to whom shall we go but unto Thee? 
 Thou hast the words of eternal life." 
 
224 
 
 CALAIS. 
 
 Edward was fired with wrath. 
 
 " Bring forth," he said, 
 " The hostages, and let their death instruct 
 This contumacious city." 
 
 Forth they came, 
 The rope about their necks, those patriot men, 
 Who nobly chose an ignominious doom 
 To save their country's blood. Famine and toil 
 And the long siege had worn them to the bone ; 
 Yet from their eye spoke that heroic soul 
 Which scorns the body's ill. Father and son 
 Stood side by side, and youthful forms were there, 
 By kindred linked, for whom the sky of life 
 Was bright with love. Yet no repining sigh 
 Darkened their hour of fate. Well had they taxed 
 The midnight thought, and nerved the wearied arm, 
 While months and seasons thinned their wasting 
 
 ranks. 
 The harvest failed, the joy of vintage ceased : — 
 Vine-dresser and grape-gatherer manned the walls, 
 And when they sank with hunger, others came, 
 
CALAIS. 225 
 
 Of cheek more pale, perchance, but strong at heart. 
 Yet still those spectres poured their arrow-flight, 
 Or hurled the deadly stone, while at the gates 
 The conqueror of Cressy sued in vain. 
 " Lead them to die ! " he bade. 
 
 In nobler hearts 
 There was a throb of pity for the foe 
 So fallen and so unblenching; yet none dared 
 Meet that fierce temper with the word, forgive ! 
 
 Who comes with hasty step, and flowing robe, 
 
 And hair so slightly bound ? The Queen ! the Queen ! 
 
 An earnest pity on her lifted brow, 
 
 Tears in her azure eye, like drops of light. 
 
 What seeks she with such fervid eloquence? 
 
 Life for the lost ! And ever as she fears 
 
 Her suit in vain, more wildly heaves her breast, 
 
 In secrecy of prayer, to save her lord 
 
 From cruelty so dire, and from the pangs 
 
 Of late remorse. At first, the strong resolve 
 
 Curled on his lip, and raised his haughty head, 
 
 While every firm-set muscle prouder swelled 
 
 To iron rigor. Then his flashing eye 
 
 Rested upon her, till its softened glance 
 
 Confessed contagion from her tenderness, 
 
 As with a manly and chivalrous grace 
 
 The boon he gave. 
 
 Oh woman ! ever seek 
 A victory like this ; with heavenly warmth 
 15 
 
226 CALAIS. 
 
 Still melt the icy purpose, still preserve 
 
 From error's path the heart that thou dost fold 
 
 Close in thine own pure love. Yes, ever be 
 
 The advocate of mercy, and the friend 
 
 Of those whom all forsake ; so may thy prayer 
 
 In thine adversity be heard of Him, 
 
 Who multiplies to pardon. 
 
 Still we thought 
 Of thee, Philippa, and thy fervent tone 
 Of intercession, and the cry of joy, 
 Which was its echo from the breaking heart, 
 In many a mournful home. Of thee we thought, 
 With blessings on thy goodness, as we came 
 All chill and dripping from the salt sea wave, 
 Within the gates of Calais, soon to wend 
 Our onward course. 
 
 The vales of France were green, 
 As if the soul of summer lingered there, 
 Yet the crisp vine-leaf told an autumn-tale, 
 While the brown windmills spread their flying arms 
 To every fickle breeze. The singing-girl 
 Awoke her light guitar, and featly danced 
 To her own madrigals ; but the low hut 
 Of the poor peasant seemed all comfortless, 
 And his harsh-featured wife, made swarth by toils 
 Unfeminine, with no domestic smile 
 Cheered her sad children, plunging their dark feet 
 Deep in the miry soil. 
 
 At intervals 
 
CALAIS. 227 
 
 Widely disjoined, where clustering roofs arose, 
 The cry of shrill mendicity was up, 
 And at each window of our vehicle, 
 Hand, hat, and basket thrust, and the wild eye 
 Of clamorous children, eager for a coin, 
 Assailed our every pause. At first, the pang 
 Of pity moved us, and we vainly wished 
 For wealth to fill each meagre hand with gold ; 
 But oft besought, suspicion steeled the heart, 
 And 'neath the guise of poverty, we deemed 
 Vice, or deception lurked. So on we passed, 
 Save when an alms some white-haired form implored, 
 Bowed down with age, or some pale, pining babe, 
 Froze into silence by its misery, 
 Clung to the sickly mother. On we passed, 
 In homely diligence, like cumbrous house, 
 Tri-partite and well peopled, its lean steeds 
 Rope-harnessed and grotesque, while the full moon 
 Silvered our weary caravan, that wrought 
 Unresting, night and day, until the towers 
 Of fair St. Denis, where the garnered dust 
 Of many a race of Gallic monarchs sleeps, 
 Gleamed through the misty morning, and we gained 
 The gates of Paris. 
 
 Thursday, Nov. 13, 1840. 
 
 Thankful were we to find, on the shores of France, 
 and within the gates of Calais, stable footing, and by 
 
228 
 
 a comfortable fire strove to efface from each other's 
 remembrance the fearful tossing, which we had en- 
 dured upon the wrathful straits of Dover, " mounting 
 up to the heavens, going down again to the depths, 
 our souls melted because of trouble." 
 
 It was not until the evening of the following day, 
 that we felt sufficiently reinstated to make trial of the 
 movements of a French diligence. At the hour of 
 nine, off set the cumbrous machine, drawn by five 
 horses, carrying in the coupe three persons, in the in- 
 terieur six, in the rear compartment three, and on the 
 top an unknown number, beside the conducteur and 
 his compagnon. 
 
 The country in the vicinity of Calais is flat, the 
 roads drained by a kind of canal on each side, and 
 planted with clumsy trees. These were partially de- 
 nuded, but the verdure of the fields was deep and 
 brio-ht as in summer. The processes of agriculture 
 seemed rude, and the ploughs of an awkward con- 
 struction mounted on wheels. Frequent stacks of 
 grain and hay told of a plentiful harvest, and here 
 and there the scathed grape vine climbed with its crisp 
 tendril to the eaves, or over the tiled roof of some 
 lowly dwelling. Many of the hovels were miserably 
 planted in the midst of an expanse of mud, in which 
 the poor peasants paddled whenever they stepped from 
 the doors. We looked in vain for the white cottages 
 of England, so beautiful with their trim hedges and 
 lingering blossoms. 
 
CALAIS. 229 
 
 At St. Omers, a fortified town of gloomy aspect, 
 where we stopped for a few minutes' refreshment, we 
 were first initiated into the terrible mendicity of 
 France. Every age and condition of suffering hu- 
 manity beset us, and cried at each crevice of our ve- 
 hicle with the most piteous and persevering tones. 
 
 Being fatigued with sitting twenty hours in the dil- 
 igence, with scarcely an opportunity to change our 
 position, we decided to rest at Amiens for a night and 
 day. We visited the Cathedral, which is a grand, 
 imposing building, both in architecture and decora- 
 tions, heard the regular daily service performed, 
 and saw many superb monuments and shrines, before 
 which candles were perpetually burning. At seven in 
 the evening, we recommenced another journey of 
 twenty hours, stopping only a few moments at Cler- 
 mont at three in the morryng. The moon occasional- 
 ly piercing the clouds reflected the shadow of our 
 ludicrous and rumbling equipage, like a house on 
 wheels, drawn sometimes by six, and at others by 
 seven horses, over wet and heavy roads ; and delighted 
 were we, when the domes of Paris discovered them- 
 selves, and at the Hotel Meurice, opposite the gardens 
 of the Tuileries, we found refreshment and repose. 
 
230 
 
 OBELISK OF LUXOR. 
 
 OBELISK OF LUXOR, 
 
 IN THE PLACE DE LA CONCORDE. 
 
 Thou here ! What but a miracle could tear 
 
 Thee from thine old and favorite spot of birth 1 
 And o'er the wave thy ponderous body bear, 
 Making thee thus at home in foreign earth ? 
 While countless throngs with curious glance regard 
 Thy strange and sanguine face, with hieroglyphics 
 scarred. 
 
 Thou hadst a tedious voyage, I suppose, 
 
 Sea-sickness and rough rocking, — was it so? 
 Thou wert as Jonah to the mariners, 
 
 I understand, and wrought them mickle woe ; 
 And when the port was reached, they feared with pain 
 Thou ne'er wouldst raise thy head, or be thyself again. 
 
 Dost think thy brother Monolinth will dare, 
 
 Like thee, the dangers of the deep to meet 1 
 I learn he has the viceroy's leave to take 
 The tour, his education to complete : 
 Thy warm, fraternal heart right glad would be 
 Here, in this stranger land, his honest face to see. 
 
OBELISK OF LUXOR. 231 
 
 What canst thou tell us ? thou whose wondrous date 
 Doth more than half our planet's birth-days meas- 
 ure ! 
 Saw'st thou Sesostris, in his regal state, 
 
 Ruling the conquered nations at his pleasure ? 
 And are those stories true, by History told, 
 Of hundred-gated Thebes, with all her power and gold? 
 
 Didst hear how hard the yoke of bondage pressed 
 
 On Israel's chosen race, by Nilus' strand ? 
 And how the awful seer, with words of flame, 
 Did in the presence of the tyrant stand, 
 When with dire plagues the hand of Heaven was red, 
 And stiff-necked Egypt shrieked o'er all her first-born 
 dead ? 
 
 Tell us who built the pyramids ; and why 
 
 They took such pains those famous tombs to rear, 
 Yet chanced at last to let their names slip by, 
 And drown in dark oblivion's waters drear; 
 Paris, though so polite, can scarce restrain 
 A smile at such mistake and toil for honors vain. 
 
 Didst e'er attend a trial of the dead 1 
 
 Pray, tell us where the judges held their seat; 
 
 And touch us just the key-note of the tune, 
 
 Which statued Memnon breathed, the morn to 
 greet; 
 
232 OBELISK OF LUXOR. 
 
 Or sing of Isis' priests the vesper-chime ; 
 
 Or doth thy memory fail beneath the weight of time? 
 
 How little didst thou dream, in youth, to be 
 
 So great a traveller in thy hoary years, 
 And here, in lilied France, to take thy stand, 
 The silvery fountains playing round thine ears, 
 And groves and gardens stretching 'neath thy feet, 
 Where sheds the lingering sun his parting lustres sweet. 
 
 Yet beautiful thou art in majesty, 
 
 As ancient oracle, from Delphic shrine, 
 
 Which by the Ocean cast on stranger-shore, 
 
 Claims worship for its mysteries divine ; 
 
 And Egypt hath been prodigally kind, 
 
 Such noble gift to send, to keep her love in mind. 
 
 The earth whereon thou standest hath been red 
 
 And saturate with blood, and at the rush 
 Of those who came to die, hath quaked with dread, 
 As though its very depths did shrink and blush, 
 Like Eden's soil, when first the purple tide 
 It drank with shuddering lip, and to its Maker cried. 
 
 Be as a guardian to this new-found home, 
 
 That fondly wooed thee o'er the billows blue, 
 
 For 't were a pity sure, to come so far, 
 
 And know so much, and yet no good to do : — 
 
OBELISK OF LUXOR. 
 
 233 
 
 So from the " Place la Concorde" blot the shame, 
 And bid it lead a life more worthy of its name. 
 
 Paris, Wednesday, Nov. 18, 1840. 
 
 Among the conspicuous objects that in Paris by 
 their number and beauty astonish the stranger, he is 
 early attracted by the venerable obelisk of Luxor. It 
 is of a single block of red sienite, and covered with 
 hieroghyphics, most of which refer to Sesostris, during 
 whose reign it was erected. 
 
 In such good preservation is this relic of antiquity 
 and art, that the mind is slow in believing that nearly 
 3400 years have elapsed, since it was first placed in 
 front of the great temple of Thebes, the modern 
 Luxor. It was given, with another of the same size, 
 by the Viceroy of Egypt to the French government. 
 But such were the difficulties to be overcome in its 
 transportation, that the removal of its partner has 
 never been attempted. The labor of taking it down, 
 and conveying it to the banks of the Nile, occupied 
 eight hundred men for three months. A road had to be 
 constructed and a vessel built on purpose to receive 
 it. The latter was obliged to be sawn off vertically, to 
 accomodate the ponderous passenger, and performed 
 its voyage with peril. Three years after its separation 
 from its original site it arrived in Paris, and in three 
 more years, by the most ingenious and powerful 
 machinery, its final elevation in its new home was 
 effected. It stands on a pedestal of granite in the 
 
234 OBELISK OF LUXOR. 
 
 midst of an eliptical plateau, paved with asphaltum. 
 Two magnificent fountains throw up their silver 
 waters, which fall with a pleasant sound into vast cir- 
 cular basins encrusted with marble ; while Tritons and 
 Nereids, attended by swans and dolphins, hasten to 
 welcome the wonderful guest. Colossal statues stand 
 around in their majesty, to do it honor ; hoary Ocean, 
 the classic Mediterranean, Agriculture solicitiug the 
 gifts of earth, Commerce gathering riches from the sea, 
 and Astronomy with her soul among the stars. Person- 
 ifications of the Rhine and the Rhone, with the Genii 
 of Flowers and Fruits, of Vintage, and of the Harvest, 
 express the hospitalities of France. Old Egypt rests 
 among them and is satisfied. 
 
 The Place de la Concorde, where this stranger 
 Obelisk is domesticated, was originally the Place Louis 
 Fifteenth, and known in the time of terror as the Place 
 de la Revolution. Fearful baptisms of blood has that 
 spot known, from the trampling down of thousands, in 
 the fatal rush at the marriage festival of Louis Sixteenth, 
 to the sad spectacle of his own decapitation, and that of 
 the throngs who night and day fed the guillotine. In 
 the two years that succeeded his death, more than 
 2000 persons of both sexes were executed here, until 
 it was said, that the soil, pampered with its terrible 
 aliment, rose up, and burst open, and refused to be 
 trodden down like other earth. 
 
PERE LA CHAISE. 235 
 
 PERE LA CHAISE. 
 
 I stood amid the dwellings of the dead, 
 
 And saw the gayest city of the earth 
 
 Spread out beneath me. Cloud and sunlight lay 
 
 Upon her palaces and gilded domes, 
 
 In slumbrous beauty. Through the streets flowed on, 
 
 In ceaseless stream, gay equipage and throng, 
 
 As fashion led the way. Look up ! Look up ! 
 
 Mont Louis hath a beacon. Wheresoe'er 
 
 Ye seem to tend, so lightly dancing on 
 
 In your enchanted maze, a secret spell 
 
 Is on your footsteps, and unseen they haste 
 
 Where ye would not, and whence ye ne'er return. 
 
 Blind pilgrims are we all ! We close our eyes 
 
 On the swift torrent that o'erwhelms our race, 
 
 And in our spanlike path the goal forget, 
 
 Until the shadows lengthen, and we sink 
 
 To rise no more. 
 
 Methinks the monster Death 
 Wears not such visage here, so grim and gaunt 
 With terror, as he shows in other lands. 
 Robing himself in sentiment, he wraps 
 
236 PERE LA CHAISE. 
 
 His dreary trophies in a maze of flowers, 
 
 And makes his tombs like temples, or a home 
 
 So sweet to love, that grief doth fleet away. 
 
 — I saw a mother mourning. The fair tomb 
 
 Was like a little chapel, hung with wreath, 
 
 And crucifix. And there she spread the toys 
 
 That her lost babe had loved, as if she found 
 
 A solace in the memory of its sports. 
 
 Tears flowed like pearl-drops, yet without the pang 
 
 That wrings and rends the heart-strings. It would 
 
 seem 
 A tender sorrow, scarce of anguish born, 
 So much the influence of surrounding charms 
 Did mitigate it. 
 
 Mid the various groups 
 That visited the dead, I marked the form 
 Of a young female winding through the shades. 
 Just at that point she seemed, where childhood melts 
 But half away, like snows that feel the sun, 
 Yet shrinking closer to their shaded nook, 
 Delay to swell the sparkling stream of youth. 
 She had put off her sabots at the gate, 
 Heavy with clay, and to a new-made grave 
 Hasted alone. Upon its wooden cross 
 She placed her chaplet, and with whispering lips, 
 Perchance in prayer, perchance in converse low 
 With the loved slumberer, knelt, and strewed the 
 
 seeds 
 Of flowers among the mould. A shining mass 
 
PERE LA CHAISE. 237 
 
 Of raven tresses 'scaped amid the toil 
 From their accustomed boundary ; but her eyes, 
 None saw them, for she heeded not the tread 
 Of passers-by. Her business was with those 
 Who slept below. 'T would seem a quiet grief, 
 And yet absorbing ; such as a young heart 
 Might for a sister feel, ere it had learned 
 A deeper love. 
 
 Come to yon stately dome, 
 With arch and turret, every shapely stone 
 Breathing the legends of the Paraclete, 
 Where slumber Abelard and Heloise, 
 'Neath such a world of wreaths, that scarce ye see 
 Their marble forms recumbent, side by side. 
 On ! On ! — this populous spot hath many a fane, 
 To win the stranger's admiration. See 
 La Fontaine's fox-crowned cenotaph; and his 
 Whose " Mecanique Celeste " hath writ his name 
 Among the stars ; and hers who, soaring high 
 In silken globe, found a strange death by fire 
 Amid the clouds. 
 
 The dead of distant lands 
 Are gathered here. In pomp of sculpture sleeps 
 The Russian DemidofT, and Britain's sons 
 Have crossed the foaming sea, to leave their dust 
 In a strange soil. Yea, from my own far land 
 They 've wandered here, to die. Were there not 
 
 graves 
 Enough among our forests 1 by the marge 
 
238 PERE LA CHAISE. 
 
 Of our broad streams? amid the hallowed mounds 
 Of early kindred 1 that ye needs must come 
 This weary way, to share the strangers' bed, 
 My people ? I could weep to find ye here ! 
 And yet your names are sweet, the words ye grave, 
 In the loved language of mine infancy, 
 Most pleasant to the eye, involved so long 
 Mid foreign idioms. 
 
 Yonder height doth boast 
 The warrior-chiefs, who led their legions on 
 To sack and siege ; whose flying tramp disturbed 
 The Cossack in his hut, the Alpine birds, 
 Who build above the cloud, and Egypt's slaves, 
 Crouching beneath their sky-crowned pyramids. 
 How silent are they all ! No warning trump 
 Amid their host ! No steed ! No footstep stirs 
 Of those who rushed to battle ! Haughtily 
 The aspiring marble tells each pausing group 
 Their vaunted fame. Oh, shades of mighty men ! 
 Went these proud honors with you, where the spear 
 And shield resound no more 1 Cleaves the blood-stain 
 Around ye there ? Steal the deep-echoing groans 
 Of those who fell, the cry of those who mourned, 
 Across the abyss that bars you from our sight, 
 Waking remorseful pangs ? 
 
 We may not ask 
 With hope of answer. But the time speeds on, 
 When all shall know. 
 
 There is the lowly haunt, 
 
PERE LA CHAISE. 239 
 
 Where rest the poor. No towering obelisk 
 Beareth their name. No blazoned tablet tells 
 Their joys or sorrows. Yet 't is sweet to muse 
 Around their pillow of repose, and think 
 That Nature mourns their loss, though man forget. 
 The lime-tree and acacia, side by side, 
 Spring up, in haste to do their kindly deed 
 Of sheltering sympathy, as though they knew 
 Their time was short. 
 
 Sweet Nature ne'er forgets 
 Her buried sons, but cheers their summer-couch 
 With turf and dew-drops, bidding autumn's hand 
 Drop lingering garlands of its latest leaves, 
 And glorious spring from wintry thraldom burst, 
 To bring their type of Immortality. 
 
 Monday, Nov. 23, 1840. 
 
 " Mont Louis hath a beacon." 
 
 That portion of Mont Louis which is appropriated 
 to the most beautiful of the four cemeteries, in the 
 neighborhood of Paris, was originally a part of the 
 garden and pleasure-grounds of Pere la Chaise, the 
 favorite confessor of Louis the Fourteenth, and 
 Madame de Maintenon. It covers nearly 100 acres, 
 and its mixture of funereal foliage and flowers, with the 
 monuments of the dead, is picturesque and imposing. 
 Yet it is less touching in its effect on the feelings, than 
 
240 PERE LA CHAISE. 
 
 the labyrinthine solitudes of Mount Auburn, or the 
 sweet spot where the dead repose at Laurel Hill, on 
 the green margin of the Schuylkill. Forty years have 
 not elapsed since it was set apart for this service. The 
 first corpse was laid there on the 21st of May, 1804; 
 since which there have been more than 100,000 inter- 
 ments, and 16,000 monuments erected. These are in 
 every diversified form, of column, urn, and altar, pyr- 
 amid, obelisk, and sepulchral chapel ; many of them 
 surrounded by enclosures, within which are plants, and 
 flowering shrubs, and seats for mourning friends, in 
 their visits to the departed. 
 
 " Where slumber Abelard and Heloise." 
 
