A 1,077,164
OLD
ENGLAND
BUHR
GRAD
DA
625
.H78
1867

2,00
*
1817
LIBRARIES
· THE UNIVER
THE UNIVER
ERSITY
MICHIGAN
OF MICHIGAN.
:
:


Stuart B. McCall

M.M. Chamberlin
:
1
1
*
OLD ENGLAND:
ITS SCENERY, ART, AND PEOPLE.
BY
M. JAMES M. HOPPIN,
PROFESSOR IN YALE COLLEGE.

NEW YORK:
PUBLISHED BY HURD AND HOUGHTON,
459 BROOME STREET.
1867.
GRADI BUHR
DA
625
H78
1867
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1867, by
JAMES M. HOPPIN,
in the Clerk's Office of the District Court for the District of Connecticut.
RIVERSIDE, CAMBRIDGE:
STEREOTYPED AND PRINTED BY
H. O. HOUGHTON AND COMPANY.
Bohr / Grad
Har
PREFACE.
THE motive which has chiefly led to the publica-
tion of the following recollections of English travel,
has been the hope of exerting some little influence
upon our countrymen who go abroad, to induce
them to spend more time in England than they
are commonly inclined to do, and to see that
country more thoroughly, instead of making it a
stepping-stone to the Continent.
There have been heretofore, it is true, good
reasons for this disinclination of Americans to
remain very long in England; but these rea-
sons do not now exist, or at least to the extent
that they once did. And it hardly need be said,
that there is no country which contains so much
of absorbing interest to a thoughtful American
as Old England; finding there as he does the
head-springs of the life and power of his own
nation, and in almost every object that his eye
rests upon, seeing that which (a short two cen-
turies ago) formed part of his own history. He
iv
PREFACE.
finds there the complement of the life of the New
World. It is especially good for his intensely
active American nature to come in contact with
the slower and graver spirit of England, and it
thereby gains calmness and sobered strength.
I do not profess in these pages to present much
that is new or comprehensive in relation to so well-
known a country as England; but I have striven
to draw a faithful though rapid picture of the
English portion of the island, going from Tweed-
mouth to Land's End, touching upon nearly every
county, and making the entire circuit of the land.
The English Cathedrals have particularly attracted
me, and I have loved to linger in their majestic
shadows; and for the sake of younger readers,
some account has been given of the history and
progress of Architecture in England.
I have everywhere spoken with the freedom
which an American is accustomed to exercise upon
all subjects, and yet in no spirit of bitterness or
hostility, but, on the contrary, in a spirit of rever-
ence and love for the great land of our fathers.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER
I. LIVERPOOL TO LONDON
II. LONDON
III. LONDON ART AND THE LONDON PULPIT
IV. ENVIRONS OF LONDON
PAGE
1
25
42
•
70
V. HOMES OF ARNOLD AND COWPER
84
VI. WESTON UNDERWOOD TO CHELTENHAM
99
VII. CHELTENHAM, BRISTOL, AND GLOUCESTER
115
VIII. WORCESTER TO DUDLEY.
130
X.
τό
IX. LICHFIELD TO MATLOCK
MATLOCK TO MANCHESTER
XI. THE LAKE COUNTRY
•
XII. THE LAKE COUNTRY (CONTINUED)
XIII.
TWEEDMOUTH TO HAWORTH
XIV. HOME OF THE PILGRIMS
152
171
189
•
205
219
241
XV. LINCOLN TO ELY.
252
•
XVI. THE UNIVERSITIES
•
265
XVII.
LONDON TO FOLKESTONE
305
XVIII.
TUNBRIDGE WELLS TO ISLE OF WIGHT
325
XIX.
SOUTHAMPTON TO SALISBURY
344
XX.
SOUTH DEVON AND TORQUAY.
361
XXI.
CORNWALL AND PENZANCE
382
XXII. LAND'S END
XXIII. NORTH DEVON AND WELLS
407
424
XXIV.
GLASTONBURY AND THE WYE
441
OLD ENGLAND.
1
CHAPTER I.
LIVERPOOL TO LONDON.
SOLID, unromantic Liverpool, whose greatness is
entirely of modern growth, though its charter dates
back to the twelfth century, will not detain us; for
it is too much like Boston, or one of our own large
commercial cities.
Red-walled Chester, also, which is invariably the
next step of an American traveler who longs to see
something of Old England, — something different
from what he sees at home, has been so often de-
scribed, that I will begin my story at once in the
railway carriage flying out of Chester westward to
Bangor; for I intend to take my reader to London
around by the way of North Wales, which is by far
the most interesting route, and which, if not taken
at first, is not apt to be passed over upon one's
return.