 This monument is of Gothic architecture, and con- 
 structed from the ruins of the abbey of the Paraclete. 
 Its form is a parallelogram, fourteen feet by eleven, 
 and twenty-four in height. A pinnacle twelve feet in 
 elevation rises from the centre of the roof, and four 
 smaller ones, finely sculptured, ornament the corners. 
 It has fourteen columns six feet in height, with rich 
 capitals, and the arches which they support are sur- 
 mounted by cornices wrought with flowers. The four 
 pediments are decorated with bas-reliefs, roses, and 
 medallions. The statues of Heloise and Abelard are 
 recumbent within, and literally heaped with gar- 
 lands. Their bones repose in the vault beneath; those 
 of Abelard having been removed from the priory of 
 
PERE LA CHAISE. 241 
 
 St. Marcel, where he died in 1142, and those of 
 Heloise, who survived him about twenty years, from 
 the Paraclete, of which she was abbess. 
 
 " And hers who, soaring high 
 In silken globe, found a strange death by fire 
 Among the clouds." 
 
 The tomb of the unfortunate Madame Blanchard 
 is surmounted by a globe in flames. The inventor 
 of gas-lights is also honored by a gilded flame issuing 
 from an urn. The benevolent Abbe Sicard has his 
 name recorded on his monument by beautifully sculp- 
 tured marble hands, each stretched forth to form one 
 of its letters according to the manual alphabet of the 
 deaf and dumb, his indebted and affectionate pupils. 
 On the tomb of Gretry, the musical composer, hangs a 
 lyre, and on that of La Fontaine sits very composedly 
 a black fox, while two bas-reliefs in bronze represent, 
 one his fable of the wolf and stork, the other that of 
 the wolf and lamb. Parmentier, to whom France 
 owed in a great measure the general cultivation of the 
 potato, has an elegant monument, and Denon, the 
 traveller, a pedestal surmounted by his statue, in 
 bronze. Deeply shaded by lime trees, is a tomb in 
 the form of a cottage, where reposes Frederic Meste- 
 zart, the beloved pastor of a church in Geneva ; and 
 the Russian Countess DemidofT is interred beneath a 
 16 
 
242 PERE LA CHAISE. 
 
 superb temple of the richest white marble, supported 
 by ten columns, having in the interior a recumbent 
 statue on an altar-tomb, with her arms and cornet. From 
 the tomb of La Place rises an obelisk, crowned with 
 an urn, and ornamented by a star and palm branches 
 encircling inscriptions and eulogies on his works. A 
 splendid sepulchral chapel, surmounted by a temple, 
 is erected to the memory of General Foy, whose statue 
 is represented in the act of haranguing the people. 
 The military taste of France is seen in the pomp and 
 lavish expense, with which the sepulchres of her chiefs 
 are adorned. Marshal Davoust has a pyramid of 
 granite ; Massena, one of white marble, 21 feet in 
 height ; Le Fevre, a magnificent sarcophagus, where 
 two figures of Fame are crowning his bust, and a ser- 
 pent, the emblem of immortality, encircling his sword ; 
 while Ney, the " bravest of the brave," sleeps un- 
 marked, save by a single cypress. 
 
 " My people." 
 
 It was not without surprise that I found so many 
 from my own dear land, in this receptacle of the dead. 
 Five States, New York, Pennsylvania, Massachusetts, 
 Connecticut, and Tennessee, have sent a delegation of 
 their sons and daughters to the sepulchres of a foreign 
 land. The names of each, though almost all person- 
 ally unknown, touched the chords of tender sympathy, 
 
PERE LA CHAISE. 243 
 
 as if for a relative or friend. One of these, for many 
 years a resident in Boston, though a native of Portu- 
 gal, will awaken the affectionate recollection of some 
 who knew and respected her. 
 
 Died 
 
 March 1st, 1832, 
 
 Frances Ann, 
 
 Countess Colonna de Walewski, 
 
 Widow of the late General Humphreys 
 
 of the United States, 
 
 Minister in Spain and Portugal. 
 
 " As though they knew 
 Their time was short." 
 
 Trees and shrubs, of slight root and rapid growth, 
 adorn that part of the cemetery which is appropriated 
 to the common people. They are buried in tempora- 
 ry graves, the better class of which may be held for 
 ten years, by a payment of fifty francs, after which 
 term they are revertible to the cemetery, even though 
 monuments should have been erected upon them. The 
 other class, or the fosses communes, are where the 
 poor are gratuitously buried in coffins laid side by 
 side, without any intervening space. This spot is re- 
 opened and buried over again every five years ; that 
 period of time being allowed for the decomposition of 
 
244 PERE LA CHAISE 
 
 the bodies. The wooden crosses, which designate the 
 respective graves, have occasionally an inscription, 
 touching from its simplicity. One commemorates 
 
 " Pauvre Marie ! 
 A 29 ans." 
 
 Among the temporary graves are occasionally cul- 
 tured plants, little borders of box, and other fragile 
 decorations, exemplifying the sweet and truthful senti- 
 ment of the bard of the " Country Church Yard." 
 
 " For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey, 
 
 This pleasing, anxious being e'er resigned ; 
 Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, 
 Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind ? " 
 
THE RETURN OF NAPOLEON. 245 
 
 THE RETURN OF NAPOLEON 
 
 FROM ST. HELENA. 
 
 Ho ! City of the gay ! 
 
 Paris ! what festal rite 
 Doth call thy thronging million forth 
 
 All eager for the sight 1 
 Thy soldiers line the streets 
 
 In fixed and stern array, 
 With buckled helm and bayonet, 
 
 As on the battle-day. 
 
 By square, and fountain side, 
 
 Heads in dense masses rise, 
 And tower, and battlement, and tree, 
 
 Are studded thick with eyes. 
 Comes there some conqueror home 
 
 In triumph from the fight, 
 With spoil and captives in his train, 
 
 The trophies of his might? 
 
246 THE RETURN OF NAPOLEON. 
 
 The " Arc de Triomphe" glows! 
 
 A martial host are nigh, 
 France pours in long succession forth 
 
 Her pomp of chivalry. 
 No clarion marks their way, 
 
 No victor trump is blown ; 
 Why march they on so silently, 
 
 Told by their tread alone ? 
 
 Behold ! in glittering show, 
 
 A gorgeous car of state ! 
 The white-plumed steeds, in cloth of gold, 
 
 Bow down beneath its weight ; 
 And the noble war-horse, led 
 
 Caparisoned along, 
 Seems fiercely for his lord to ask, 
 
 As his red eye scans the throng. 
 
 Who rideth on yon car 1 
 
 The incense flameth high, — 
 Comes there some demi-god of old ? 
 
 No answer ! — No reply ! 
 Who rideth on yon car 1 — 
 
 No shout his minions raise, 
 But by a lofty chapel dome 
 
 The muffled hero stays. 
 
 A king is standing there, 
 And with uncovered head 
 
 
 
THE RETURN OF NAPOLEON. 247 
 
 Receives him in the name of France, 
 
 Receiveth whom 1 — The dead ! 
 Was he not buried deep 
 
 In island-cavern drear, 
 Girt by the sounding ocean surge? 
 
 How came that sleeper here ? 
 
 Was there no rest for him 
 
 Beneath a peaceful pall, 
 That thus he brake his stony tomb, 
 
 Ere the strong angel's call? 
 Hark ! Hark ! the requiem swells, 
 
 A deep, soul-thrilling strain ! 
 An echo, never to be heard 
 
 By mortal ear again. 
 
 A requiem for the chief, 
 
 Whose fiat millions slew, 
 The soaring eagle of the Alps, 
 
 The crushed at Waterloo : — 
 The banished who returned, 
 
 The dead who rose again, 
 And rode in his shroud the billows proud, 
 
 To the sunny banks of Seine. 
 
 They laid him there in state, 
 
 That warrior strong and bold, 
 The imperial crown, with jewels bright, 
 
 Upon his ashes cold ; 
 
248 THE RETURN OF NAPOLEON. 
 
 While round those columns proud 
 
 The blazoned banners wave, 
 That on a hundred fields he won, 
 
 With the heart's-blood of the brave. 
 
 And sternly there kept guard 
 
 His veterans scarred and old, 
 Whose wounds of Lodi's cleaving bridge, 
 
 Or purple Leipsic told. 
 Yes, there, with arms reversed, 
 
 Slow pacing, night and day, 
 Close watch beside the coffin kept 
 
 Those veterans grim and gray. 
 
 A cloud is on their brow, — 
 
 Is it sorrow for the dead 1 
 Or memory of the fearful strife, 
 
 Where their country's legions fled ? 
 Of Borodino's blood ? 
 
 Of Beresina's wail ? 
 The horrors of that dire retreat, 
 
 Which turned old History pale 1 
 
 A cloud is on their brow, — 
 
 Is it sorrow for the dead? 
 Or a shuddering at the wintry shaft 
 
 By Russian tempests sped 1 
 Where countless mounds of snow 
 
 Marked the poor conscripts' grave, 
 
THE RETURN OF NAPOLEON. 249 
 
 And pierced by frost and famine sank 
 The bravest of the brave. 
 
 A thousand trembling lamps 
 
 The gathered darkness mock, 
 And velvet drapes his hearse, who died 
 
 On bare Helena's rock ; 
 And from the altar near, 
 
 A never-ceasing hymn 
 Is lifted by the chanting priests 
 
 Beside the taper dim. 
 
 Mysterious One, and proud ! 
 
 In the land where shadows reign, 
 Hast thou met the flocking ghosts of those, 
 
 Who at thy nod were slain 1 
 Oh, when the cry of that spectral host, 
 
 Like a rushing blast shall be, 
 What will thine answer be to them ? 
 
 And what thy God's to thee ? 
 
 Paris, Tuesday, Dec. 15, 1840. 
 
 " No clarion marks their way." 
 
 The procession through the streets of Paris of 
 350,000 cavalry and infantry, in all the dazzling pomp 
 of military costume, was an imposing scene. But the 
 
250 THE RETURN OF NAPOLEON. 
 
 absence of all martial music, and the rapidity with 
 which they moved, on account of the singular severity 
 of the weather, gave a strange effect to the pageant, 
 like the rushing of some splendid and terrible dream. 
 
 " The noble war-horse led 
 Caparisoned along." 
 
 There was a remarkable absence of enthusiasm on 
 the part of the people, during the progress of Napo- 
 leon's funeral procession. No circumstance connect- 
 ed with it awakened more semblance of feeling, than 
 the sight of a majestic war-horse, who without a rider 
 was led on at a slow pace, at some distance behind 
 the car ; and no spectator at the moment realized, 
 that he could never have borne to battle the master 
 for whom he seemed to mourn. 
 
 " A king is standing there, 
 And with uncovered head 
 Receives him in the name of France." 
 
 Those who were present in the Chapel of the In- 
 valids, when Louis Philippe received the remains of the 
 dead, were impressed with his dignity of manner, and 
 the fitness of the few words that marked the occasion. 
 The Prince de Joinville, who had been commissioned 
 
THE RETURN OF NAPOLEON. 251 
 
 to bring the bones of Bonaparte from St. Helena, 
 said, "Sire, I present you the ashes of the Emperor." 
 And the king answered, " I receive them in the name 
 of the French people." 
 
 " An echo never to be heard 
 By mortal ears again." 
 
 The music of the grand and elaborate requiem, 
 performed at these obsequies, was immediately de- 
 stroyed, to preclude its repetition on any other occa- 
 sion. 
 
 " A thousand trembling lamps 
 The gathered darkness mock" 
 
 The Chapel belonging to the Hotel des Invalides, 
 where the bones of Bonaparte reposed in state for a 
 fortnight, was continually visited by hundreds of 
 thousands with unabated curiosity. It was lighted 
 only by small lamps from above, so arranged as to 
 cast a tremulous ray amid the darkness that reigned 
 around, making day and night the same, and height- 
 ening the solemnity of the scene. Magnificent hang- 
 ings of purple velvet, studded with massy golden bees, 
 were tastefully disposed at the entrance, while the 
 banners of Austerlitz, and many other battles, were 
 
252 THE RETURN OF NAPOLEON. 
 
 wreathed around the lofty columns, and shadowed the 
 coffin of him who had won them. Our visit was on 
 the last morning before the interment, when none 
 were admitted but peers, and such as could obtain 
 peers' medals. There in groups might be seen some 
 of the ancient regime, whose memories extended to 
 the times of unbroken royalty, when the blood of 
 sixty kings flowed peacefully in the veins of Louis 
 the Sixteenth. Others there were, whose friends had 
 perished under the guillotine, or in the prisons of the 
 revolution ; and others, whose earliest days were em- 
 bittered by the ambition of the Corsican. Around 
 the coffin, on whose sides the initial JY was deeply 
 sunk in gold, incessantly paced with measured tread 
 the scarred and wrinkled soldiers, keeping guard qver 
 the garnered ashes of him, who was both their glory 
 and their bane. From an altar in the recess arose 
 the chanted strain of the priests for the dead ; but a 
 deeper voice in the heart said, that all the pride of man 
 was dust, and asked what would be the glory of the 
 warrior, when God judgeth the soul. 
 
TOMB OF JOSEPHINE. 
 
 353 
 
 TOMB OF JOSEPHINE. 
 
 She, who o'er earth's most polished clime 
 The empress-crown did wear, 
 
 And touch the zenith-point of power, 
 The nadir of despair, 
 
 With all her charms and all her wrongs, 
 
 Beneath this turf doth rest, 
 Where boldly spring two clasping hands, 
 
 To guard her pulseless breast. 
 
 Say, did his love, who ruled her heart, 
 
 This fair memorial rear, 
 And soothe the unrequited shade 
 
 With late, remorseful tear ? 
 
 Came he, with sweet funereal flowers 
 To deck her couch of gloom, 
 
 And like repentant Athens bless 
 The guiltless martyr's tomb ? 
 
254 TOMB OF JOSEPHINE. 
 
 No ! — mad Ambition's selfish soul, 
 With cold and ingrate tone, 
 
 Abjured the gentle hand that paved 
 His pathway to a throne. 
 
 But Fortune's star indignant paled, 
 
 And hid its guiding ray, 
 As sternly from his side he thrust 
 
 That changeless friend away. 
 
 Yet she to her secluded cell 
 
 No vengeful passion bore, 
 Nor harshly blamed his broken vows, 
 
 Who sought her smile no more ; 
 
 Still o'er the joys of earlier years, 
 
 With tender spirit hung, 
 And mourned, when sorrow o'er his path 
 
 A blighting shadow flung ; 
 
 Gave thanks, if victory's meteor-wreath 
 His care-worn temples bound, 
 
 And in the blessings of the poor, 
 Her only solace found. 
 
 And so she died, and here she sleeps, 
 This village-fane below ; — 
 
 Sweet is the memory of a life 
 That caused no tear to flow 
 
 Tuesday, Dec. 22, 1840. 
 
TOMB OF JOSEPHINE. 
 
 " Where boldly spring two clasping hands." 
 
 The monument to Josephine, in the village church 
 at Ruel, was erected by her children. Two hands, 
 sculptured in marble, and grasping each other, appear 
 as the symbols of their united, filial love ; and only 
 this simple inscription marks the stone ; — 
 
 To Josephine, 
 From Eugene and Hortense. 
 
 It is well known that her love to Napoleon survived 
 the divorce to which he exacted her consent. In her 
 seclusion, she rejoiced at his prosperity, or wept and 
 shuddered at the evils which his ambition drew upon 
 him. One of our own writers has condensed in a few 
 forcible sentences the sequel of her life. 
 
 " When his son was born, she only regretted that 
 she was not near him in his happiness ; and when he 
 was sent to Elba, she begged that she might be per- 
 mitted to share his prison, and cheer his woes. Every 
 article, that he had used at her residence, remained as 
 he had left it. She would not suffer a chair on which 
 he had sat to be removed. The book in which he 
 had last been reading was there, with the page doubled 
 down. The pen which he had last used was there, 
 with the ink dried on its point. When death drew 
 nigh, she wished to sell all her jewels, that she might 
 send the fallen Emperor money. She died before his 
 return from Elba ; but her last thoughts were of him 
 
256 TOMB OF JOSEPHINE. 
 
 and France ; her last words expressed the hope and 
 belief, that ' she had never caused a single tear to 
 flow.' Her body was followed to the grave, in the 
 village church of Ruel, not alone by princes and gen- 
 erals, but by two thousand poor, whose hearts had 
 been made glad by her bounty." 
 
 It is well known that Napoleon felt his fortunes had 
 declined after his divorce from Josephine. With the 
 superstition that marked his character, he asserted 
 that the star of destiny was never favorable to him 
 after that event. This he repeated more than once, 
 during his humiliation at St. Helena, with a bitter- 
 ness, if not of remorse, at least of that deep desola- 
 tion, which it would have been the joy of her affec- 
 tionate heart to have soothed and comforted. 
 
THE PRESENTATION, 
 
 257 
 
 THE PRESENTATION. 
 
 Put on your best, my countrymen, and turn 
 
 Your steeds toward the palace. You can have 
 
 No just objection to a call, I trust, 
 
 Upon the king and queen. For though you 're all 
 
 Such staunch republicans, 't is plain to see 
 
 You 've quite a curiosity to know 
 
 How those who wear a crown deport themselves. 
 
 Well, there's no harm in that. 
 
 But what a show 
 Our sober, unambitious gentry make 
 In regimentals, with their laced chapeaus, 
 En militaire ! I 'm sure the friends at home 
 Would never know them, and their babes would be 
 As much alarmed as Hector's, when he shrank 
 Back from the hero's helm and nodding plumes, 
 Into his nurse's arms. I 'm quite well versed 
 In that most classic scene, which oft was wrought 
 In bright embroidery, where I went to school. 
 And I have seen it framed, and glazed, and hung 
 On parlor walls, when I was fain to think, 
 Asking the pardon of the ones who spent 
 17 
 
258 THE PRESENTATION. 
 
 Eyesight and silks upon it, that its style 
 
 Artistical, and anatomical, 
 
 Was quite a libel on the Trojan chief, 
 
 And likewise on his wife Andromache, 
 
 And all their line. I worked a piece myself, 
 
 Equally shocking, of an ark and child, 
 
 And two strange-looking women, and a slice 
 
 Of a cream-colored palace, trees and grass, 
 
 Mixed indigo, and umber, and gamboge, 
 
 To show the fervor of Egyptian suns, 
 
 As I suppose, and this my teacher called 
 
 The infant Moses in the bulrushes. 
 
 I labored on it most industriously ; 
 
 But since, when innocent children have been scared, 
 
 As waking suddenly from cradle-dreams, 
 
 They fixed their eyes upon it, I 've eschewed 
 
 The deed most heartily, and felt ashamed 
 
 That sacred themes should be distorted so. 
 
 And now I wonder what odd trains of thought 
 Must needs bring back those hideous images, 
 At such a time as this. 
 
 Friends, have a care, 
 And do not let the unaccustomed sword 
 Embarrass your best bow, when the French court 
 Shall give its welcome to you. Pray, make haste, — 
 Our kind ambassador with open doors 
 Awaits our coming, and 't would be indeed 
 But payment poor for all his courtesy, 
 
 
THE PRESENTATION. 259 
 
 To plunge his carriage in the gathering throng, 
 
 And have it locked for hours. See, brilliant lights 
 
 Stream from the Tuileries, and in full ranks 
 
 Its officers and servitors are ranged, 
 
 To do their nation's honors. From the walls 
 
 Gleam forth, in pictured bravery and pride, 
 
 The gallant chiefs of France. On those we gazed 
 
 With critical remark, and on the groups 
 
 That promenaded through the spacious halls, 
 
 In costume rich, the elite of many lands. 
 
 Ere long from lip to lip the murmur spread, 
 
 "The king! the king!" and so the throng drew 
 
 back, 
 Each foreign region ranging 'neath the wing 
 Of its own minister. Can that be he 1 
 So fresh in feature and of step so firm, 
 So little worn by time and adverse years, 
 So little wearied with his toils to rule 
 The restive war-horse of a changeful realm, 
 Mad on the rein? Courteous he passes down 
 The extended line, with fitting phrase for all. 
 Methought, with freer word and favoring glance, 
 He scanned the natives of that western clime, 
 Where, in the exile of his clouded youth, 
 He found a wanderer's home. 'T was sweet to hear, 
 In the bright throne-room of the Tuileries, 
 And from the lip of Europe's wisest king, 
 The name of my own river, and the spot 
 Where I was born, coupled with kindly words, 
 
260 THE PRESENTATION. 
 
 As one tenacious of their scenery, 
 Through many a lustrum. 
 
 Then the graceful queen, 
 With gentleness and dignity combined, 
 Came in his steps. On her pale brow she bore 
 An impress of that goodness, which hath made 
 Her, as a wife and mother, still the praise 
 And pattern of her kingdom. 
 
 Then passed on 
 At intervals each with their separate suite, 
 Princes and princess, and the beauteous bride 
 Of him of Orleans, in an English tongue 
 Giving fair greeting. So the pageant closed, 
 And home we drove, well pleased at what we saw, 
 Nor with ourselves dissatisfied. We found 
 More of simplicity than we had deemed 
 Abode in courts; and this to us, who love 
 Our plain republic, was a circumstance 
 Not to be overlooked. With earnest warmth 
 Of the chief Lady of the realm we spake, 
 And of her matron virtues, and that charm 
 Of manner which approves those virtues well 
 To every eye. 
 
 And I was pleased to see 
 She had the queenly grace of prudence too, 
 In lesser things ; and on this wintry night 
 Drew downward to the wrist the lengthened sleeve, 
 And bade her satin robe protect the chest, 
 Deeming most justly, that vitality 
 
THE PRESENTATION. 261 
 
 And health outweighed the tinsel modes of dress, 
 Coined by the milliner. And I have heard 
 From good authority, and am right glad 
 To tell it here, that many a leading belle 
 Of fashion and nobility in France 
 Abjure the corset, and maintain a form 
 Erect and graceful, without busk or cord, 
 Ambitious to bequeath a name, unstained 
 By suicide. Would that my friends at home, 
 Those sweet young blossoms on my country's stem, 
 Might, credit the report, and give their lungs 
 And heart fair play, and earn a hope to reach 
 The dignity of threescore years and ten, 
 Free from the taint of self-derived disease. 
 
 Thursday, January 5, 1841. 
 
 " Our kind ambassador." 
 
 How justly is this adjective applied to General Cass, 
 and all his family. His unwearied attentions to travel- 
 lers from his native country, during the whole time 
 that he has represented its interests at the court of 
 France, are deeply felt and fervently acknowledged. 
 Without reference to political creed, or other adven- 
 titious distinction, he not only gathers them around 
 him with liberal and elegant hospitality, but, aided 
 by his whole household, strives to teach them the lux- 
 ury of home-feelings in a foreign land. 
 
262 THE PRESENTATION. 
 
 " The name of my own river." 
 
 " In what part of New England do you reside ? " 
 the king inquired. " In Connecticut." " Ah ! I 
 have been in Connecticut. It has a fine river. And 
 I have been in Norwich, and New London, and New 
 Haven. They are all pleasant places." Passing on a 
 step or two, he turned and said, " And I have been in 
 Hartford too. That also is a pleasant place." 
 
 Louis Philippe's recollections are exceedingly vivid 
 and acute of his travels in the United States, of their 
 geographical localities, and even of the names of in- 
 dividuals whom he then met ; and he recurs to those 
 recollections with the greater pleasure, from perceiv- 
 ing that they give pleasure to others. He has a pe- 
 culiar tact in addressing appropriate remarks to those 
 with whom he converses, and putting them quite at 
 their ease. This is almost invariably remarked by 
 Americans. In observing his florid complexion and 
 animated manner, it is difficult to realize that nearly 
 seventy years have passed over him. He is undoubt- 
 edly the most remarkable sovereign in Europe, wheth- 
 er we consider his native endowments, the adversity 
 which in early life ripened his energies, or the firm- 
 ness with which he surmounts the dangers that have 
 long beset his throne. 
 
 The queen is graceful and truly polite, and her vir- 
 tues and piety are appreciated, even by that portion of 
 the people who retain strong prejudices against the 
 
THE PRESENTATION. 2(53 
 
 king. Madame Adelaide, the sister of Louis Philippe, 
 has a countenance beaming with good feelings; and 
 her fond affection for her royal brother forms a dis- 
 tinguishing trait in her character. The Duke of Or- 
 leans has exceedingly fine manners, and is a favorite 
 with the nation. The princess Clementine and the 
 younger brothers make their passing compliments to 
 strangers in an agreeable way. In this they are assist- 
 ed by a perfect knowledge of the English language, 
 which appertains to the whole family. Their domes- 
 tic education has been conducted judiciously, under 
 the careful supervision of both parents, and has pro- 
 duced happy results. Louise, the queen of the Bel- 
 gians, is exceedingly respected, and the late Princess 
 Marie, who married Alexander, Duke of Wirtemburg, 
 was eminent for native talent and taste in the fine arts, 
 especially for her spirited performances in sculpture, 
 and died deeply lamented. 
 
 The beauty of the young bride of the Duke de 
 Nemours, who was Victoria of Saxe Coburg, and has 
 made her first appearance at the French court the 
 present winter, is acknowledged by all. The royal 
 family of France give an amiable example of those 
 domestic attachments and that true home-happiness, 
 which exercise so decided an influence on the charac- 
 ter in the period of its formation, as well as through- 
 out the whole of life. Such virtues have not always 
 been indigenous in the soil of courts, and it is there- 
 fore the more delightful to see them here, with a vig- 
 orous root and healthful bloom. 
 
264 THE PRESENTATION. 
 
 In traversing the splendid apartments of the Tuil- 
 eries, now the favorite residence of a peaceful dy- 
 nasty, the mind involuntarily turns to those vestiges 
 of the past, which have given it prominence in histo- 
 ry. Among the structures of the capital of France, 
 it early attracts the notice of the traveller. Stretch- 
 ing along the banks of the Seine, it is connected with 
 the Louvre by a gallery commenced during the reign 
 of Henry the Fourth, and completed under the auspi- 
 ces of Louis the Fourteenth. Three sides of an im- 
 mense parallelogram are thus formed, and it was the 
 intention of Bonaparte to have added the fourth, and 
 completed the most magnificent edifice of the kind, 
 that modern Europe can boast. 
 
 As the eye fixes involuntarily upon the central pa- 
 vilion, past scenes and events of other days sweep 
 by, like living pictures. Francis the First seems to 
 pass proudly in his royal robes, and leaning upon his 
 arm his intriguing mother, Louise of Savoy, for whom 
 he purchased the hotel which originally occupied the 
 site of this palace, somewhat more than three centu- 
 ries since. 
 
 Ninety years after, we see Henry the Third hurry- 
 ing from its walls to escape a tumult of the people. 
 Assisted by his groom, he hastily mounts his horse, 
 his dress disarranged, and the spurs but half fastened 
 to his boots. Forty arquebusiers take aim at him as 
 he passes out by the Ponte Neuve ; and when he finds 
 himself free from the perilous neighborhood of the 
 
THE PRESENTATION. 265 
 
 city, he indulges in wrathful gestures and imprecations 
 of vengeance, like the vindictive M arm ion, who on 
 quitting the castle of the haughty Douglas, 
 
 "Turned and raised his clenched hand, 
 And shout of loud defiance pours, 
 And shook his gauntlet at the towers." 
 
 We shrink, as we imagine gliding among these 
 scenes, the form of the ambitious Catharine de Medi- 
 cis, who built for her son's residence this very central 
 pavilion, with its wings. There, there is the window 
 from whence the infamous Charles the Ninth, whom 
 his mother " Jezebel stirred up," fired upon his own 
 people, on the terrible August 29th, 1572 ; and while 
 the groans of the murdered Protestants resounded in 
 his ears, continued to excite his ruffian soldiers, with 
 the hoarse and horrible cry of " Kill ! kill ! " 
 
 At the summer solstice, two hundred and twenty 
 years after this massacre of St. Bartholomew, the 
 Tuileries again reechoed with the howling of an in- 
 furiated mob, and the shrieks of the dying. Throngs 
 of laborers, and the terrible women from the faubourg 
 St. Antoine, with the brewer Santerre at their head, 
 swelling, as they passed along, to twenty thousand, beat 
 down the gates of the palace, hewed their way through 
 the doors with hatchets, trampled through the royal 
 apartments, brandishing their cutlasses, poles, and 
 knives, rilled the bureaus in the bed-chambers, and 
 
2G6 
 
 THE PRESENTATION. 
 
 alarmed the unfortunate Marie Antoinette, with the 
 most disgusting and brutal threats. The king, Louis 
 the Sixteenth, adventured his person among the mob, 
 and was miraculously preserved, after enduring great 
 rudeness and indignity. 
 
 On the 10th of August, of this same memorable 
 1791, the dreadful immolation of the Swiss Guards 
 deluged the grand stair-case, the council-chamber, the 
 chapel, and the throne-room, with blood. 
 
 Emerging from these gates on the 19th of March, 
 1815, Louis the Eighteenth appeared at midnight, at- 
 tended by only a few persons, and moving feebly, with 
 sadness depicted on his countenance, abdicated his 
 palace, and the throne of his ancestors. Behind him 
 was the sound of the banners of the Corsican, rush- 
 ing from Elba, and the scarce suppressed hozannas of 
 a fickle crowd. In a few hours Bonaparte entered 
 the Tuileries in triumph, and seated himself on the 
 throne of the Bourbons, losing the memory of his 
 exile in the enthusiastic acclamations of " Vive l'Em- 
 pereur," and in the reign of the hundred days. 
 
ADIEU TO FRANCE. 
 
 261 
 
 ADIEU TO FRANCE. 
 
 Adieu to sunny France ! I call it so, 
 
 Because my betters have. Yet for my part 
 
 I have been all but perished in her clime, 
 Frost-stricken to the bone, and to the heart ; 
 
 The Seine in one night turned to ice ! I own 
 
 I 'd not expected this, short of the Arctic zone. 
 
 Wood by the pound ! 'T was an astonishment, 
 Next to the shock of water sold by measure, 
 
 Each tiny stem and stalk so strictly weighed, 
 Each little grape-vine faggot such a treasure ! 
 
 Oh! for the coal of England, glowing bright, 
 
 Or even my slighted friend, the homelier anthracite 
 
 I came in Autumn, when the vines had shrunk 
 From prop and trellis ; yet the verdant trees 
 
 Danced to the gale that swept the Elysian fields, 
 And rose and pansy dared the chilling breeze ; 
 
 I leave in Winter, and so cannot say, 
 
 How her beau ciel may smile 'neath happier seasons' 
 sway. 
 
268 ADIEU TO FRANCE. 
 
 Yet is her courtesy forever bright, 
 
 For still to princely halls and paintings gay 
 
 She, with glad heart and liberal hand, doth lead 
 The stranger in, and cast his dole away, 
 
 Bidding him share, unvexed by venal guide, 
 
 Whate'er she counts most rare of elegance or pride. 
 
 Hence have I roamed at will her haunts of taste, 
 Within her glorious Louvre sate me down, 
 
 Day after day, or when the spirit moved, 
 
 Lingered mid lettered tomes, nor feared a frown, 
 
 Or sought the palace domes, which crown so high 
 
 This city of her boast, the apple of her eye. 
 
 Here too, I found, where fashion holds her court, 
 With wealth and grace and intellect combined, 
 
 A form of beauty thrilled by impulse high, 
 To warm and sleepless energy of mind, 
 
 A friend to cheer me on my stranger-way, 
 
 Whom grateful Memory loves, but never can repay. 
 
 Farewell, enchanting City, which doth hold 
 Both eye and heart in strong Circean sway, 
 
 Bidding the buoyant spirit ne'er grow old, 
 
 Though wintry years may turn the temples grey, 
 
 But seek for pleasure, till the funeral bell 
 
 Doth summon it to take of time a long farewell. 
 
ADIEU TO FRANCE. 269 
 
 Fair France, adieu ! 'T will not be mine again, 
 Amid the allurements of thy realm to tread, 
 
 Yet with me still, across the Atlantic main, 
 
 Kind thoughts of thee shall wend, by kindness 
 bred, 
 
 And at my fireside 't will be sweet to say, 
 
 That I have seen thy face and listened to thy lay. 
 
 For many a charm thou hast, the heart to win, 
 Blest filial love luxuriates in thy clime, 
 
 Nor doth the parent by such solace cheered 
 Tire of the feast of life before his time, 
 
 Nor the white-haired on childhood's gladness frown, 
 
 And to the gulph of years unlovingly go down. 
 
 Thou hast not blotted out the love of song 
 For love of money, nor the enthusiast damped 
 
 With the chill dogma, that a hoard of wealth 
 
 Is man's chief end on earth, for thou art stamped 
 
 And marked with chivalry of antique mould, 
 
 And still dost genius prize, apart from gain of gold. 
 
 I do remember me, that thou didst lend 
 Thy hand to help my country in her need, 
 
 And Lafayette in youthful fervor send 
 With us to struggle and for us to bleed; 
 
 And still shall glow amid our annal bright 
 
 Thy friendship for our sires, who battled for the 
 right. 
 
270 ADIEU TO FRANCE. 
 
 Yet, memories sad thou hast of things that were ; — 
 The pang of revolution, and the cry 
 
 That rent the old foundations of thy throne, 
 And sent a guiltless monarch forth to die ; 
 
 And of the iron yoke that crushed thy pride, 
 
 When he the sceptre snatched, who at Helena died. 
 
 Thou hast a dread, perchance, of things to be, 
 
 I cannot say, indeed, that this is so, 
 But well I know, I was afraid in thee, 
 
 As if some mine beneath my feet did glow ; 
 For thou didst aim, though with an erring might, 
 Shafts at his royal head, who rules thy realm aright. 
 
 Thou hast a longing for the things that tend 
 Unto thy hurt, and lovest all too well 
 
 The war-shout and the long-embattled line, 
 
 And pomp and fane, that martial triumphs swell, 
 
 Although thy life-blood cast its crimson stain, 
 
 Profuse o'er Russia's snows, and Egypt's desert plain. 
 
 Would it were better with thee ! It would cheer 
 Me in my home, amid my household care, 
 
 To think that all was prosperous in thy clime, 
 All sound at heart, that to the eye is fair ; 
 
 But now the fresh breeze curls the ocean blue, 
 
 And rocks the expecting boat. Delightful France, 
 adieu ! 
 
 Boulogne, Saturday, Jan. 16, 1841. 
 
ADIEU TO FRANCE. 
 
 " A friend to cheer me on my stranger-way." 
 
 To her kind attentions, whose house was my home 
 during a great part of my stay in Paris, and whose 
 only motive for such hospitality must have been the 
 generous one of imparting happiness to a stranger, I 
 am indebted for some of my most agreeable impres- 
 sions of that city, and of its inhabitants. Courtesy 
 and deference to the feelings of others throw a charm 
 over the higher grades of society, and in some meas- 
 ure modify every class ; and if fine manners do not 
 exactly belong to the family of the virtues, they surely 
 help to beautify them. Among the ancient noblesse 
 was one, whose expressive countenance and unalloyed 
 delight in social intercourse made it difficult to be- 
 lieve, that more than fourscore years had passed over 
 him. His details of the revolution of 1790, of the 
 secret springs that produced it, and of some terrific 
 scenes which he personally witnessed, and which by a 
 deliberate utterance he politely accommodated to a 
 foreign ear, were to me more graphic than the pages 
 of the historian. The pleasantness with which Age 
 adapts itself to a new generation, and the affectionate 
 manner in which it is welcomed among them, are de- 
 lightful traits in the character of the French people. 
 
 The children and descendants of Lafayette are 
 naturally sought with interest by Americans, and their 
 hearts still reciprocate every expression of such regard 
 to their illustrious ancestor. La Grange is consecrated 
 
272 ADIEU TO FRANCE. 
 
 ground to those, who, in the words of one of our most 
 elegant writers, the lamented author of Hadad, re- 
 member the deeds of the chieftain, who " came to us 
 during our life-struggle in his own ship, freighted 
 with munitions of war, which he gratuitously distrib- 
 uted to our army ; clothed and put shoes on the feet 
 of the naked, suffering soldiers; equipped and armed 
 a regiment at his own expense ; received no pay, but 
 expended in our service, from 1777 to 1783, the sum 
 of 700,000 francs ; and whose name, wherever the 
 pulse of freedom beats, should be pronounced with 
 benedictions." 
 
 Literary reputation as well as scientific attainment 
 are highly appreciated in Paris. Intellect, and the 
 labors of intellect, are passports to that temple of 
 honor, which in some other countries must be entered 
 with a key of gold. It is pleasing to see with what 
 enthusiasm Lamartine and Arago are pointed out in 
 their seats, amid the five hundred members of the 
 Chamber of Deputies. The poet De la Vigne, not- 
 withstanding his retiring modesty, is shown exultingly 
 to strangers, and the pen of Guizot has won him more 
 admirers than his political fame. It was gratifying to 
 perceive that our talented countryman, Robert Walsh, 
 Esq., was as highly and truly respected in the capital 
 of France, as in the land of his birth. One of the 
 most imposing audiences, that I remember to have seen 
 while there, was convened in the Palace of the In- 
 stitute, formerly the Mazarine College, to witness the 
 
TASTE FOR THE FINE ARTS. 273 
 
 admission of a new member, the Count Mole, into 
 the Institute of France. The assembled academicians, 
 in their becoming uniform, listened intently to his 
 animated inaugural oration, and to the reply of the 
 President Dupin, while, from their niches in the spa- 
 cious hall, the marble brows of Massillon, Fenelon, and 
 Bossuet, Sully, Descartes,- and others, looked down 
 with imperturbable dignity. 
 
 Taste for the fine arts forms an integral part of the 
 character of the French. From the saloon of the 
 noble to the shop of the petty marchand des modes, it 
 is seen in every variety of adornment, from the costly 
 painting or chiseled group of the ancient master, to 
 the simple vase of artificial flowers under its glass 
 shade, or the little fancy-clock, that hastens the move- 
 ments of the needle. The very street-beggar feels a 
 property and a pride in the decorations of la belle 
 Paris. To rifle a plant, or wound a tree, or deface a 
 statue in the public squares or gardens, is held by the 
 rudest boy an indelible disgrace. Would that it were 
 so everywhere ! 
 
 In the Louvre, amid that astonishing collection of 
 1500 arranged pictures, and probably as many more 
 for which the walls of its sumptuous gallery have no 
 space, were groups of artists, of both sexes, diligently 
 employed in copying ad libitum. The department of 
 statuary, notwithstanding the spoils of Italy have been 
 abstracted and restored, is still very extensive. Our 
 party often found themselves attracted towards a love- 
 18 
 
274 
 
 BIBLIOTHEQUE DU ROT. 
 
 ly, pensive Polhymnia, and a fine infant Mercury, and 
 imagined among the effigies of the Emperors of Rome 
 some resemblance to their real character, especially 
 in the philosophic features of Marcus Aurelius, the 
 thoughtful brow of Antoninus Pius, and the varied 
 lineaments of Trajan, Severus, and Nerva, Domitian, 
 Nero, and Caracalla ; though a youthful Commodus 
 in his gentleness and grace displayed none of those 
 latent evils, which gave the sharpest pang to the death- 
 bed of his father. 
 
 Like the Louvre, the Bibliotheque du Roi is fitted 
 up with every accommodation of light, warmth, and 
 silent recess for those who are desirous of profiting by 
 its immense accumulation of 900,000 volumes, and 
 80,000 manuscripts. The books are in cases, pro- 
 tected by wire grating, and librarians are always in 
 attendance, to reach such as are desired. Tables, 
 with inkstands, are in readiness for those who desire 
 to make extracts, and no conversation is allowed to 
 disturb such as may be engaged in profound re- 
 searches. It was pleasant to see so many of my own 
 sex seated silently at these tables, and absorbed in the 
 pursuit of knowledge. 
 
 The magnificence of the churches in Paris, and the 
 multitude of their paintings, statues, and bas-relievos, 
 are noticed by all. At Notre Dame and St. Roch, 
 we saw the pompous service of the Romish ritual, and 
 the appearance of deep devotion among the worship- 
 pers, especially those whose garb announced their 
 
CHURCHES. PANTHEON. 275 
 
 poverty. But without the doors, and in all the streets, 
 went on the accustomed movements of toil and of 
 pleasure, the building of houses, the digging of 
 trenches, the traffic of market people and tradesmen, 
 the review of troops, the rush of throngs intent on 
 amusement, as if the Almighty had not from the be- 
 ginning set apart for himself a day of sacred rest. To 
 one inured to the quietness and hallowed observance 
 of a New England Sabbath, this desecration is pe- 
 culiarly painful. 
 
 The pulpit eloquence of France is with much more 
 gesticulation than in England, or our own country. 
 Indeed, the vehement style marks most of the public 
 speaking that we heard there ; at the Bourse, where 
 the merchants negotiate sales of stock, and transact 
 other business, at the very top of their voices ; in the 
 tribunals, where the advocates plead with their whole 
 bodily force ; and in the Chamber of Deputies, where 
 the exciting question of war with England was one 
 morning discussed with such violence, as to excite ap- 
 prehensions that it might end in actual combat. 
 
 The Pantheon, formerly the Church of Genevieve, 
 is a splendid structure, and its dome, being the most 
 elevated one in Paris, affords an extensive prospect. 
 Beneath its pavement is a vast series of vaults, with 
 roofs supported by Tuscan columns, and containing 
 funeral urns, after the fashion of the Roman tombs at 
 Pompeii. While following the dim lamp of our guide, 
 we traversed this subterranean city of the dead, we 
 
276 ST. DENIS. 
 
 were startled at a loud echo, which, by the construc- 
 tion of two circular passages in the centre of the 
 vaulted area, gives singular force and perpetuity to 
 the slightest sound. 
 
 The exterior of the Church of St. Denis, though 
 less elaborate than many others, is striking and suffi- 
 ciently ornate. The inhumed ashes of the monarchs 
 of France, from Clovis to Louis the Eighteenth, give 
 interest to the spot, and a lesson to human pride. 
 During the madness of the revolution, their repose 
 was violated, but the broken sepulchres and scattered 
 relics were again gathered and reunited. Many of 
 the monuments are exceedingly costly, and some of 
 their recumbent statues, by a strange perversion of 
 taste, depict the distortions and agonies of death with 
 fearful accuracy. 
 