Emerson calls an English railway carriage, "a
cushioned cannon-ball." There is a wonderfully
smooth rapidity upon an English railway; and yet
with all this speed, one has a great sense of personal
1
2
OLD ENGLAND.
security. Were the American system of checking
luggage adopted, there would be an improvement.
It depends upon word-of-mouth communication
whether one's trunks go with one and stop with
one; and thus by mere good luck they are shifted
and passed along. Sometimes a label is pasted, but
at most places one is told that labels are not used ;
for the idea seems to be that the owner himself
should mark, or at least look out for, his own lug-
gage. This may be done for considerable distances,
but it is impracticable for tourists making frequent
stops in the course of a day. It is the best plan for
a traveler in England, to take with him a simple
portmanteau that he can carry in his hand. The
first-class carriage is truly luxurious, light and
splendid with plate-glass sides, and furnished with
capacious springy seats, and with every accommo-
dation for the bestowing of bundles, hats, and um-
brellas. The second-class carriage forms a lament-
able contrast to this; it is as hard, bare, and un-
comely a box as oak boards can make it; its seats
are uncushioned, and frequently dirtied by the bas-
kets and boots of railway workmen, market-men,
and "tramps."
There seems to be little or no dis-
tinction between the second and third class car-
riages excepting in this, that the second-class car-
riages are resorted to by the most respectable peo-
ple, on account of the expensiveness of the first.
But let me say a word of commendation of the
English railway porters: they are true friends of
the traveler, being easily distinguishable in a
LIVERPOOL TO LONDON.
3
crowd from their dress of black velveteen, and are
always at the right spot to afford assistance, to re-
lieve one of his parcels, to point out the booking
office, to put the luggage in the
fact to do all that can be done,
right carriage, in
and to expect no
fee for it. I was always tempted to break the strict
letter of the law, and to reward these men for such
efficient service.
On leaving Chester the railway runs along the
artificial canal made for the channel of the Dee.
The river widens toward its mouth into a shallow
bay, forming an enormous bed of shifting sand,
covered grandly with the water at full tide, but
shrinking into dribbling rills and petty ditches at
ebb. As one speeds along he catches distant views
of the Welsh Mountains on the left, and on the
right lies the broad river Dee, and soon the sea it-
self. The green valleys run up into the highlands,
and now and then a castellated mansion, or ruined
tower, or genuine old castle is seen, hanging on the
slope of the hills. The road from about this point
to Bangor is a triumph of engineering skill.
Sometimes the track is crowded between the
mountains and the sea so narrowly, that in stormy
weather the cars are dashed by the waves.
tunnels and the tubular and suspension bridges at
Conway are stupendous works. With the solid
piers of the bridges, and the massive old castle
above, Conway is a city of the Anakim. After
crossing the bridge here one comes into Caernar-
vonshire, which of all the Welsh counties con-
The
4
OLD ENGLAND.
tains the most rugged and characteristic Welsh
scenery. Soon the track runs around the project-
ing rocks of Penmaen-bach and Penmaen-maur,
precipitous crags jutting out like great foreheads
into the sea, and which were the former terror of
travelers. Dr. Johnson records the peril he felt in
climbing the dizzy road which once crept around
their sea-face. Now these formidable crags are
tunnelled, the first cut being six hundred and thirty
yards long, through flint rock.
Bangor (derived from "ban gor" or the "great
circle," a generic British word for a "religious con-
gregation" or
or "fraternity") is situated along a
narrow ravine, with a mountain at its back, and
Beaumaris Bay in front. It is the seat of a bish-
opric, and is one of the oldest centres of a still more
primitive faith; for here doubtless existed a pure
Christianity before the time of Augustine, the re-
puted apostle of England. A profound spirituality
still characterizes the religion of these Welsh peo-
ple. They are held, even by Englishmen, to be
the best kind of dissenters, because they are firmly
attached to their own ancient and simple forms,
rather than jealously antagonistic to the forms of
the Established Church. That the Spirit of God
can reach them through their more rigid modes of
thought and worship, the many powerful reforma-
tions of religion which have visited them, and espe-
cially that of 1860, which spread over and lighted
up these old mountains, may testify.
Travelers must be allowed to talk and even
LIVERPOOL TO LONDON.
5
grumble about hotels; for these are often the only
"interiors" they see, and they sometimes form the
only means strangers have of judging of the style
of living, and of a hundred little things in the com-
mon life of a people. One is made exceedingly
comfortable at a first-class English hotel, but there
is a stiffness about it which is not apt to be found
in the best American or Continental hotels. Sel-
dom is there a public table; and if the party com-
prise ladies, one is forced, even if staying for a
single day, to take a private parlor. But I am
quite converted to the English private parlor.