 At the Porte St. Denis is the celebrated triumphal 
 arch, erected to commemorate the victories of Louis 
 the Fourteenth. Its proportions and sculpture are 
 much admired, and surmounting the arch in bas 
 relief, is the king on horseback, represented as cross- 
 ing the Rhine, with only the inscription, " Ludovico 
 Magno" But in no spot are his ambition and lavish 
 expenditure so conspicuous as in the palace of Ver- 
 sailles, which cannot be explored without remember- 
 ing its mournful inliuence on the fates of France, at 
 the birth of the Revolution. A double row of colos- 
 sal statues of the great of other days, receive the visi- 
 tant at the gates. The paintings, the tapestry, the 
 
VERSAILLES. 
 
 277 
 
 statues, the fountains, it would require volumes to de- 
 scribe. Gallery after gallery astonishes the sight. 
 Here Ludovico Magno, as he was fond of being styled, 
 is multiplied by the pencil in the most imposing forms 
 of martial and regal state. The departments allotted 
 to Napoleon are still blazing with the portraiture of 
 his battles, and the trophies of his renown. Yet in 
 such a place, even more it would seem than amid the 
 tombs, the mind is led to reflect on the vanity of mor- 
 tal glory. Descending a hundred marble steps, we 
 visited the immense orangery, where amid throngs of 
 these trees we were shown one said to be three hun- 
 dred, and another four hundred years old, still vigo- 
 rous and in healthful bearing. At our departure, 
 surfeited with splendor, from this great Babylon, cre- 
 ated for the pride and praise of men who are now but 
 dust, we were beset at the gates by the saddest and 
 lowest forms of mendicity, who in piteous accents 
 supplicated for a single sous. 
 
 The two small palaces of Grand and Petit Trianon 
 are within the gardens of Versailles. The first was 
 erected by the Grand Monarque for Madame Mainte- 
 non, and we saw there the sedan-chair, rich with gild- 
 ing and velvet, in which she used to be borne around 
 the magnificent grounds. Among the pictures was 
 one commemorating our national era of the " Surren- 
 der at Yorktown," in which Washington, in an anti- 
 quated uniform, makes rather a quaint appearance. 
 Every apartment in this beautiful palace, especially 
 
278 LE PETIT TRIANON. 
 
 the working rooms of the present queen and the sister 
 of Louis Philippe, displays consummate taste in the 
 arrangement and adaptation to each other, of the 
 hangings, sofas, chairs, mirrors, and different articles 
 of furniture. 
 
 Le Petit Trianon was built by Louis the Fifteenth 
 for Madame Dubarri. Afterwards it was given by 
 Louis the Sixteenth to Marie Antoinette, who beauti- 
 fied its grounds by her taste, and erected among them 
 the imitation of a little Swiss village. It is surround- 
 ed by many fine trees, of which some are American. 
 Here Louis the Fifteenth was called to render up his 
 breath, and here the son of Napoleon was born. 
 Among the tasteful articles exhibited, is a bed, draped 
 with muslin, embroidered in gold, which formerly 
 belonged to Maria Louisa. It is at present occupied 
 by the Duke de Nemours and his beautiful bride. Both 
 these fine structures have some exquisite pictures. 
 
 We were persevering in visiting the palaces of Paris 
 and its environs, with other objects and institutions of 
 interest, notwithstanding the severity of the winter. 
 Having heard so much of the fine climate of France, 
 we were surprised at being sometimes enveloped in 
 those dense black fogs, which we flattered ourselves 
 had been left behind in London. Snow frequently 
 descended, and lay thickly upon the roofs for several 
 weeks; the horses, not properly shod, fell upon the 
 slippery pavements, and received no mercy from their 
 drivers ; and the sufferings of the improvident poor 
 
SEVERITY OF WINTER. 279 
 
 were terrible. The inhabitants asserted that a season 
 of such intense and protracted cold had not been ex- 
 perienced for many years. The Seine froze in De- 
 cember, on the night after the ceremony of the recep- 
 tion of Bonaparte's remains. It was feared that the 
 period of that grand pageant might be fixed on for 
 some popular tumult, as symptoms of disaffection to- 
 wards the government, especially of exasperation 
 against the English, had for some time been revealing 
 themselves. During the day the Marsellois Hymn, 
 the ancient signal of outbreak, had been heard hoarse- 
 ly uplifted, with here and there cries among the crowd 
 of " a bas les traiteurs ! " Some of us, nurtured in a 
 peaceful land, were considerably alarmed, not so 
 much for our own personal safety, as lest our eyes 
 should be shocked by sights of conflict and bloodshed. 
 But the extreme cold, benumbing nerve and muscle, 
 and checking all effervescence of animal spirits, prob- 
 ably operated as a protection to the peace of the city ; 
 on the same principle that Marshal Soult once quelled 
 the beginning of a formidable insurrection, by causing 
 the engines to play plentifully upon the malcontents. 
 Would that all distinguished commanders were equal- 
 ly ingenious and merciful in substituting water for 
 blood. 
 
 Among the slighter traits of French character, we 
 could not but notice that variety and fruitfulness of 
 resource, by which a little was made sufficient for the 
 necessities of life ; and the respect which was shown 
 
280 
 
 FILIAL AFFECTION. 
 
 to a just economy. No false shame was evinced at 
 the confession, " I should like such a thing, but can- 
 not afford it;" and a moderate expenditure seemed 
 not only consistent with entire contentment, but 
 counted more reputable than the appearance of wealth 
 without its reality. 
 
 Another still more delightful trait is the sweet and 
 affectionate deportment of children to their parents. 
 This is discoverable among all ranks. It reveals it- 
 self in the zealous attentions and offices, which a 
 younger hand can extend to those who are wearied 
 with the cares of life, as well as in the marked and 
 tender attentions, which are sometimes omitted by 
 those whose filial virtue has still a deep root, and 
 would be called into vigorous action by any emergen- 
 cy. Surely this is an affection which should beautify 
 the intercourse of every day, yet continually humble 
 itself for its inadequacy to repay that great love of a 
 parent, which is the best earthly symbol of a Love 
 Divine, in which we " live, and move, and have our 
 being." 
 
TO MISS EDGEWORTH. 281 
 
 TO MISS EDGEWORTH. 
 
 Truthful and tender as thy pictured page 
 Flows on thy life ; and it was joy to me 
 
 To hear thy welcome mid my pilgrimage, 
 
 And seat me by thy side, unchecked and free ; 
 
 For in my own sweet land both youth and sire, 
 The willing captives of thy lore refined, 
 
 Will of thy features and thy form inquire, 
 
 And lock the transcript in their loving mind ; 
 
 And merry children, who with glowing cheek 
 Have loved thy " Simple Susan," many a day 
 
 Will lift their earnest eyes to hear me speak 
 
 Of her, who held them oft-times from their play, 
 
 And closer press, as if to share a part 
 
 Of the pure joy thy smile enkindled in my heart. 
 
 London, Monday, Jan. 25, 1841. 
 
 To have repeatedly met and listened to Miss Edge- 
 worth, seated familiarly with her by the fireside, may 
 
282 SISTERLY AFFECTION. 
 
 seem to her admirers in America a sufficient pay- 
 ment for the hazards of crossing the Atlantic. Her 
 conversation like her writings is varied, vivacious, and 
 delightful. Her kind feelings toward our country are 
 well known, and her forgetfulness of self, and happi- 
 ness in making others happy, are marked traits in her 
 character. Her person is small, and delicately propor- 
 tioned, and her movements full of animation. She 
 has an aversion to having her likeness taken, which 
 no entreaties of her friends have been able to over- 
 come. In one of her notes, she says, " I have always 
 refused even my own family to sit for my portrait, and 
 with my own good will shall never have it painted, as I 
 do not think it would give either my friends or the pub- 
 lic any representation or expression of my mind, such 
 as I trust may be more truly found in my writings." 
 The ill-health of a lovely sister much younger than 
 herself, at whose house in London she was passing the 
 winter, called forth such deep anxiety, untiring atten- 
 tion, and fervent gratitude for every favorable symp- 
 tom, as seemed to blend features of maternal tender- 
 ness with sisterly affection. It is always gratifying to 
 find that those, whose superior intellect charms and 
 enlightens us, have their hearts in the right place. 
 Such instances often delighted me while abroad, in 
 the varied and beautiful forms of domestic love and 
 duty. The example of filial devotion exhibited by 
 Miss Mitford adds lustre and grace to the rich image- 
 ry of her pages. An aged father, of whom she is the 
 
MISS MITFORD. 
 
 283 
 
 only child, is the object of her constant cherishing 
 care. Years have elapsed since she has left him 
 scarcely for an evening, and she receives calls only 
 during those hours in the afternoon, when he regular- 
 ly takes rest upon his bed. She is ever in attendance 
 upon him ; cheering him by the recital of passing 
 events, and pouring into his spirit the fresher life of 
 her own. The faithful performance of such high and 
 holy duty contains within itself its own reward. I 
 cannot withhold a sweet picture drawn by her pen, 
 though sensible that she had no intention of its meeting 
 the public eye. " My father," she writes, " is a splen- 
 did old man, with a most noble head, a fine countenance 
 full of benevolence and love, hair of silvery whiteness, 
 and a complexion like winter berries. I suppose there 
 was never a more beautiful embodiment of healthful 
 and virtuous old age. He possesses all his faculties 
 with the most vigorous clearness, but his health 
 suffers, and my time is almost entirely devoted to his 
 service, waiting upon him and reading to him by night 
 and by day. 
 
 " He was affected at your message, and sends his 
 blessing to you and yours. How to promote his com- 
 fort in his advanced years and increasing infirmities 
 occupies most of my thoughts. It is my privilege to 
 make many sacrifices to this blessed duty ; for with 
 my dearest father, should I be so unhappy as to sur- 
 vive him, will depart all that binds me to this world." 
 
284 
 
 VICTORIA. 
 
 VICTORIA 
 
 OPENING THE PARLIAMENT OF 1841. 
 
 It was a scene of pomp. 
 
 The ancient hall 
 Where Britain's highest in their wisdom meet, 
 Showed proud array of noble and of peer, 
 Prelate and judge, each in his fitting robes 
 Of rank and power. And beauty lent its charms; 
 For with plumed brows, the island peeresses 
 Bore themselves nobly. Distant realms were there 
 In embassy, from the far jeweled East, 
 To that which stretcheth toward the setting sun, 
 My own young native land. 
 
 Long was the pause 
 Of expectation. Then the cannon spake, 
 The trumpets flourished bravely, and the throne 
 Of old Plantagenet that stood so firm, 
 While years and blasts and earthquake shocks dis- 
 solved 
 The linked dynasty of many climes, 
 Took in its golden arms a fair young form, 
 
VICTORIA. 285 
 
 The Lady of the kingdoms. With clear eye 
 And queenly grace, gentle and self-possest, 
 She met the fixed gaze of the earnest throng, 
 Scanning her close. And I remembered well 
 How it was said that tears o'erfiowed her cheek, 
 When summoned first for cares of state to yield 
 Her girlhood's joys. 
 
 In her fair hands she held 
 A scroll, and with a clear and silver tone 
 Of wondrous melody, descanted free 
 Of foreign climes, where Albion's ships had borne 
 Their thunders, and of those who dwelt at peace 
 In prosperous commerce, and of some who frowned 
 In latent anger murmuring notes of war, 
 Until the British Lion cleared his brow 
 To meditate between them, with a branch 
 Of olive in his paw. 
 
 'T was strange to me 
 To hear so young a creature speak so well 
 And eloquent of nations and their rights, 
 Their equal balance and their policies, 
 Which we in our republic think that none 
 Can comprehend but grave and bearded men. 
 Her words went wandering wide o'er all the earth, 
 For so her sphere required. But there was still 
 Something she said not, though the closest twined 
 With her heart's inmost core. Yes, there was one, 
 One little word embedded in her soul, 
 Which yet she uttered not. Fruitful in change, 
 
286 
 
 VICTORIA. 
 
 Had been the fleeting year. When last she stood 
 
 In this august assembly to convoke 
 
 The power of parliament, the crown adorned 
 
 A maiden brow ; but now that vow had passed, 
 
 Which Death alone can break, and a new soul 
 
 Come forth to witness it. And by the seed 
 
 Of those most strong affections, dropped by Heaven 
 
 In a rich soil, I knew there was a germ 
 
 That fain would have disclosed itself in sound 
 
 If unsupprest. Through her transparent brow 
 
 I could discern that word close wrapped in love, 
 
 And dearer than all royal pageantry. 
 
 Thy babe, young Mother ! Thy sweet first-born 
 
 babe ! 
 That was the word ! 
 
 And yet she spoke it not ; 
 But rose and leaning on her consort's arm 
 Passed forth. And as the gorgeous car of state, 
 By noble coursers borne exultingly, 
 Drew near, the people's acclamations rose 
 Loud, and re-echoed widely to the sky. 
 Long may their loyalty and love be thine, 
 Daughter of many kings, and thou the rights 
 Of peasant as of prince maintain, and heed 
 The cry of lowly poverty, as one 
 Who must account to God. 
 
 So unto him, 
 From many a quiet fireside of thy realm 
 At the still hour of prayer, thy name shall rise, 
 
VICTORIA. 
 
 2S7 
 
 Blent with that name which thou didst leave unsaid ; 
 And blessings which shall last, when sceptres fall 
 And crowns are dust, be tenderly invoked 
 On the young sovereign and her cradled babe. 
 
 Tuesday, Jan. 26, 1841. 
 
 The countenance of Queen Victoria is agreeable, 
 and her complexion very fa,ir. At first view it seemed 
 remarkable, that one so young should evince such 
 entire self-possession, nor betray by the least shade of 
 embarrassment a consciousness, that every eye in tljat 
 vast assembly was fixed solely on her. This, however, 
 is a part of the queenly training in which she has be- 
 come so perfect. 
 
 Her voice is clear and melodious, and her enuncia- 
 tion so correct, that every word of her speech was dis- 
 tinctly audible to the farthest extremity of the House of 
 Lords. She possesses in an eminent degree the ac- 
 complishment of fine reading. I could not help wish- 
 ing that the fair daughters of my own land, who wear 
 no crown save that of loveliness and virtue, would 
 more fully estimate the worth of this accomplishment, 
 and more faithfully endeavor to acquire it. For I re- 
 membered how often, in our seminaries of education, I 
 had listened almost breathlessly to sentiments, which I 
 knew from the lips that uttered them must be true and 
 beautiful ; but only stifled sounds, or a few uncertain 
 murmurings repaid the toil. And I wish all who con- 
 duct the education of young ladies would insist on at 
 
288 VICTORIA. 
 
 least an audible utterance, and not consider their own 
 office to be faithfully filled, unless a correct and grace- 
 ful elocution is attained. 
 
 In looking upon the fair young creature to whom 
 such power is deputed, and hoping that she might be 
 enabled to execute the sacred and fearful trust, for the 
 good of the millions who own her sway, and for her 
 own soul's salvation, I was reminded of the circum- 
 stance of her weeping when told she was to become a 
 queen, and of the sweet poem of Miss Barret, which 
 commemorates that circumstance. 
 
 " O maiden ! heir of kings ! 
 
 A king has left his place ! 
 The majesty of death has swept 
 
 All other from his face ! 
 And thou upon thy mother's breast 
 
 No longer lean adown, 
 But take the glory for the rest, 
 And rule the land that loves thee best." 
 
 She heard and wept, 
 She wept, to wear a crown ! 
 
 God save thee weeping Queen ! 
 
 Thou shalt be well beloved ! 
 The tyrant's sceptre cannot move, 
 
 As those pure tears have moved ! 
 The nature in thine eyes we see, 
 
 That tyrants cannot own ! 
 
VICTORIA. 289 
 
 The love that guardeth liberties. — 
 Strange blessing on the nation lies 
 
 Whose Sovereign wept, 
 Yea ! wept to wear a crown ! 
 
 19 
 
290 HAMPTON COURT. 
 
 HAMPTON COURT. 
 
 'T was with a bridal party, that we went 
 
 To visit Hampton Court. Our thoughts were full 
 
 Of the warm pictures we had seen at morn, 
 
 The youthful pair, the chapel, and the priest, 
 
 The gathered groups that marked the holy rite, 
 
 And that still smaller circle, in whose breasts 
 
 Wrought strong emotion, as the deathless vow 
 
 Trembled on lips beloved. With earnest gaze 
 
 The grateful poor, and that small Sunday class 
 
 Blest with her teachings, who returned no more, 
 
 Followed the bridal chariot, as it led 
 
 With milk-white steeds the fair procession back 
 
 To her paternal halls. Around the board, 
 
 For rich collation spread, the green-house strewed 
 
 Its glowing wealth, and mid the marriage guests 
 
 Like blossoms mixed, the bright-haired children sate, 
 
 Delighted from a blessed bride to win 
 
 Kind word or kiss. Then rose the pastor's prayer, 
 
 And the sweet hymn, for Music waits alike 
 
 On Love and Faith, on this world and the next. 
 
 — But all too soon the fond leave-taking came, 
 
HAMPTON COURT. 291 
 
 The parent's benediction, and the embrace 
 
 Of loving kindred ; for impatient steeds 
 
 Curving their necks, by white-gloved coachmen 
 
 reined, 
 Waited the bride, and lo ! her silvery veil 
 And lustrous satin robe, gave sudden place 
 To traveller's graver costume. 
 
 Thus doth fleet 
 Woman's brief goddess-ship, and soon she takes 
 The sober matron tint, content to yield 
 Tinsel and trappings, if her heart be right, 
 That in her true vocation she may shed 
 A higher happiness on him she loves, 
 For earth and heaven. 
 
 As from her early home 
 And pleasant gates the gentle bride passed forth, 
 Big tears stood glittering in the old servants' eyes, 
 Deepening their murmured benison on her, 
 Who was " so like the Mother that was gone, 
 The sainted mistress." 'T is a heaven-taught art 
 To graft enduring love on servitude ; 
 And often have I joyed to see how deep 
 Around the hearths of England is that root 
 Of order and of comfort, which doth bind 
 Each stratum of the compact household firm, 
 The lowest to the highest ; those who serve, 
 Not of their lot ashamed, and those who rule 
 Regardful of the charity which counts 
 A life-loner service, as a bond of love. 
 
292 HAMPTON COURT. 
 
 Here and hereafter. 
 
 So, the wedding past, 
 Bright in its hallowed hopes, but not without 
 Some touch of tender grief; for here, below, 
 In all her loftiest temples Joy doth set 
 Lachrymatories, and her banquet-board 
 Hath aye some subterranean path, that tends 
 Unto the house of tears. 
 
 And then, to break 
 That heavy pause, which on the heart doth fall, 
 When what it loves departeth, forth we went, 
 As I have said before. Well pleased we swept 
 O'er vale and common, and by that green lane 
 Where Wandsworth boasts its nested nightingales, 
 By lordly manor, and o'er lonely heath, 
 Whose furze and broom make glad the donkey tribe, 
 Or 'neath the enormous chestnuts that o'ersweep 
 Richmond, the loved of Thames, and by the shades 
 Of Busby Park, a monarch's late abode, 
 Until the gates of Hampton Court we passed, 
 And scanned its purlieus fair. The lime and yew 
 Spread their inwoven arms, and countless flowers 
 Within their garden cells of bordering turf 
 Wrought out a rich mosaic. Here the Maze 
 With labyrinthine lines the foot allured, 
 And there the pampered people of the pool 
 Swam lazily, in gold and silver coats, 
 To take some dainty morsel from the hand 
 Of. merry childhood. The old Hamburgh vine 
 
HAMPTON COURT. 293 
 
 Round its glass palace groped with monstrous arms, 
 And filled each nook with clusters, proud to load 
 The royal table. In yon tennis-court 
 How many a feat of strength and shout of mirth 
 Have held their course, since from these halls arose 
 The Christmas-carol of old Tudor's time. 
 Raphael's bold pencil here with wondrous power 
 Survives, and many a modern artist decks 
 Ceiling, and wall, and stair-case. But 'tis vain 
 In lays like mine to tell what pictures say 
 From age to age ; for Painting may not bend 
 To Poesy. She, on her pedestal, 
 Robed with the rainbow stands, — and mocks at 
 
 those 
 Who, with a goose-quill and a drop of ink, 
 Are fain to take her likeness. Quaint conceits 
 Of him of Orange and his Stuart queen 
 Adorn these haunts, — while frequent on the walls 
 Their blended names in curious love-knot twine. 
 Here too stout Cromwell stretched himself to die; 
 His pale lip sated with the love of power 
 By blood obtained. 
 
 But most of all we meet, 
 Where'er in musing reverie we tread, 
 Wolsey, — the master-spirit, who upreared 
 This princely pile, and from a germ obscure 
 Towered up to such o'er whelming magnitude 
 Of power, that monarchs felt his dampening shade 
 Fall on their greatness. 
 
294 HAMPTON COURT. 
 
 Here his feasts were spread 
 Magnificent, — and here with clerkly skill 
 He fostered learning, while his secret thought 
 Was how to make his haughty honors grow, 
 And throne ambition on its thunder-cloud 
 For realms to kneel to. But the daring hand, 
 That grasped so long the crowned lion's mane, 
 Failed, and he fell, fell low to rise no more. 
 So, with a solemn sadness he went down, 
 As great minds do. 
 
 Was there no penitence 
 In that deploring eloquence, which blamed 
 The folly of the man that serves his king, 
 Forgetful of his God 1 in that sad glance 
 Of retrospection, which so analyzed 
 All pomps of life, and found them vanity 1 
 In that humility of voice, which asked 
 At Leicester-Abbey, with his broken train, 
 But for that little charity of earth 
 Which the dead beggar finds 1 
 
 We trust the cloud 
 Fell not in vain upon him, but restored 
 His chastened spirit to the pardoning One. 
 
 Is pride for man 1 the crushed before the moth ? 
 Is it for angels? Answer, ye who walked 
 Exulting on the battlements of Heaven, 
 And fell interminably. Dizzy heights 
 Suit not the born of clay. Oh, rather walk 
 
HAMPTON COURT. 295 
 
 With careful footsteps, and with lowly eyes, 
 Bent on thine own original ; nor mark 
 With taunt of bitter blame thy brother's fall. 
 In dust his frailties sleep. Awake them not, 
 Nor stir with prying hand the curtaining tomb, 
 But lead the memory of his virtues forth 
 Into the sun-light. 
 
 So shalt thou fulfill 
 The law of love. 
 
 Wednesday, March 3d, 1841. 
 
 " They who serve, 
 Not of their lot ashamed." 
 
 It is impossible to be domesticated in an English 
 family, without admiring the excellent attendance of 
 the servants. Each one is at his post, in the neatest 
 costume, ready to maintain the clock-work regularity 
 of the establishment. The interests of those whom 
 they serve are their own, in their sicknesses or sor- 
 rows they are afflicted, in their joys they rejoice, to 
 their guests they show observance and honor. Thus 
 identifying themselves with those whose comfort they 
 promote, they are happy in their station, and in the 
 respect which attends the faithful discharge of their 
 duties. They consider servitude no mark of disgrace, 
 and sometimes continue with their employers, ten, 
 fifteen, or twenty years, or throughout their whole 
 
296 ENGLISH SERVANTS. 
 
 lives. It is beautiful to see them, their countenances 
 so expressive of contentment with their condition, 
 uniting in the morning and evening devotions of the 
 household, with whom their sympathies have been 
 long amalgamated. The mistress of a family, thus 
 sustained, has opportunity for the better points of her 
 nature to expand, and leisure to study the characters 
 of her children, as well as to enjoy the friends who 
 partake her hospitality. 
 
 When I see the quiet dignity of the housekeepers 
 of the Mother-Land, their calm, unruffled reliance, 
 that what ought to be done will be done at the right 
 time, and well done, and the perfection they are thus 
 enabled to give to their hospitality, it is difficult not 
 to contrast it with our own hurried reception of 
 unexpected guests, and the rapid inquiry of anxious 
 thought, whether their comfort can be compassed 
 without our hastening abruptly from their presence, 
 to superintend the culinary department. One remem- 
 bers too, the defection which may suddenly take place 
 of all in the shape of assistants, and the disorder thus 
 introduced into the domestic sphere, to the inconven- 
 ience of the best loved, and cannot but fervently wish 
 for such a correct balance of interests, that those who 
 are nominally our helpers, may no longer be actual 
 annoyances, transient allies, or partial belligerents, 
 but Christian friends. 
 
 We may not, indeed, expect under our form of gov- 
 ernment that precise definement of rank, or degree 
 
TRAINING DOMESTICS. 297 
 
 of respectful observance, which prevail in England ; 
 yet, if it were possible, by any change of measures, 
 or heightened intercourse of kindness to secure a 
 more permanent continuance and stronger personal 
 attachment, from those who serve us, such results 
 would be worthy of earnest inquiry and strenuous 
 effort. It was anciently the custom, in the New-England 
 States, for a young matron to take under her roof a 
 female child, and train her up, as an useful adjunct 
 in the household. She was sometimes an orphan, and 
 this gave to the transaction a feature of benevolence. 
 An assistant was thus secured, whom it might be 
 hoped that every year would render more efficient 
 and more attached to those who protected her. The 
 usage is now less prevalent, and the reason alleged is, 
 that it is too much trouble. Trouble 1 Yes. There 
 is doubtless trouble in forming the habits of a child, 
 in correcting such infirmities as may be corrected, and 
 having patience with the rest, and in faithfully teaching 
 right principles for this life and the next. Trouble 1 
 Yes. But is there not also the payment of witness- 
 ing its improvement, of profiting by its exertions, of 
 securing its affections, and of seeing it at last, if 
 God will, a respectable member of the community? 
 Trouble ? Yes. And how many things are there in 
 this world worth the having, that are to be attained 
 by us women without some trouble 1 Is there not 
 trouble in attempting to naturalize foreign hirelings; 
 and when they have become partially accustomed to 
 
298 
 
 CROMWELL. 
 
 our idioms, see them flit away without warning, like 
 the shadow, and all our training lost, as water upon 
 the earth, never to be gathered up again 1 
 
 I trust these remarks will be forgiven, for the sake 
 of the motive that prompted them. It is natural to 
 desire to transplant to our own beloved, native land 
 whatever we admire in a foreign clime, especially if 
 it affects the beauty and order of domestic life, and 
 the true happiness of that sex, on whom its responsi- 
 bilities devolve. 
 
 " Here too stout Cromwell stretched himself to die." 
 
 Cromwell, in the height of his power, was fond of 
 residing at Hampton Court. Here he solemnized 
 with pomp the marriage of two of his daughters into 
 the line of the high nobility, one with Lord Falcon- 
 burg, the other with Lord Rich, heir to the earldom 
 of Warwick. Here too his favorite daughter, Mrs. 
 Claypole, was smitten with death, and in her last life- 
 struggle warned him of sin, and adjured him to re- 
 pentance. Her earnest words, mingled with moans 
 of pain, haunted his conscience as he wandered from 
 room to room, in the restlessness of the disease that 
 at length destroyed him. " It was at this period," says 
 Howitt in his interesting ' Visits to Remarkable Pla- 
 ces,' " that George Fox, the founder of the Society 
 of Friends, coming to Hampton Court, to beg him to 
 
HAMBURGH VINE. 299 
 
 put a stop to religious persecution, met him riding in 
 the park, and in his own expressive language, as he 
 drew near him, l felt a waft of death go forth from 
 him,' and coming up to him, beheld him with aston- 
 ishment looking already like a dead man. George 
 had been accustomed to have interviews with Crom- 
 well, who used to express great pleasure in his society, 
 and would say, ' come again, come often, for I feel 
 that if thou and I w r ere oftener together, we should be 
 nearer to each other.' He now desired George to 
 come to the palace again the next day, but he looked 
 on him already as a dead man, and on going to the 
 palace gate, found him too ill to be seen by any one, 
 and in a few days he died." 
 
 " The old Hamburgh vine 
 Round its glass palace groped." 
 
 A vine of the black Hamburgh grape, nearly 80 
 years old, and said to be the largest in Europe, has a 
 whole greenhouse devoted to its accommodation. Its 
 trunk is like a tree, its main branch extends 110 feet, 
 and its roots still farther, running about 18 inches be- 
 low the surface. The gardeners, who were exceed- 
 ingly proud of it, said they did not pour water upon 
 its root, but washed the branches to refresh them. It 
 produces an immense quantity of fruit ; in some sea- 
 sons, we were told, about 1400 pounds weight, or be- 
 
300 
 
 HAMBURGH VINE. 
 
 tween 2000 and 3000 clusters, all of which are reserv- 
 ed for the royal table. In the conservatory were 
 many orange trees, two of which are said to be coeval 
 with William and Mary. 
 
 
MRS. FRY AT NEWGATE PRISON. 301 
 
 MRS. FRY AT NEWGATE PRISON. 
 
 The harsh key grated in its ward, 
 
 The massy bolts undrew, 
 And watchful men of aspect stern, 
 
 Gave us admittance through, — 
 Admittance where so many pine 
 
 The far release to gain, 
 Where desperate hands have madly striven 
 
 To wrest the bars in vain. 
 
 What untold depths of human woe 
 
 Have rolled their floods along, 
 Since first these rugged walls were heaved 
 
 From their foundations strong ; 
 Guilt, with its seared and blackened breast, 
 
 Fierce Hate, with sullen glare, 
 And Justice, smiting unto death, 
 
 And desolate despair. 
 
302 MRS. FRY AT NEWGATE PRISON. 
 
 Here Crime hath spread a loathsome snare 
 
 For souls of lighter stain, 
 And Shame hath cowered, and Anguish drained 
 
 The darkest dregs of pain, 
 And Punishment its doom hath dealt, 
 
 Relentless as the grave, 
 And spurned the sinful fellow-worm, ■ 
 
 Whom Jesus died to save. 
 
 Yes, here they are, the fallen so low, 
 
 Who bear our weaker form, 
 Whose rude and haggard features tell 
 
 Of passion's wrecking storm, 
 And still, on ring or trinket gay, 
 
 Are bent their eager eyes, 
 As though by habitude constrained 
 
 To seize the unlawful prize. 
 
 Yet be not strict their faults to mark, 
 
 Nor hasty to condemn, 
 Oh thou, whose erring human heart 
 
 May not have swerved like them ; 
 But with the tear-drop on thy cheek 
 
 Adore that guardian Power, 
 Who held thee on the slippery steep 
 
 Amid the trial-hour. 
 
MRS. FRY AT NEWGATE PRISON. 303 
 
 Who entereth to this dreary cell ? 
 
 Who dares the hardened throng, 
 With fearless step and brow serene, 
 
 In simple goodness strong 1 
 She hath a Bible in her hand, 
 
 And on her lips the spell 
 Of loving and melodious speech, 
 
 Those lion hearts to quell. 
 
 She readeth from that Holy Book, 
 
 And in its spirit meek, 
 Doth warn them as those straying ones 
 
 Whom Christ vouchsafes to seek ; 
 She kneeleth down, and asketh Him 
 
 Who deigned the lost to find, 
 Back to his blessed fold to lead 
 
 These impotent and blind. 
 
 Then gently, as the mother lures 
 
 Her child from folly's way, 
 Good counsel eloquent she gives, 
 
 To guide a future day ; 
 When in the convict-ship they sail, 
 
 And sore temptation tries, 
 Or when an exile's lot they bear 
 
 'Neath Australasian skies. 
 
304 
 
 MRS. FRY AT NEWGATE PRISON. 
 
 For soon the dangerous deep they dare 
 
 This is the parting hour ; 
 And lo ! their burning eyeballs pour 
 
 A strange and plenteous shower ; 
 And oh, may watching angels scan, 
 
 Beneath that troubled tide, 
 Some pearl of penitence to glow, 
 
 Where ransomed souls abide. 
 
 Oh beautiful ! though not with youth, 
 
 Bright locks of sunny ray, 
 Or changeful charms that years may blot, 
 
 And sickness melt away ; 
 But with sweet lowliness of soul, 
 
 The love that never dies, 
 The purity and truth that hold 
 
 Communion with the skies. 
 
 Oh beautiful ! yet not with gauds, 
 
 That strike the worldling's eye, 
 But in the self-denying toils 
 
 Of heaven-born charity. 
 Press onward, till thou find thy home 
 
 In realms of perfect peace, 
 Where, in the plaudit of thy Lord, 
 
 All earthly cares shall cease. 
 
 Friday, March 5, 1841. 
 
 
MRS. FRY AT NEWGATE PRISON. 305 
 
 Bolts and bars, and the creaking of sullen hinges, 
 and the clang of massy doors, and the meagre aspect 
 of narrow, grated windows, how repulsive ! how the 
 veins chill at passing these dreary thresholds ! — and 
 yet what mighty pains have we taken to arrive at this 
 prison-house, and to gain admittance to its precincts. 
 Riding through one of the most terribly dense London 
 fogs, swallowing its mephitic atmosphere, saturated 
 with coal in sickening mouthfuls, to our present an- 
 noyance, as well as future peril, plunging into black, 
 glutinous mire, and all for what ? To be let in where 
 multitudes are longing to be let out, — where for so 
 many years, such masses of human crime and misery 
 have tossed, and fermented, and been cast forth to 
 banishment and to death. 
 
 Well, here we are, indeed, at Newgate, seated in 
 the midst of a throng of female convicts. How rude 
 and hardened is the aspect of many of them, — what 
 savage and hateful glances do they bend on the un- 
 fallen. Ah ! here are young faces, with curious, 
 searching eyes, taking note of every ornament of 
 dress, others turned away with a mixture of shame 
 others expressing only stupid indifference. Oh, chil- 
 dren ! had ye no mothers, to warn you of this ? 
 
 I am told that in some cases, their mistresses, for 
 the theft of a slight article of dress, have given them 
 up to such ignominy. It was painful to look upon the 
 sin and sorrow thus exhibited by my own sex. " Who 
 maketh thee to differ ? " was never before so forcibly 
 20 
 
306 MRS. FRY AT NEWGATE PRISON. 
 
 impressed, or with such a humbling consciousness 
 of innate infirmity. 
 
 The brief pause was broken by the entrance of a 
 lady of commanding height, and of plain garb and 
 countenance. Every eye was fixed on her, and the 
 dignity of her calm benevolence seemed to be felt by 
 all. There was about her the quietude of a soul con- 
 versant with high duties, and not to be satisfied with 
 so poor an aliment as the applause of man. 
 
 This was Mrs. Fry. With a peculiar melody of 
 voice, and that slow intonation which usually distin- 
 guishes the sect to which she belongs, she read from 
 the Bible, and after a few simple remarks and touch- 
 ing admonitions, knelt in prayer. But neither in her 
 comments, nor in the solemn exercise of devotion was 
 there a single allusion, which could harrow up the 
 feelings of the unfortunate beings who surrounded 
 her. Over the past a veil was drawn. It was to the 
 future that she urged them to look, with " newness of 
 life." She came with all gentleness of speech, as to 
 the " lost sheep of the house of Israel." Like a 
 mother to her erring children, she spoke of the infi- 
 nite compassions of the Redeemer, — of the joy that 
 there was among angels, when one sinner repenteth. 
 Those who despairing had said, " no man careth for 
 my soul," laid aside the defiance of guilt, and seemed 
 ready to become as little children. 
 
 More than usual feeling was pressed into this inter- 
 view. It was a parting scene. The class of convicts, 
 
MRS. FRY AT NEWGATE PRISON. 307 
 
 whom she now addressed, were the next week to be 
 transported to Botany Bay. With increasing earnest- 
 ness she recapitulated the instructions given during 
 their previous intercourse, which must now never 
 more be renewed. She exhorted them to an exempla- 
 ry deportment during the long voyage that was before 
 them ; to convince all with whom they should in future 
 associate, that their teaching had not been in vain ; 
 to bear with patience the evils, and discharge with 
 fidelity their duties, in a foreign land ; fortifying their 
 good resolutions by every hope drawn from this life 
 and the next. Surely the spirit of that Master was 
 with her, who wrote with his finger upon the ground, 
 effacing the accuser's threat, and sparing to condemn 
 the sinful soul, abashed at its own guilt. Nor were 
 her appeals in vain. Sobs and moans, on every side, 
 attested that hardened natures were becoming as wax 
 before the flame. The stony-hearted and the fiery- 
 eyed seemed ready to change, like Niobe, into a 
 fountain of tears. A stronger contrast could scarcely 
 be imagined, than the appearance of the audience at 
 her entrance and her departure. May the hallowed 
 counsels of their benefactress go with them over the 
 far waters, and be to them, in the land of their ban- 
 ishment, as a voice turning many to righteousness. 
 
 After our departure from this scene, and during a 
 drive in her own carriage, Mrs Fry inquired of me 
 much respecting American prisons, and expressed 
 great interest in the results of those systems of dis- 
 
308 MRS. FRY AT NEWGATE PRISON. 
 
 cipline among us, which have in view the reforma- 
 tion of the offender. A young lady, who seemed to 
 be an active assistant in her plan of benevolence, pre- 
 sented me at Newgate with a book detailing the pro- 
 gress of these efforts in behalf of female prisoners. 
 It seems that the first visit of Mrs. Fry to Newgate 
 was in 1813, and that she then found, in an area of 
 less than two hundred square yards, three hundred in- 
 carcerated females. Such were their ferocious man- 
 ners and abandoned conduct, that it was not thought 
 safe to go in among them. The Governor, perceiving 
 that she had determined to venture, deemed it expedi- 
 ent to request that she would leave her watch behind 
 her, acknowledging that even his presence might be 
 insufficient to prevent its being violently torn from 
 her. Almost every discouragement seemed to oppose 
 the outset of the benevolent effort of Mrs. Fry. It 
 was felt necessary to have a guard of soldiers in the 
 prison to prevent outrage ; order and discipline were 
 utterly set at defiance. But her presence, and the 
 kind interest she manifested in them, made a great 
 impression. At her second visit, she was, by her own 
 desire, admitted into the wards, unaccompanied by 
 any turnkey. She then proposed to them a school for 
 the children and younger prisoners. This was accept- 
 ed, even by the most hardened, with gratitude and 
 tears of joy. A separate cell was procured, and the 
 school prosperously established. Soon the older pris- 
 oners came with entreaties to be taught and employed. 
 
MRS. FRY AT NEWGATE PRISON. 309 
 
 A matron was obtained to remain day and night in 
 the prison, and the ordinary, governor, and sheriffs, 
 though they had no confidence in the success of the 
 experiment, manifested every favorable disposition 
 towards it, and lent it all the aid in their power. At 
 the next meeting, the comforts to be derived from in- 
 dustry, and sobriety, were dwelt upon ; the pleasure 
 and profit of doing right and obtaining knowledge ; 
 and the happiness of a life devoted to virtue and piety. 
 The prisoners were assured that no regulation would 
 be established among them without their entire con- 
 currence, and that neither Mrs. Fry, nor the ladies 
 with whom she consulted, and who formed a commit- 
 tee, assumed any authority over them, except by their 
 own consent. Some rules were then proposed, and it 
 was gratifying to see every hand held up in unquali- 
 fied approval. A chapter in the Bible was read to 
 them, and after a period of silent meditation, the mon- 
 itors, who had been appointed, withdrew with their re- 
 spective classes to the cells, in the most orderly man- 
 ner. 
 
 The first steps towards taming the lion had suc- 
 ceeded beyond all expectation. Guilt had listened, 
 and admitted the superiority of virtue, and been con- 
 vinced that it was itself an object neither of indiffer- 
 ence nor of hatred. It had seen those who were "rich 
 and increased in goods," condescending to " light a 
 candle, and sweep the house, and seek diligently for the 
 piece that was lost." It wondered, and was subdued. 
 
310 MRS. FRY AT NEWGATE PRISON. 
 
 A great change in the habits of the prisoners was 
 obvious to all who approached them. It had been the 
 practice of those who were sentenced to transporta- 
 tion, on the night before their departure, to pull down 
 and break everything within their reach, — to destroy 
 their seats and fire-places, and go off shouting with 
 the most shameless effrontery. Now, to the surprise 
 of the oldest turnkeys, and other officers and inmates 
 of the prison, no noise was heard, no injury done, not 
 a window broken. The departing ones took an affec- 
 tionate leave of their companions, expressed graiitude 
 to their benefactress and her coadjutors, and entered 
 the conveyances that had been provided for them, in 
 the most quiet and orderly manner. 
 
 Mrs. Fry, and the benevolent ladies associated with 
 her, visit the convict-ships while they remain in the 
 river, and kindly present them with such articles as 
 may conduce to their comfort, giving to each one a 
 bag for holding her clothes, another for her work, 
 another containing a small supply of haberdashery, 
 materials for knitting and for patch-work, combs, 
 scissors, and thimbles, spectacles to such as need 
 them, useful books, religious tracts, and a copy of the 
 New Testament, with the Psalms appended. Rules 
 for their observance during the voyage are read to 
 them, and while they are assembled to receive their 
 gifts, kind words of admonition are addressed to them, 
 mingled with passages from the Scriptures. Com- 
 pressed in the narrow space which for four or five 
 
MRS. FRY AT NEWGATE TRISON. 311 
 
 months is to be their home, and about to become ex- 
 iles from their native land, they often pour forth the 
 most fervent feeling to those who sought them out in 
 their low estate, and followed them to the last moment 
 with offices of mercy, in the name of a common Sav- 
 iour. 
 
 Most gratifying was it to the persevering originator 
 of this effort, to find that its good results were not 
 confined to the walls of the prison. Superintendents 
 and physicians, on board the convict-ships, gave testi- 
 mony to the marked improvement in the behavior of 
 the women from Newgate. On their arrival at the 
 place of their destination, the lady of the Governor, 
 who had several of them in her family as servants, as- 
 serts that "their conduct was so uniformly correct as 
 to merit her approbation ; a circumstance so uncom- 
 mon, that she felt it her duty to acquaint Mrs. Fry 
 with the happy change. 
 
 One, who had been four years in the penal colony 
 at New South Wales, writes, " It was inside of the 
 walls of Newgate that the rays of divine truth shone 
 into my dark mind, and may the Holy Spirit shine 
 more and more into my understanding, that I may be 
 enabled so to walk as one whose heart is set to seek a 
 city whose builder and maker is God. I hope the 
 world will see that your labor in Newgate has not 
 been in vain in the Lord." 
 
 Another, who had occasionally been employed as a 
 teacher among her fellow-prisoners, writes to Mrs. 
 
312 MRS. FRY AT NEWGATE PRISON. 
 
 Fry, " I sincerely wish to forsake evil and to do good. 
 God is merciful to those who seek him by penitence 
 and prayer. It is my determination, with his assist- 
 ance, to begin a new life." Afterwards, in her last 
 sickness, she said she was cheered by the " hope of 
 living happily in a better world," and that her sorrow- 
 ful imprisonment had proved a real blessing. 
 
 Another liberated prisoner encloses to Mrs. Fry 
 two pounds, saved from her wages as a servant, which 
 she begs her to accept, and "add to the subscription 
 for defraying the expenses of her most benevolent ex- 
 ertions for the reform and instruction of those unhap- 
 py persons, confined within that dreary receptacle of 
 woe, — the walls of Newgate." 
 
 What was commenced so prosperously at Newgate, 
 has been extended to other prisons in Great Britain, 
 and with some degree of the same success. Many 
 have been taught both to read and to work neatly, 
 and thus, after their liberation, have found themselves 
 better qualified to earn an honest livelihood. Some 
 have been received as servants, and maintained an 
 exemplary conduct for years, and even remained with 
 their employers as long as they lived. 
 
 Of others it was said, that their dutiful and indus- 
 trious course had been a comfort to parents and 
 friends ; and others had died in the faith of the Gos- 
 pel, giving God thanks for the instruction of those 
 who had sought them out in their wretchedness, not 
 being ashamed of their bonds. Some of course have 
 
MRS. FRY AT NEWGATE PRISON. 313 
 
 exhibited no marks of repentance ; but that any are 
 reclaimed, calls for fervent gratitude. Not only in 
 England, Scotland, and Ireland, but in different parts 
 of the Continent, especially in Russia, Prussia, and 
 Switzerland, a spirit of inquiry and exertion has been 
 aroused by the successful experiment at Newgate. 
 
 Mrs. Fry, in the spirit of her benevolence, has 
 visited Paris, and been gratified to find many ladies 
 there, disposed to adopt her views, and inquire into 
 the condition of the prisoner. Though the pioneer 
 in this enterprise of charity, she speaks of herself 
 as only the organ of others, — the instrument of 
 societies or committees ; being in reality a disciple of 
 that disclaiming humility, which, when there is good 
 to be done, worketh mightily, but when praise is 
 awarded, hideth itself. 
 
314 
 
 MARCH, AT DENMARK HILL. 
 
 MARCH, AT DENMARK HILL. 
 
 Methought this herald-month of Spring 
 
 Was wont a frown to wear, 
 Or with capricious favor fling 
 
 Her gifts and bounties rare, 
 
 Even sometimes with a shrewish voice 
 
 Among the hills to rave, 
 And check the aspiring buds that burst 
 
 Too soon their wintry grave. 
 
 But here, like patron, dressed in smiles, 
 
 The tinted turf she treads, 
 And whispers to the lowliest plants, 
 
 To lift their trembling heads, 
 
 And o'er the lustrous laurel-hedge, 
 And where the vine-leaf curls, 
 
 She bids the pendent dew-drops throw 
 Their strings of braided pearls. 
 
 i 
 
MARCH, AT DENMARK HILL. 315 
 
 Out peeps the Crocus from its nook, 
 
 And looks with timid eye, 
 To see if on the Snowdrop's neck 
 
 A blight, like frost, may lie : 
 
 But lo ! the expanded Primrose smiles, 
 
 And the Violet bids it hail, 
 And freely in the morning beam 
 
 Refresh its colors pale. 
 
 It, sees the bright Hepatica 
 
 With the buxom Daisies play 
 Their merry game of hide and seek, 
 
 Until the closing day, 
 
 It marks against the sheltering wall 
 
 The Almond's broidered vest, 
 And the princely Peach and Apricot, 
 
 In all their glory drest, 
 
 Then boldly puts the Crocus on 
 
 Her robe of varied die, 
 And to the banquet-hall of Spring 
 
 Doth enter joyously. 
 
 The mighty city hath a world 
 Within its heaving breast, 
 
 And there the pulse of busy life 
 Doth never pause nor rest. 
 
316 MARCH, AT DENMARK HILL. 
 
 The city sends a greenhouse warmth 
 
 From out its fostering heart, 
 And bids the germs of intellect 
 
 To sudden beauty start. 
 
 But Nature's efflorescence seeks 
 
 The blessed sun in vain, 
 Where rise the ponderous domes of stone, 
 
 And towers the eclipsing fane. 
 
 It is not so at Denmark Hill, 
 Each plant hath room to spread 
 
 Its little hand, and take the wealth 
 A bounteous sky doth shed ; 
 
 Hath room to ope its gentle eye 
 
 On verdant lawn and vale, 
 And have its tiny cradle rocked 
 
 By every nursing gale ; 
 
 To feel its infant lungs expand, 
 From clogging coal-dust free, 
 
 And hear the song of uncaged birds 
 From each rejoicing tree. 
 
 A sacred plant hath rooting here, 
 
 Which once profusely grew 
 Amid the walls ot Palestine, 
 
 Sustained by heavenly dew. 
 
MARCH, AT DENMARK HILL. 317 
 
 Beside the convent's wicket-gate 
 
 In ancient times it bent, 
 And blossoms still on Asia's sands, 
 
 By the roving Arab's tent. 
 
 Upon Mount Bernard's cloud-wrapt cliff, 
 Where the bitter tempest blows, 
 
 It patient bides the chilling blast 
 Of everlasting snows. 
 
 And where our poor, red forest-race, 
 
 Beside their fathers' grave, 
 Had once a home, its foliage fair 
 
 Did o'er their cabins wave. 
 
 Here too it finds a genial soil, 
 
 And putteth forth each morn 
 A rose-cup in an evergreen, 
 
 That hath no hidden thorn. 
 
 It bloometh for the stranger's hand, 
 
 And when it shuts at night, 
 Doth leave behind a secret spell, 
 
 To make his visions bright. 
 
 Young children, with their sparkling eyes, 
 
 Culled its fresh buds for me, 
 Before they knew its hallowed name 
 
 Was Hospitality. 
 
318 MARCH, AT DENMARK HILL. 
 
 And for the blessed balm it breathed, 
 
 And for its cheering ray, 
 When from the garden of my heart 
 
 I was so far away, 
 
 And for the fragrance of its flowers, 
 And for its fruitage sweet, 
 
 I'll love the soil of Denmark Hill, 
 While memory holds her seat. 
 
 Wednesday, March 10, 1841. 
 
 So habituated had I been to consider March a sea- 
 son of blast and storm, and in fact a prolongation 
 of winter, that I saw with surprise, as early as the 
 tenth of the month, at Denmark Hill, and other 
 spots in the vicinity of London, the primrose and vio- 
 let, the polyanthus and hepatica, blooming in the 
 parterres, and rhubarb, cabbages, brocoli, &c. flour- 
 ishing vigorously in the kitchen-gardens. Soon the 
 fruit trees were loaded with blossoms, and the shade 
 of a parasol in walking, became desirable. 
 
 Indeed, by the middle of February, the crocus and 
 snowdrop ventured forth into the open air ; herds 
 were grazing in velvet meadows, and the thrush and 
 robin filling the air with melody. There were after- 
 wards chilling storms, but vegetation continued to ad- 
 vance. On returning from France, in January, we 
 were struck with the superior verdure of England, 
 
CLIMATE OF ENGLAND. 319 
 
 whose ever-living hedges scorned the livery of winter. 
 Still, the degree of cold, though far less severe than 
 what we had been accustomed to feel at home, was 
 rendered more disagreeable, and probably more hurt- 
 ful, by its combination with humidity. This excess 
 of moisture, causing even the trunks of trees to grow 
 green and mossy, united, as it often is, with a murky, 
 misty atmosphere, makes an English winter, though 
 comparativley mild, a depressing season to those nur- 
 tured under sunnier skies. 
 
 But the sweet Spring made amends for all. The 
 earliest footprints of April were bright with flowers. 
 I was then where I had long wished to be, in an Eng- 
 lish farm-house. Fields, under neat and skilful culti- 
 vation, and the healthful, happy faces of the laborers, 
 presented a cheering picture of industry and content. 
 Connected with the establishment was a large and 
 productive garden, adorned in its more tasteful parts 
 by winding gravel-walks, shrubbery, and rock-work, 
 while here and there immense baskets, containing 
 tons of mould, gave nutriment to hyacinths and other 
 fragrant flowers, and nesting birds poured from vine 
 and trellis their descant of love. It was pleasant to 
 see that the children of those employed about the 
 farm, as well as of the other neighboring poor, were 
 objects of interest, — that they were sometimes col- 
 lected for instruction by the mistress of the mansion, 
 — that her needle was busy for their comfort, and 
 they encouraged to mingle their voices with hers in 
 sacred music. 
 
320 RURAL LIFE. 
 
 Is it not too generally believed in my own country, 
 that the profession of agriculture must exclude the 
 pleasures of taste and intellect, and bind the thoughts 
 down to a succession of homely toils or petty emolu- 
 ments 1 Need it be so, if there was a spirit of con- 
 tentment with moderate gains, and if the desire of 
 becoming rich was not made the ruling motive 1 Ru- 
 ral life, as I saw it at Upton Lea, and as it is seen in 
 many other parts of England, combining with simplicity 
 and systematic diligence, a love of letters, refinement, 
 and active benevolence, is but another name for true 
 independence and rational happiness; or in the words 
 of Cowper, 
 
 " Friendly to thought, to virtue, and to peace, 
 Friendly to all the best pursuits of man." 
 
 The hospitality of England is beyond my feeble 
 power of description or of praise. In various ranks 
 and modes of living, both in the city and country, it 
 was my lot to be met by it, and to find it always the 
 same. 
 
 I think the English are true friends. They are not 
 assiduous to put forth their best virtues at first sight, 
 nor to overwhelm a stranger with courtesies, nor to 
 run risks, like king Hezekiah, by the display of their 
 most sacred treasures to foreign eyes. They make 
 no protestations beyond what they feel, and are wil- 
 ling to embody in deeds. 
 
DOMESTIC CHARACTER. 321 
 
 A similar principle of integrity seems to pervade 
 social intercourse. They speak what they conceive 
 to be truth, whether it is likely to render them popu- 
 lar or not, whether it coincides or not with the opin- 
 ions and prejudices of those with whom they converse. 
 
 They are also distinguished by a love of order. 
 The ranks are clearly defined, and are not ambitious 
 to encroach on established boundaries. Children are 
 taught to obey. Servants are not ashamed of their 
 stations. The young submit to the discipline of schools 
 and colleges. The course of education is to make 
 thorough, to give a solid base, rather than to hang out 
 a broad, gay banner. Order and punctuality in those 
 who rule, beget the spirit of trust in those who are 
 subordinate, and aid to keep things upon their right 
 foundations. 
 
 The old English character is emphatically best seen 
 at home, by the fireside, and at the family altar. In 
 the enjoyment of the comfort which they so well un- 
 derstand, in the exercise of a hospitality, which, more 
 than any other people, they know how to render per- 
 fect, in the maintenance of that authority, on which 
 the strength and symmetry of the domestic fabric de- 
 pends, and in the admixture of religious obligation 
 with the daily routine of duties and affections, there 
 is a straight-forwardness, a whole^-heartedness, that 
 commands respect, and incites those, who have de- 
 scended from them, to glory in their ancestry. 
 21 
 
322 HAMPSTEAD. 
 
 HAMPSTEAD. 
 
 Come out to Hampstead. For 't is beautiful 
 To 'scape the city's, atmosphere of smoke, 
 Which, like an inky curtain, wrappeth it, 
 And drink the breezes of this vale of health. 
 'T is beautiful to view the broad expanse, 
 County on county stretching, till at last 
 The fading outline, like a misty dream, 
 Blends with the blue horizon. 
 
 Yon wide heath, 
 From which the prospect opens, oft hath lured 
 The truant spirits of the neighboring school 
 To leave their restless bed, and scale the walls, 
 Stealing a starlight ramble. Fancying oft 
 A vengeful usher in each prickly bush, 
 Whose intercepting arms their path oppose, 
 They snatch a trembling taste of liberty, 
 Dashed with the dregs of fear. Ah, happier then 
 Deem they the cottage child, who wakes at morn 
 Unvexed by thistly learning, uncondemned 
 To pore o'er lexicons, oft drenched in tears, 
 
HAMPSTEAD. 323 
 
 But at its simple leisure free to roam, 
 
 Filling its pinafore with furzy flowers, 
 
 Or now and then some rough and sparkling stone 
 
 Making its prize. 
 
 But greater wealth I found 
 Than richest flowers, or diamonds of the mine, 
 Beneath a quiet roof. For she was there, 
 Whose wand Shaksperian knew to touch at will 
 The varying passions of the soul, and chain 
 Their tameless natures in her magic verse. 
 Fast by that loving sister's side she sat, 
 Who wears all freshly, mid her fourscore years, 
 The beauty of the heart. 
 
 He, too, was there, 
 The tasteful bard of Italy, who crowned 
 Memory with wreaths of song, when life was new ; 
 So she with grateful love, doth cherish him, 
 And for his green age from her treasure-hoard 
 Gives back the gifts he gave. 'T is wise to make 
 Memory our friend in youth, for she can bring 
 Payment when hope is bankrupt, and light up 
 Life's evening hour with gladness. There they sat, 
 Plucking those fruits of friendship, which by time 
 Are mellower made, and richer. And I felt 
 It was a pleasant thing to cross the sea 
 And listen to their voices. There they sat, 
 Simply serene, as though not laurel-crowned, 
 And glad of heart, as in their youthful prime, 
 A trio, such as I may ne'er expect 
 
324 HAMPSTEAD. 
 
 To look upon again. 
 
 Whene'er I think 
 Of rural Hampstead, and would fain recall 
 Its lovely scenes, their brightest tinture falls 
 Off like a mantle, and those forms alone 
 Stand forth and breathe, their lips still uttering sounds 
 Like music. 
 
 Such eternity hath mind 
 Amid the things that perish. 
 
 Friday, March 19, 1841. 
 
 It was both a pleasure and a privilege to see Miss 
 Joanna Baillie, at her residence in Hampstead. She 
 is above the common height, erect and dignified in 
 her person, and of truly cordial manners. On my ar- 
 rival, she had just returned from a long walk to visit 
 the poor, and though past the age of seventy-six, and 
 the day chill and windy, she seemed unfatigued, and 
 even invigorated by the exercise. She resides with a 
 sister several years older than herself, and who retains 
 a beaming and lovely countenance. 
 
 With them was Rogers, the veteran poet, who has 
 numbered his eightieth winter, but still keeps a per- 
 petual smile of spring in his heart. His polished 
 manners make him a favorite in the higher circles, 
 while the true kindness of his nature is attractive to 
 all. Many from my own land can bear witness to his 
 polite attentions, and to the exquisite collection of the 
 
 
MISS BAILLIE. 325 
 
 fine arts, which his house in London exhibits ; and 
 among all the masters of the lyre in foreign realms, 
 there is none of whom I now think with such deep 
 regret, that I shall see their faces no more on earth. 
 
 Miss Baillie is well known to be a native of Scot- 
 land, and sister to the late celebrated physician of 
 that name, whose monument is in Westminster Abbey. 
 Whether it was the frankness of her nation, touching 
 the chords of sympathy, I know not, but it was pain- 
 ful to bid her farewell. The sublimity of her poetry 
 is felt on both sides of the Atlantic ; yet there is no 
 sweeter emanation of her genius than a recent birth- 
 day tribute to the. sister of whom we have spoken, the 
 loved companion of her days. Surely the readers of 
 these pages, however familiar they may be with that 
 effusion, will thank me for a fragment of it. 
 
 " So here thou art, still in thy comely age 
 Active and ardent. Let what will engage 
 The present moment, whether hopeful seeds 
 In garden-plat thou sow, or noxious weeds 
 From the fair flower remove, or ancient lore 
 In chronicle, or legend rare, explore, 
 Or on the parlor-hearth with kitten play, 
 Stroking its tabby sides, or take thy way 
 To gain with hasty step some cottage door, 
 On helpful errand to the neighboring poor, 
 Active and ardent, — to my fancy's eye 
 Thou still art young, in spite of time gone by. 
 
326 SISTERLY TRIBUTE. 
 
 Oh, ardent, liberal spirit ! quickly feeling 
 The touch of sympathy, and kindly dealing 
 With sorrow and distress, forever sharing 
 The unhoarded mite, nor for to-morrow caring, 
 Accept, dear Agnes, on thy natal day 
 An unadorned, but not a careless lay." 
 
THE ROSARY. OLD BROMPTON. 327 
 
 THE ROSARY. — OLD BROMPTON. 
 
 Talk not to me of castles, moated round 
 With antique tower and battlement arrayed, 
 
 Talk not to me of palaces, — I 've found 
 
 So sweet a haunt, that these are lost in shade ; 
 
 A fairy cottage, with its attic hues, 
 
 A garden, where the freshest violets blow, 
 
 A sacred nook, for dalliance with the muse, 
 
 Where flowers and statues breathe, and pictures 
 glow ; 
 
 Hearts filled with love, the classic thought that twine 
 And draw the shamrock forth to purer air ; 
 
 A mother beauteous in her life's decline, 
 And ever gladdened by their duteous care : 
 
 How blest from noise and restless pomp to flee, 
 And taste serene repose, sweet Rosary, with thee. 
 
 Saturday, March 20, 1841. 
 
328 
 
 THE ROSARY 
 
 OLD UROMPTON. 
 
 " And draw the shamrock forth to purer air." 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. S. C. Hall, authors of "Sketches of 
 Irish Character," and other works which powerfully 
 portray the scenery and customs of the warm-hearted 
 and weeping Isle, reside at a lovely spot in Old Bromp- 
 ton, near London, which bears the name of " The 
 Rosary." Mr. Hall is also the Editor of several ele- 
 gant volumes bearing the title of " Gems," which 
 contain concise biographies, and criticism, and selec- 
 tions from the ancient and modern poets of Great 
 Britain, beautifully illustrated by her most distinguish- 
 ed artists. Their residence, which, when I saw it, 
 was perfumed with the breath of violets, and ringing 
 with the melody of birds, is a truly congenial retreat 
 for spirits united in the pursuits of literature, and the 
 bonds of love. Mrs. Hall, well known in our country 
 as the writer of many spirited tales, says in a recent 
 letter, " We have added another room to the Rosary. 
 Do you remember where my husband's bust stood, in 
 the little dining-room? Well, the door is broken out 
 there, and we have a gothic library, eighteen feet long 
 by twelve broad, fitted up with oak-carvings, and 
 books, and pieces of armor, the windows of the long, 
 lancet shape, and the glass painted. How I wish you 
 were here, for we shall have a glorious crop of roses 
 to pay for the rather scanty supply of violets which 
 this chilly spring gave us. Such a sweet Rosarium 
 as Carter has made for me ! — tall tree-roses, in a 
 
THE ROSARY. OLD BROMPTON. 3*29 
 
 circular bed, and then smaller and smaller ones, di- 
 minishing to the fairy-rose. I wish you would send 
 me some flower seeds from your own garden, — no 
 matter how common, — for I should so like the Amer- 
 ican plants to grow with mine." 
 
330 TOMBS OF GOWER AND BISHOP ANDREWS, 
 
 TOMBS OF GOWER AND BISHOP ANDREWS. 
 
 IN THE CHURCH OF ST. SAVIOUR'S, SOUTHWARK. 
 
 Father of English verse, it is not meet 
 
 That thou unhonored of the muse shouldst lie, 
 
 The brinded lion couching at thy feet, 
 
 And fixed on vacant space thy marble eye. 
 
 Upon thy books thy head is pillowed fair, 
 
 A sculptured garland round thy temples wreathed, 
 
 Yet dearer still would be one living air, 
 
 Of memory born, or sweet affection breathed. 
 
 The lyre first waked by thee should do its part, 
 To soothe thy shade with soft, mellifluent strain, 
 
 As the lone sea-shell in its grateful heart 
 
 Doth hoard the murmur of the parent main. 
 
 Armorial bearings round thy tomb are strewn, 
 And arch and buttress prop its lofty height, 
 
 And graven foliage frets the mouldered stone, 
 And hovering angels stay their heavenward flight. 
 
TOMBS OF GOWER AND BISHOP ANDREWS. 331 
 
 Yet if thou hadst that music in thy sou], 
 
 That still, small voice, which only poets hear, 
 
 More prized, than all the proud, heraldic scroll, 
 Were one sad requiem, simple and sincere. 
 
 Sire of that art, which still enthralled doth hold 
 The fairer spirits of the British Isles, 
 
 It is not meet that thou shouldst slumber cold, 
 And drink no homage from the Muse's smiles. 
 
 Yet thou, Oh Prelate, in thy lowlier bed, 
 
 Who not to linked sounds thy fame didst bind, 
 
 But like the prophet through the desert, led 
 
 By pillared flame, and cloud, the immortal mind, 
 
 Thou, whose high business with the human soul 
 Did point o'er steeps where stormy passions rave, 
 
 Through darkened depths where bitter waters roll, 
 To find the erring, and the lost to save, 
 
 Whose tireless bounty sought the suffering poor, 
 Whose pitying care the helpless orphan fed, 
 
 Brought heavenly comfort to the sick man's door, 
 And to the prisoner came with angel tread, 
 
 Thou, who with chastening thoughts and pious fears 
 Tried thine own spirit on its pilgrim-way, 
 
 Whose treasured prayers survive the lapse of years, 
 Not with a song thy seraph-zeal we pay. 
 
332 
 
 TOMBS OF GOWER AND BISHOP ANDREWS. 
 
 Not with a song ! Oh, no ! The minstrel plies 
 His sounding harp, of tuneful bards to tell, 
 
 Or red crusader 'neath the Syrian skies, 
 Till loud in lordly halls his numbers swell, 
 
 And this is meet. But other praise is thine, 
 A silent tear-drop from the humbled eye, 
 
 A voiceless prayer beside this hallowed shrine, 
 Thy life to follow, and thy death to die. 
 
 London, Tuesday, March 30, 1841. 
 
 " Father of English verse." 
 
 Gower is styled by Dr. Johnson the first of our 
 poets who may be said to have written English. The 
 title of " father of English poetry " has been accorded 
 by some critics to him, and by others to Chaucer. 
 Gower was the most ancient writer, but Chaucer did 
 more to emancipate the British muse from the tram- 
 mels of French diction, which the fashion of the times 
 had fastened upon her. The poetry of Gower is gen- 
 erally of a grave, sententious turn, exhibiting good 
 sense, solid reflection, and useful observation. He was 
 the personal friend of Chaucer, and partook, in some 
 degree, of his spirit, imagination, and elegance. His 
 natural taste being rather serious and didactic, he is 
 characterized in " Troilus and Cressida," as the " mor- 
 al Gower. 55 The last of his works is said to have 
 owed its origin to king Richard the Second, who, meet- 
 
TOMBS OF GOWER AND BISHOP ANDREWS. 333 
 
 ing the poet one day upon the Thames, called him 
 into the royal barge, and commanded him to " booke 
 some new thing." His circumstances were affluent, 
 and his Will, which is preserved among the records of 
 the church where he was buried, and to which he had 
 been a benefactor, contains several charitable and 
 pious bequests. He attained a great age, being born 
 in the time of Edward the Second, and living through 
 the reigns of Edward the Third, Richard the Second, 
 until after the accession of Henry the Fourth. In the 
 first year of the last named monarch, he shared the 
 misfortune of Homer and of Milton, and became blind. 
 A few mournful lines of his, fix the date of this affliction. 
 
 " Henry the Fourth's first year, I lost my sight, 
 Condemned to suffer life, devoid of light. 
 All things to time must yield, and nature draws 
 What force attempts in vain beneath her laws. 
 What can I more? For though my will supplies, 
 My ebbing strength the needful power denies. 
 While that remained, I wrote ; now, old and weak, 
 What wisdom dictates let young scholars speak. 
 May those who follow be sublimer still, 
 My toils are finished, here I drop my quill." 
 
 The tomb of Gower is surmounted by a canopy, 
 embellished with corbels of angels' heads, and other 
 devices, resting on three gothic arches, which are en- 
 riched with cinquefoil tracery and carved foliage, 
 
334 TOMBS OF GOWER AND BISHOP ANDREWS. 
 
 and supported by angular buttresses, terminating in 
 pinnacles. Underneath, on an altar-tomb, the bard 
 reposes; his head reclining on three volumes of his 
 works, his hair falling in large curls over his shoulders, 
 and round his temples a wreath of roses. On a plain 
 tablet is an epitaph in Latin verse, and on the margin 
 of the tomb the following inscription : 
 
 " Here lieth John Govver, a celebrated English poet, 
 also a benefactor to this sacred edifice, in the times of 
 Edward Third, and Richard Second." 
 
 Under the arches of the monument, and against the 
 wall, were painted three female forms, with scrolls, and 
 a superscription in black letter, effaced by time. But 
 a description of this tomb in an antique work says, 
 " John Gower lieth right sumptuously buried, with a 
 garlande on his head, in token that in his life-daies, 
 he did flourish freshly, in literature and science. On 
 the wall, where his bones have a resting-place, there 
 be painted three virgins, with crownes on their heades, 
 one of which holdeth a device in her hande, and over 
 her is written 
 
 Charitie. 
 1 Thou, of our God, the only Son, 
 Save him, who rests beneath this stone.' 
 The seconde, is written 
 Mercie, and saith 
 1 Oh Jesus kinde, thy mercie show 
 To the soul of him, who lies below.' 
 
TOMBS OF GOWER AND BISHOP ANDREWS. 335 
 
 The thirde, is 
 Pitie, holding in her hande, the followynge, 
 4 For pitie's sake, dear Saviour keep 
 His soul, who underneath doth sleep.' " 
 
 This monument, interesting both in itself and for 
 its antiquity of about 450 years, has been recently 
 renewed, and removed to a recess in the south transept 
 of the church, by Lord Francis Leveson Gower, a de- 
 scendant of the poet. 
 
 " Yet thou, Oh Prelate, in thy lowlier bed." 
 
 During some alteration in this ancient church 
 the workmen found, enclosed in an arch of brick- 
 work, the coffin of Bishop Launcelot Andrews. It 
 was of lead, with the initials L. A. upon the lid, and 
 in a state of excellent preservation, having been in- 
 humed in the autumn of 1626. He was a man of 
 deep piety and high intellectual attainments, and born 
 in London, in the year 1555. His industry in study 
 was great, and he became the master of fifteen lan- 
 guages. But he was still more conspicuous for his 
 piety and humility, which he retained unchanged 
 through all his elevations, of Lord Almoner, and 
 
336 TOMBS OF GOWER AND BISHOP ANDREWS. 
 
 Privy Counsellor of England and of Scotland, and 
 Bishop, first of Chichester, then of Ely, and lastly, 
 of Winchester. He was eminent for hospitality, lib- 
 erality, and unwearied charity to the poor. He 
 patronized humble merit, and relieved the sick and 
 sorrowful. Never having married, he considered his 
 possessions and his time, as peculiarly consecrated to 
 the duties of his profession, and seemed ever to live 
 under the abiding sense of his solemn stewardship. 
 His integrity was incorruptible ; his affability won the 
 hearts of those with whom he associated, and his grat- 
 itude to any, who had shown him favors, especially to 
 those who had aided him in his early years to attain 
 knowledge, was equalled only by his charity. At 
 death he left in his will several thousand pounds, the 
 interest of which was to be divided, four times a year, 
 among widows, orphans, prisoners, and " aged poor 
 men, especially sea-faring men ; " his own father hav- 
 ing been a mariner. His labors in preaching were un- 
 wearied, and his published writings evince his industry 
 and piety. Among them are nearly a hundred ser- 
 mons, some controversial tracts, and a book of " Pri- 
 vate Devotions, with a Manual for the Sick," which 
 has passed through many editions. He was one of 
 the learned divines, appointed to execute a translation 
 of the Holy Scriptures, during the reign of James the 
 First, and the portion entrusted to him extended from 
 Genesis to the 2d book of the Kings. The circum- 
 stances of the life of this excellent man seemed to 
 
TOMBS OF GOWER AND BISHOP ANDREWS. 337 
 
 impress themselves with peculiar vividness, as we 
 stood on the spot where his ashes reposed. The fine 
 old church where they are deposited is also interest- 
 ing in itself, and for its antiquity, a part of it having 
 been commenced in the year 1106. 
 
 22 
 
338 RUNNIMEDE. 
 
 RUNNIMEDE. 
 
 5 T was beautiful, in English skies, 
 
 That changeful April day, 
 When beams and clouds each other chased, 
 
 Like tireless imps at play, 
 And father Thames went rolling on, 
 
 In vernal wealth and pride, 
 As in our slender boat we swept 
 
 Across his crystal tide. 
 
 And then, within a tasteful cot, 
 
 The pictured wall we traced, 
 With relics of the feudal times, 
 
 And quaint escutcheons graced 
 Of fearless knights, who bravely won 
 
 For this sequestered spot 
 A name from wondering History's hand, 
 
 That Death alone can blot. 
 
RUNNIMEDE. 339 
 
 Methought a dim and slumbrous veil 
 
 Enwrapt the glowing scene, 
 And strangely stole our wearied eyes, 
 
 And each bright trace between, 
 And at our side, behold ! a king 
 
 His thronging minions met, 
 Arrayed in all the boasted power 
 
 Of high Plantagenet. 
 
 See ! see ! his sceptered hand is raised 
 
 To shade a haggard brow, 
 As if constrained to do a deed 
 
 His pride would disallow. 
 What now, false John ! what troubleth thee ? 
 
 Finds not thine art some way 
 To blind or gull the vassal train, 
 
 And hold thy tyrant-sway 1 
 
 He falters still, with daunted eye 
 
 Turned toward those barons bold, 
 Whose hands are grappling to their swords 
 
 With firm indignant hold ; 
 The die is cast ; he bows him down 
 
 Before those steel-girt men, 
 And Magna Charta springs to life 
 
 Beneath his trembling pen. 
 
340 RUNNIMEDE. 
 
 His white lip to a smile is wreathed, 
 
 As their exulting shout 
 From 'neath the broad, embowering trees 
 
 Upon the gale swells out, 
 Yet still his cowering glance is bent 
 
 On Thames' translucent tide, 
 As if some sharp and bitter pang 
 
 He from the throng would hide. 
 
 Know ye what visiteth his soul, 
 
 When midnight's heavy hand 
 Doth crush the emmet cares of day, 
 
 And wield reflection's wand? 
 Forth stalks a broken-hearted sire, 
 
 Wrapt in the grave-robe drear, 
 And close around his ingrate heart 
 
 Doth cling the ice of fear. 
 
 Know ye what sounds are in his ear, 
 
 When wrathful tempests roll ; 
 When heaven-commissioned lightnings search, 
 
 And thunders try the soul 1 
 Above their blast young Arthur's shriek 
 
 Doth make the murderer quake, 
 As if anew the guiltless blood 
 
 From Rouen's prison spake. 
 
RUNNIMEDE. 341 
 
 Away, away, ye sombre thoughts ! 
 
 Avaunt, ye spectres drear ; 
 Too long your sable wing ye spread 
 
 In scenes to memory dear. 
 So, quick they vanished all away, 
 
 Like visioned hosts of care, 
 As out on the green sward we went, 
 
 To breathe the balmy air. 
 
 Then from its home, in English soil, 
 
 A daisy's root I drew, 
 Amid whose moistened crown of leaves 
 
 A healthful bud crept through ; 
 And whispered in its infant ear 
 
 That it should cross the sea, 
 A cherished emigrant, and find 
 
 A western home with me. 
 
 Methought it shrank, at first, and paled ; 
 
 But when on ocean's tide 
 Strong waves and awful icebergs frowned, 
 
 And manly courage died, 
 It calmly reared a crested head, 
 
 And smiled amid the storm, 
 As if old Magna Charta's soul 
 
 Inspired its fragile form. 
 
342 RUNNIMEDE. 
 
 So, where within my garden-plat 
 
 I sow the choicest seed, 
 Amid my favorite shrubs I placed 
 
 The plant of Runnimede, 
 And know not why it may not draw 
 
 Sweet nutriment, the same 
 As when within that noble clime 
 
 From whence our fathers came. 
 
 Here's liberty enough for all, 
 
 If they but use it well, 
 And Magna Charta's spirit lives 
 
 In even the lowliest cell ; 
 And the simplest daisy may unfold, 
 
 From scorn and danger freed ; 
 So make yourself at home, my friend, 
 
 My flower from Runnimede. 
 
 Thursday, April 1, 1841. 
 
 A gentleman of the name of Harcourt, the pro- 
 prietor of Runnimede, has erected there a graceful 
 cottage, one of whose rooms is garnished with relics 
 of the olden time, and bears upon its walls the coats 
 of arms of all the barons who awed King John 
 at Runnimede, and extorted the charter of English 
 liberty. 
 
RUNNIMEDE. 343 
 
 A simple daisy, which I transplanted from the 
 spot where Magna Charta was signed, sustained the 
 trials of the voyage well, when rarer plants per- 
 ished, and now adorns my garden in a state of vig- 
 orous health. 
 
344 
 
 CLIFTON. 
 
 CLIFTON. 
 
 Spot where the sick recover, and the well 
 Delighted roam, I bear thee on my heart, 
 With all thy portraiture of cliff and shade, 
 And the wild-footed Avon rushing in, 
 With Ocean's kingly message. 
 
 Here we stand, 
 To take our last farewell of England's shore, 
 And mid the graceful domes that smile serene 
 Through their embowering shades, recognise one, 
 Where she, who gave to Barley Wood its fame, 
 Breathed her last breath. 'T is meet that she should 
 
 be 
 Remembered by that sex, whom long she strove 
 In their own sheltered sphere to elevate, 
 And rouse to higher aims than Fashion gives. 
 Methinks I see her in yon parlor-nook, 
 In arm-chair seated, calm in reverend age, 
 While that benevolence, which prompted toils 
 For high and low, precepts for royal ears, 
 And horn-book teachings for the cottage child 
 
CLIFTON. 345 
 
 And shepherd boy, still brightens in her eye ; 
 Auspicious image for this parting hour. 
 
 I give thee thanks, Old England ! full of years, 
 Yet passing fair. Thy castles ivy-crowned, 
 Thy vast cathedrals, where old Time doth pause, 
 Like an o'er-spent destroyer, and lie down, 
 Feigning to sleep, and let their glory pass, — 
 Thy mist-encircled hills, thy peaceful lakes, 
 Opening their bosoms mid the velvet meads, 
 Thy verdant hedges, with their tufted bloom, 
 Thy cottage children, ruddy as the flowers 
 That make their thatch-roofed homes so beautiful ; 
 But more than all, those mighty minds that leave 
 A lasting foot-print on the sands of time ; 
 These well repay me to have dared the deep, 
 That I might look upon them. 
 
 So, farewell ! 
 I give thee thanks for all thy kindly words, 
 And deeds of hospitality to me, 
 A simple stranger. Thou art wonderful, 
 With thy few leagues of billow-beaten rock, 
 Lifting thy trident o'er the farthest seas, 
 And making to thyself in every zone 
 Some tributary. Thou, whose power has struck 
 The rusted links from drooping Afric's neck, 
 And bade thy winged ships in utmost seas 
 Be strong to rescue all her kidnapped race, 
 Bend the same eagle-eye and lion-heart 
 
346 
 
 CLIFTON. 
 
 To mercy's work beneath thine Indian skies, 
 And in the bowels of thine own dark mines, 
 And where the thunder of the loom is fed 
 By childhood's misery, and where the moan 
 Of him, who fain would labor if he might, 
 Swells into madness for his famished babes ; 
 Bow down thy coronet and search for them, 
 Healing their ailments with an angel's zeal, 
 Till all, who own thy sceptre's sway, be known 
 By the free smile upon their open brow, 
 And on their fervent lip a Christian's praise. 
 
 And now, farewell, Old England. 
 
 I should grieve 
 Much at the thought to see thy face no more, 
 But that my beckoning home doth seem so near 
 In vista o'er the wave, that its warm breath 
 duickeneth my spirit to a dream of joy. 
 
 
 Peace be within thy walls, Ancestral Clime ! 
 And in thy palaces, and on thy towers, 
 Prosperity. And may no war-cloud rise 
 'Tween thee and the young country of my birth, 
 That Saxon vine thou plantedst in the wild 
 Where red men roamed. Oh ! lift no sword again, 
 Mother and Daughter ! 
 
 Shed no more the blood 
 That from one kindred fountain fills your veins. 
 Show the poor heathen, in earth's darkest place, 
 
MRS. HANNAH MORE. 
 
 347 
 
 The excellence of faith by its sweet deeds 
 Of peace and charity. So may ye stand, 
 Each on her pedestal that breasts the surge, 
 Until the strong archangel, with his foot 
 On sea and land, shall toll the knell of time. 
 
 Thursday, April 8, 1841. 
 
 The bold, rocky scenery of Clifton is after my 
 own heart. There, at the base of beetling cliffs, and 
 through overhanging defiles, the Avon, which in so 
 many other places glides with a serene, classic flow, 
 rushes in with tides of thirty-five feet. We saw many 
 elegant mansions in commanding situations, and a 
 suspension bridge in progress, where workmen were 
 crossing by rope and basket at a tremendously dizzy 
 height. 
 
 The house, where Mrs. Hannah More passed the last 
 years of her venerable and useful life, was to us an 
 interesting object. Almost as a pioneer for her sex, 
 she entered the field of intellectual labor, warning 
 them to forsake frivolity of pursuit, and exert in their 
 own proper sphere their latent power to improve and 
 elevate society. With a versatility equalled only by 
 her persevering industry, she adapted the rudiments 
 of moral truth to the comprehension of the collier, 
 the farmer's boy, and the orange-girl ; marked out the 
 map of life for a princess ; or followed in the heights 
 of his sublime piety, the " very chiefest of the apos- 
 
348 
 
 SPIRIT OF AMITY. 
 
 ties." An " upright and clarified common sense " 
 guided her through daily and difficult duties, and in 
 the words of her biographer, " having wings upon her 
 shoulders, wherewith she might have soared, had it 
 pleased her, she yet chose to combat on the same 
 ground with ignorance, and prejudice, and folly." 
 Her writings, at their earliest issue from the press, 
 were welcomed and circulated in America, and she 
 testified for its inhabitants a kindness which increased 
 with her advancing years. Indeed, friendly feelings 
 towards our country seemed prevalent among all with 
 whom we associated in Great Britain. Symptoms of 
 disaffection or hostility between the nations were 
 deprecated by the wisest and best, as unnatural, in- 
 expedient, and unchristian. It was freely acknow- 
 ledged that whatever promoted amity between two 
 nations, united by the ties of an active commerce, 
 common language, and kindred origin, was highly de- 
 sirable. And to us, while strangers and sojourners in 
 that foreign land, it was cheering to find such num- 
 bers ready to respond to the words of that remarkable 
 writer, Carlyle, and " rejoice greatly in the bridging 
 of oceans, and in the near and nearer approach, which 
 effectuates itself in these years, between the Eng- 
 lands, Old and New, — the strapping daughter, and 
 the honest old parent, glad and proud to see such off- 
 spring." 
 
 The Mother and Daughter ! Ought they not to 
 dwell together in unity, believing as they do, in "one 
 
SPIRIT OF AMITY. 349 
 
 Lord, one faith, one baptism?" Let every traveller 
 labor to that end; and though the lines that he traces 
 may be as slight and soon forgotten as the spider's 
 web, let him throw them forth for good, and not for 
 evil. 
 
350 ICEBERGS. 
 
 ICEBERGS. 
 
 There was a glorious sunset on the sea, 
 Making the meeting-spot of sky and wave 
 A path of molten gold. Just where the flush 
 Was brightest, as if Heaven's refulgent gate 
 One moment gave its portals to our gaze, 
 Just at that point, uprose an awful form, 
 Rugged and huge, and freezing with its breath 
 The pulse of twilight. Even the bravest brow 
 Was blanched, for in the distance others came, 
 Sheer on the horizon's burning disk they came, 
 Attendant planets on that mass opaque. 
 
 They drifted toward us, like a monster-host, 
 From death's dark stream. High o'er old ocean's 
 
 breast, 
 And deep below, they held their wondrous way, 
 Troubling the surge. Winter was in their heart, 
 And stern destruction on their icy crown. 
 So, in their fearful company the night 
 Closed in upon us. 
 
 The astonished ship 
 
ICEBERGS. 351 
 
 Watched by its sleepless master held her breath, 
 As they approached, and found her furrowing feet 
 Sealed to the curdling brine. 
 
 It was a time 
 Of bitter dread, and many a prayer went up 
 To Him, who moves the iceberg and the storm 
 To go their way and spare the voyager. 
 
 Slow sped the night-watch, and when morn came up 
 
 Timid and pale, there stood that frowning host, 
 
 In horrible array, all multiplied, 
 
 Until the deep was hoary. Every bay, 
 
 And frost-bound inlet of the Arctic zone, 
 
 Had stirred itself, methought, and launched amain 
 
 Its quota of thick-ribbed ice, to swell 
 
 The bristling squadron. 
 
 Through those awful ranks 
 It was our lot to pass. Each one had power 
 To crush our lone bark like a scallop-shell, 
 And in their stony eyes we read the will 
 To do such deed. When through the curtaining 
 
 mist 
 The sun with transient glimpse that host surveyed, 
 They flashed and dazzled with a thousand hues, 
 Like cliffs with diamond spear-points serried o'er, 
 Turrets and towers, in rainbow banners wrapped, 
 Or minarets of pearl, with crest of stars, 
 So terrible in beauty, that methought, 
 He stood amazed at what his glance had done. 
 
352 ICEBERGS. 
 
 I said, that through the centre of this host 
 5 T was ours to pass. 
 
 Who led us on our way ? 
 Who through that path of horror was our guide ? 
 Sparing us words to tell our friends at home 
 A tale of those destroyers, who so oft 
 With one strong buffet of their icy hands 
 Have plunged the mightiest ship beneath the deep, 
 Nor left a lip to syllable her fate. 
 
 Oh thou ! who spread us not on ocean's floor 
 A sleeping-place unconsecrate with prayer, 
 But brought us to our blessed homes again, 
 And to the burial-places of our sires, 
 Praise to thy holy name ! 
 
 Monday, April 19, 1841. 
 
 The morning of Sunday, April 18th, was serene 
 but cold. Walking on the deck before breakfast, I 
 could not but imagine that I detected the latent chill 
 of ice in the atmosphere ; but the apprehension was 
 not admitted by those who had more knowledge of 
 those watery regions than myself. Our noble ship, 
 the Great Western, vigorously pursued her way, and 
 the deep, slightly agitated and strongly colored, was 
 exceedingly beautiful. 
 
 We had divine worship in the saloon, and the dead- 
 lights, which had been in for nearly a week, were 
 removed. The service was read by Captain Hoskins, 
 
ICEBERGS. 353 
 
 and the Rev. President Way land gave an impressive 
 discourse on the right education for eternity, from the 
 passage, " Now see we through a glass darkly, but 
 then face to face." 
 
 At seven we went on deck to see a most glorious 
 sunset. The King of day, robed in surpassing splen- 
 dor, took his farewell of the last Sabbath that we were 
 to spend at sea. While we were gazing with delight, 
 a huge dark mass arose exactly in the brilliant track 
 of the departed orb. It was pronounced by the 
 Captain to be an iceberg three quarters of a mile in 
 length, and its most prominent points one hundred 
 feet high. Of course its entire altitude was four 
 hundred feet, as only one third of the ice-mountains 
 appear above the surface. It presented an irregular 
 outline, towering up into sharp and broken crags, 
 and at a distance resembled the black hulks of sev- 
 eral enormous men-of-war lashed together. Three 
 others of smaller dimensions soon came on in its 
 train, like a fleet following the admiral. We were 
 then in north latitude 43°, and in longitude 48° 40". 
 We literally shivered with cold ; for on the approach 
 of these ambassadors from the frigid zone, the ther- 
 mometer suddenly sank below the freezing point, 
 leaving the temperature of the water 25°, and of the 
 atmosphere 28°. 
 
 On this strange and appalling scene the stars looked 
 out, one after another, with their calm, pure eyes. 
 All at once a glare of splendor burst forth, and a 
 23 
 
354 ICEBERGS. 
 
 magnificent aurora borealis went streaming up the 
 concave. The phosphorescence in our watery path 
 was unusually brilliant, while over our heads flashed 
 and dazzled this vast arch of scintillating flame. We 
 seemed to be at the same time in a realm of fire, and 
 in a realm of frost; our poor, fleshly natures sur- 
 rounded by contradictions, and the very elements 
 themselves bewildered, and at conflict. And there 
 they were, dashing and drifting around us, those ter- 
 rible kings of the Arctic, in their mountain majesty, 
 while, like the tribes in the desert, our mysterious 
 path was between the pillar of cloud, and the pillar of 
 flame. 
 
 At nine, from the sentinels stationed at different 
 points of observation, a cry was made of " ice ahead ! 
 ice starboard ! ice leeward ! " and we found ourselves 
 suddenly imbedded in field-ice. To turn was impos- 
 sible ; so a path was laboriously cut with the paddles, 
 through which our steamer was propelled, stern fore- 
 most, not without peril, changing her course due 
 south, in the teeth of a driving blast. 
 
 When we were once more in an open sea, the Cap- 
 tain advised the passengers to retire. This we did a 
 little before midnight, if not to sleep, at least to seek 
 that rest which might aid in preparing us for future 
 trials. At three we were aroused by harsh grating, 
 and occasional concussions, which caused the strong 
 timbers of the ship to tremble. This was from float- 
 ing masses of ice, by which, after having skirted an 
 
ICEBERGS. 
 
 355 
 
 expanse of field-ice fifty miles in extent, we were sur- 
 rounded. It varied from two to five feet in thickness, 
 viz. from eight inches to a foot and a half above 
 the water, and was interspersed with icebergs, some 
 of them comparatively small, and others of tremendous 
 size and altitude. By the divine blessing upon nauti- 
 cal skill and presence of mind, we were a second 
 time extricated from this besieging and paralyzing 
 mass ; but our path still lay through clusters and hosts 
 of icebergs, which covered the whole sea around us. 
 The Captain, who had not left his post of responsibility 
 during the night, reported between three and four 
 hundred distinct ones, visible to the naked eye. There 
 they were, of all forms and sizes, and careering in 
 every direction. Their general aspect was vitreous, 
 or of a silvery whiteness, except when a sunbeam 
 pierced the mist ; then they loomed up, and radiated 
 with every hue of the rainbow, striking out turrets, 
 and columns, and arches, like solid pearl and diamond, 
 till we were transfixed with wonder at the terribly 
 beautiful architecture of the northern deep. 
 
 The engine of the Great Western accommodated 
 itself every moment, like a living and intelligent thing, 
 to the commands of the Captain. " Half a stroke ! " 
 and its tumultuous action was controlled ; " a quar- 
 ter of a stroke ! " and its breath seemed suspended; 
 " stand still ! " and our huge bulk lay motionless upon 
 the waters, till two or three of the icy squadron drift- 
 ed by us ; " let her go ! " and with the velocity of 
 
356 ICEBERGS. 
 
 lightning we darted by another detachment of our 
 deadly foes. It was then that we were made sensible 
 of the advantages of steam, to whose agency, at our 
 embarkation, many of us had committed ourselves 
 with extreme reluctance. Yet a vessel more under 
 the dominion of the winds, and beleaguered as we 
 were amid walls of ice, in a rough sea, must inevitably 
 have been destroyed. 
 
 By nine in the morning of April 19th, it pleased 
 God to set us free from this great danger. Afterwards 
 when the smallest sails appeared on the distant hori- 
 zon, our excellent Captain caused two guns to be fired 
 to bespeak attention, and then by flags and signals 
 warned them to avoid the fearful region, from which 
 we had with such difficulty escaped. Two tiny barks 
 came struggling through the billows to seek a more 
 intimate conversation with the mighty steam-ship, who, 
 herself not wholly unscathed from the recent contest, 
 willingly dispensed her dear-bought wisdom. There 
 was a kind of sublimity in this gift of advice and 
 interchange of sympathy between the strong, experi- 
 enced voyager, and the more frail, white-winged wan- 
 derers of the trackless waste of waters. It seemed 
 like some aged Mentor, way-worn in life's weary pil- 
 grimage, counselling him who had newly girded on his 
 harness, " not to be high-minded, but fear." 
 
 As we drew near the end of our voyage, we felt how 
 community in danger had endeared those to each other, 
 who, during the sixteen days of their companionship 
 
ICEBERGS. 357 
 
 upon the ocean, had been united by the courtesies of 
 kind and friendly intercourse. Collected as the pas- 
 sengers were from various climes and nations, and 
 many of them about to separate without hope of 
 again meeting in this life, amid the joy which anima- 
 ted those who were approaching native land and 
 home, the truth of the great moralist's axiom was 
 realized, that "there is always some degree of sad- 
 ness in doing anything for the last time." Hereafter, 
 with the memory of each other will doubtless blend 
 the terrific sublimity of that Arctic scene which it 
 was our privilege to witness, and the thrill of heartfelt 
 gratitude to our Almighty Preserver. 
 
358 SIGHT OF NATIVE LAND. 
 
 SIGHT OF NATIVE LAND. 
 
 Hills ! — my hills ! — whose outline dear 
 O'er the morning mist doth peer, 
 Blessed hills ! whose wings outspread, 
 Seemed to follow while we fled, 
 When our parting glance was bent 
 On our country's battlement, 
 As with white sails set we sped 
 Far away, o'er ocean dread, 
 How our glad return ye greet 
 With a smile of welcome sweet ! 
 He, who fashioned earth and sea, 
 Made no hills more fair than ye. 
 
 Spires ! that break the rolling tide 
 Of man's worldliness and pride, 
 Asking with your Sabbath chime 
 For his consecrated time, 
 And with holy chant and prayer 
 Soothing all his woe and care, 
 Minster and cathedral high 
 Ne'er have shut ye from mine eye, 
 With your church-yard's grassy sod, 
 Where my musing childhood trod, 
 
SIGHT OF NATIVE LAND. 359 
 
 With your music on the glade, 
 Which the roving Indian staid, 
 Who of yore, at twilight dim, 
 Startling caught the white man's hymn, 
 Hallowed spires ! that fleck the vale, 
 Heaven's ambassadors, all hail ! 
 
 Trees ! with arch of verdure bright, 
 Gleaming on the gazer's sight, 
 Have ye met the wintry blast 
 Bravely, since we saw ye last ? 
 Was your spring-tide wakening sweet, 
 With the grass-flower at your feet 1 
 Nest the birds with breasts of gold 
 Mid your branches as of old 1 
 Pours the thrush his carol fair 1 
 Glides the crimson oriole there 1 
 Have ye o'er their callow young 
 Still your kind protection flung ? 
 Blessings on ye ! Dews and rain 
 Fill with sap each healthful vein, 
 Blessings on ye ! Wear serene 
 Nature's coronet of green, 
 And no woodman's savage blade 
 Dare your birthright to invade. 
 
 Roofs ! that in the vista rise 
 Rude or towering to the skies, 
 Not by wealth or taste alone 
 Is your innate value shown, 
 
360 SIGHT OF NATIVE LAND. 
 
 Though perchance your firesides show 
 Signs of penury and woe, 
 Wheresoe'er with prayerful sigh 
 Sits the mother patiently, 
 Plying still her needle's care 
 For the child that slumbers there, 
 Wheresoe'er in cottage low 
 Rocks the cradle to and fro, 
 There the eye of God doth turn, 
 There the lamp of soul doth burn. 
 Roofs ! that nurse this deathless light, 
 Precious are ye in His sight. 
 
 Throngs ! I see ye on the strand, 
 As the steamer nears the land, 
 Some might fortune's favorites seem, 
 Borne on pride or pleasure's stream ; 
 Others, marked by weary care, 
 Labor's rugged livery wear; 
 Ye who humbly dig the soil, 
 Brow and hand embrowned with toil, 
 If ye eat my country's bread, 
 If to work her weal ye tread, 
 Faithful even in lowliest sphere, 
 Friends ye are, like kindred dear. 
 
 Since I last these scenes surveyed, 
 Who have in the tomb been laid? 
 Who the bitter tear have shed 
 O'er the bosom of the dead ? 
 
SIGHT OF NATIVE LAND. 361 
 
 Who beneath the sable pall 
 Hath the poet's lyre let fall 1 
 Who, that won a nation's trust, 
 Sleep in silence and in dust ? 
 While with faint and trembling fires, 
 Fearfully my heart inquires, 
 Hears it not an answer swell, 
 " God hath ordered, all is well." 
 
 Home ! — my home ! — though earth and sky 
 
 Veil thee from my longing eye, 
 
 Still though envious leagues remain 
 
 Ere thy vine-clad porch I gain, 
 
 Lightest leaf that wooed the gale, 
 
 Frailest plant with petals pale, 
 
 That beside thy threshold grew, 
 
 Ne'er have faded from my view ; 
 
 On my cheek, mid cloud and storm, 
 
 Still thy parting kiss was warm; 
 
 O'er my dreams thine accents free 
 
 Stole like angel melody ; 
 
 Little footsteps, light as wings, 
 
 Hands that swept the tuneful strings, 
 
 Lips that touched with filial flame, 
 
 Syllabled a mother's name, 
 
 Watch and ward for thee have kept 
 
 Marshalled round me while I slept; 
 
 And when loftier mansions prest 
 
 Countless pleasures on their guest, 
 
362 
 
 SIGHT OF NATIVE LAND. 
 
 Kept thee in thine armor bright, 
 Nearest to me day and night. 
 Home ! by absence made more dear, 
 Heaven be praised that thou art near ; 
 Heaven be praised, that o'er the sea 
 Once more I return to thee. 
 
 What has been the traveller's 
 
 gam 
 
 Sight of foreign land and main ? 
 Sight of visioned forms that sweep 
 O'er the castle's ruined steep 1 
 Sight of haunts to history dear 1 
 Sight of palace, king, or peer ? 
 No ! — the joy that lights the eye, 
 When the native shore draws nigh, 
 In the heart a deeper sense 
 Of its humbling impotence, 
 On the lip a grateful strain, 
 This hath been the traveller's gain. 
 
 Saturday, April 24, 1841. 
 
 " Travelling," said Lord Bacon, " is to the younger 
 sort a part of education." Neither are its advantages 
 confined to the season of youth. They may act 
 strongly upon the ripened character, in higher forms, 
 than through the pleasure derived from the works of 
 art, or the excitement of sublime scenery, or the 
 deepened knowledge of the topography of this little 
 planet, or the varied languages and customs of those 
 
EFFECTS OF TRAVELLING. 363 
 
 who inhabit it. They may be made to bear upon the 
 moral sentiments and innate charities, that " more ex- 
 cellent kind of knowledge," in which the most ad- 
 vanced pupil may always find something to learn, 
 though the snows of threescore years and ten have 
 gathered upon his temples. 
 
 Among the satisfactions of travelling, which are 
 not limited to any particular period of life, are the 
 emotions with which we traverse the spots which anti- 
 quity has hallowed. The pyramid, in its sandy vale, 
 the column of Paestum, with the moonbeam upon its 
 broken capital, the Parthenon, the Acropolis, the 
 Coliseum, the Tiber flowing so quietly, while the de- 
 crepit mistress of the world slumbers amid the relics 
 of departed greatness, touch new sources of feeling 
 and of contemplation. This pleasure is doubtless 
 more acute in the bosoms of those, who inhabit a land 
 where such vestiges are unknown, whose history 
 points not beyond the roving Indian with his arrow, 
 or the savage court of Powhatan, or the storm-driven 
 sails of the May Flower. To us there is inexpressi- 
 ble interest in the monuments of the Mother Land, 
 a portion of whose fame we are pleased to claim as 
 our own birthright. We are never weary of pursuing 
 the mouldering traces of the wall or aqueduct of the 
 Romans, and collecting the fragments of their hypo- 
 causts and altars. We love to muse amid the low- 
 browed arches and ruinous cloisters of the Saxons, 
 the ivy-crowned turrets of the Normans, the cathe- 
 
364 
 
 EFFECTS OF TRAVELLING. 
 
 drals and baronial halls, which, surviving the lapse of 
 ages, and the shocks of revolution, teem with the tra- 
 ditions of a buried race. 
 
 Another unutterable gratification to the enthusiastic 
 traveller, is the sight of the living, who by their deeds 
 or writings have made mankind wiser and happier. 
 We seek this privilege with the greater zeal, from the 
 consciousness that it must be fleeting, and the appre- 
 hension that it may not be accorded to us again. 
 Grey hairs are seen sprinkling the heads of the mas- 
 ters of the lyre, and we feel that another year might 
 have been too late to clasp their hand, or catch the 
 music of their voice. The statesman, the hero, the 
 philanthropist, bend beneath the weight of years, and 
 we thank God that we came before the cold marble 
 should have told us where they slumbered. We find 
 clustering roses blooming in the garden of the man of 
 genius, who so oft led us captive, while time passed 
 unheeded. But where is he? Where ? No reply, 
 save a sighing sound through the trees that he planted, 
 and we drop the tear of the mourner in his deserted 
 halls. 
 
 Among the advantages of travelling, it is common 
 to allow a high place to the knowledge of human na- 
 ture. A still higher accession might be mentioned, 
 the knowledge of ourselves. By remaining always at 
 home, we are involuntarily led to magnify our own 
 importance. Our daily movements may be points of 
 observation to the villagers who surround us ; our 
 
EFFECTS OF TRAVELLING. 365 
 
 footsteps be listened for by the ear of love ; the casu- 
 al paleness of our cheek be painfully noted at the 
 hearth-stone. Marked attentions and fond observan- 
 ces create a habitude of expecting them, which may 
 become morbid ; perhaps a belief that they are fully 
 deserved, and of course a dissatisfaction when they 
 are withheld. But you, who are thus unconsciously 
 garnering yourself up in exclusiveness and self-esteem, 
 go pitch your tent among a people of strange language, 
 walk solitary along their crowded streets, be sad, be 
 sorrowful, be sick, where " no man careth for your 
 soul." Go forth among the millions, and weigh your- 
 self, and carry the humbling result onward with you 
 through life, atom as you are, in the mighty creation 
 of God. 
 
 This increase of self-knowledge often brings an 
 enlargement of mind, and deepening of charity. 
 Dwelling long in one nook, viewing the same classes 
 of objects through the same narrow mediums, trifles 
 assume undue magnitude, prejudices fix, dislikes be- 
 come permanent, sickly imaginings take unto them- 
 selves a body, trains of morbid thought cut their way 
 deep into the heart, and the mental tendencies take a 
 ccloring like monomania. A natural antidote for these 
 evils is, to try a broader horizon, and become an in- 
 terested observer of masses of mankind, as modified 
 by clime, circumstance, and varieties of culture. Per- 
 ceiving all to be partakers of a common nature, whose 
 springs are touched like our own, by joy or sorrow, 
 by suffering, decay, and death, we enter into more af- 
 
366 
 
 EFFECTS OF TRAVELLING. 
 
 fectionate brotherhood with the great family of God, 
 and live more " tremblingly along the line of human 
 sympathies." We discover goodness where we had 
 least expected it, disinterested kindness in those who 
 were denounced as heartless votaries of fashion, warm 
 attachment and lasting gratitude among menials, and 
 learn with the heaven-instructed apostle, not to call 
 any one " common or unclean." Ere we are aware, 
 some polemic or militant feature, which, as an excres- 
 cence, had deformed our faith, exfoliates, and we find 
 it possible to love those of differing creeds, and to re- 
 spect every form in which the Supreme Being is wor- 
 shipped with sincerity. 
 
 Travelling teaches the value of sympathy. The 
 smile of welcome, the caress of affection, are never 
 prized according to their worth, until we feel the need 
 of them in a foreign land. Suffering, and the de- 
 pendence of sickness, among those who, without any 
 tie of natural or national affinity, serve you but for 
 money, are lessons never to be forgotten. If from the 
 coldly rendered service, meted out by the expectation 
 of reward, you were transferred to the care of those, 
 who, though born under a foreign sky, had been taught 
 by the spirit of a Christian's faith to " be pitiful, be 
 courteous," then in those periods of convalescence 
 when the events of a whole life sweep in vision through 
 the soul, did you not resolve, if the Merciful Healer 
 restored you to your own home, to obey more faithful- 
 ly his precepts, to " use hospitality without grudging," 
 
EFFECTS OF TRAVELLING. 
 
 367 
 
 and to " love the stranger," since you had thus learned 
 to know the heart and the solace of a stranger ? 
 
 Travelling should incite to a warmer and more en- 
 during patriotism. The depth of the " amor patriae " 
 is never fully disclosed, till we see the misty line of 
 our native hills recede, or after long absence thrill 
 with ecstasy, as they again gleam upon the horizon, 
 like the wings of a guardian angel. Then, when 
 every remembered cottage seems to stretch towards us 
 a greeting hand, all the pleasures we have tasted, all 
 the knowledge we have acquired during our wander- 
 ings, we long to pour out at the feet of our own bless- 
 ed land. Every usage of order and beauty, which dis- 
 tinguish other regions, we desire to transplant to her 
 forests, or to see blossoming around her firesides. We 
 feel willing to have borne an* exile's pain, if we may 
 bring back, as a proof of our loyalty, one germ of im- 
 provement for her humblest child, one leaf of olive 
 for the garland that encircles her brow. 
 
 Travelling unfolds to us the love of home, and the 
 length and breadth of the domestic charities. While 
 
 o 
 
 a sojourner in the tents of strangers, perhaps while 
 gazing on the glowing canvass of some ancient mas- 
 ter, the clustered columns of some gorgeous temple, 
 how often has the green vine, that waved over our 
 own door, interposed itself, or the chirping of the 
 callow nest among its branches overpowered for a 
 time the fullest burst of foreign minstrelsy. As these 
 modes of feeling gain ascendency, we pursue our re- 
 searches more for the benefit of others than our own ; 
 
368 EFFECTS OF TRAVELLING. 
 
 and selfishness yields to the exercise of the disinter- 
 ested affections. We sustain fatigue with the spirit of 
 a martyr, we adventure ourselves upon the mouldering 
 tower, we thread the mazes of the labyrinth, we ex- 
 plore the mine, we ascend the cloud-crested mountain, 
 not so much for personal enjoyment, as that we may 
 be enabled to enliven our own fireside, to gratify the 
 friend, or to hold spell-bound the wondering and de- 
 lighted child. 
 
 Travelling ought to advance the growth of piety. 
 Especially do those, who, in visiting foreign regions, 
 leave behind the objects of their warmest attachment, 
 find the separation a deep and perpetual discipline. 
 Amid the outward semblance of joy, it acts secretly 
 as a balance-check to all exultation or vanity. There 
 may be gayety through the day, but at night-fall comes 
 the homesickness. Who can say amid his most ear- 
 nest and fortunate pursuits, whether the hue of the 
 tomb may not be spread over some face dearer than 
 life itself. Thus is he driven to an intensity of prayer, 
 that he never before knew. His risks, his perils, his 
 uncertainty of their fate, from whom so many leagues 
 of fathomless ocean divide him, force him to a stronger 
 faith, a deeper humility, a more self-abandoning de- 
 pendence on the Rock of Ages. Thus amid the gains 
 of the reflecting traveller, may' be numbered that 
 which is above all price, a more adhesive and tranquil 
 trust in the " God of our salvation, who is the confi- 
 dence of all the ends of the earth, and of those who 
 are afar off upon the sea." 
 
MAR 2 7 19W 
 

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