After a long day's journey in heat and dust, strug-
gling on with an eager and vexed human current,
to be ushered into one's own room, quiet as a room
at home, furnished often with books and every lux-
ury
and comfort, this goes some way toward recom-
pensing the traveler for the exclusiveness of the
thing. He is, it is true, entirely isolated. If his
dearest friend were dying in the next room, he
would not find it out, for seldom is there a registry-
book kept in an English hotel. And one rarely
risks a question to the dignified and taciturn waiter,
with gravity and white cravat enough to be the
Dean of Westminster.
The best English hotels have one feature that it
were surely well for us to imitate. They are not
altogether confined to interior magnificence and
showy upholstery, but have generally a pleasant
breathing-space of ornamental grounds and garden
about them. In the dry heart of busy cities, there
6
OLD ENGLAND.
will be a few flower-beds, a bit of green grass, and
walks enough at least to turn around in. At the
"Penryhn Arms" in Bangor, the garden is truly
beautiful. It is laid out in star and crescent shaped
beds, fringed with bright flowers, and the grass is
soft and springy with moss. It slopes off toward
the water, commanding a fine view of the harbor,
the entrance of the Menai Strait, the Bay of Beau-
maris, and the opposite mountainous shore of the
island. When I first saw it, the harbor of Bangor
had a very odd appearance. The tide was out, and
a vast mud-bank swept smoothly and steeply down
to the deeper abyss beyond. The vessels looked as
though they were climbing up this immense hill-
side of mud. Some stood erect; some were heeled
over; some were stern-foremost to the sea; and
some were hitched painfully up sideways upon the
bank. The flags nevertheless were all gallantly
flying.
I shall not attempt to describe the remarkable
bridges over the Menai Strait; but cannot pass by
the view of the Strait itself, and its surroundings,
as seen from the roof of the Britannia Tubular
Bridge. It is an epitome of almost all that is great
in Nature and the works of man.
On the Caernarvon side of the Strait are seen the
craggy mountains of Wales, that looked blue and
soft in the misty distance, while the hazy morning
sun filled the spaces between their summits with
that undefined and vapory light which the artist
loves. Yet their rugged outline, culminating in
LIVERPOOL TO LONDON.
7
the sharp-pointed cone of Snowdon, could be per-
fectly seen to the southeast. To the south, on the
island itself, was the ancient Druidic grove, in the
midst of whose shadows stood the white walls of
the Plas Newydd, the seat of the Marquis of An-
glesea. More than a hundred feet immediately be-
low, raved and whirled the broad Strait itself; not
a river, nor a sea, but something of both. In some
places it is two miles in breadth, its sides precipi-
tous and its banks thickly wooded. The sea, as if
chafed by its narrow walls, looks petulant and an-
gry, though here and there it is entirely smooth in
back-setting pools. Vessels sailing through the
Strait are at the mercy of the currents and tide;
now they crowd sail for one bank, and now they
drift like a log to the other. In a storm the scene
must be magnificent, such an ocean race-way as it
is. How the great green billows would leap and
chase each other through the long gorge! There
is a fisherman's small white house standing on a
low rock almost in the middle of the Strait, which,
with its irregular shape, its lines of fishing-stakes
set around it, and its bold insulated position, is a
picturesque object. The water boils and swirls
around it, and rushes by it with tremendous ra-
pidity. Indeed, this whole channel reminded me
of the formidable gorge of Niagara River just below
the Falls, filled with its vexed, foam-streaked, and
green-colored flood.
At the completion of the central tower of the
"Britannia Tubular Bridge," which is two hun-
8
OLD ENGLAND.
dred and thirty feet high, and holds the whole
structure in its strong hand, Mr. Stephenson said:
"Let them not, any more than himself, and all
who have been connected with this great work,
forget that whatever may have been, or whatever
may be the ability, science, intelligence, and zeal
brought to bear on the creature's works, it is to the
Creator we should offer praise and thanksgiving;
for without his blessing on our works, how can we
expect them to prosper? He fully believed that
Providence had been pleased to smile on the under-
taking, and he hoped that they all with him would
endeavor to obtain those smiles." It is pleasant to
see such a simple faith in a mind devoted to so ma-
terial a science as mechanics. Who can say that
the deep secrets of Nature which such a mind
grasped, were not also the fruit of this faith, just as
truly as if he had thought and labored in purely
spiritual things. Truly they build strong who thus
build.
It is but a short distance of some nine miles by
rail from Bangor to Caernarvon on the Menai
Strait, where are the ruins of the majestic castle of
the ancient kings of England, who finally suc-
ceeded in dominating over Wales, partly by force
and partly by politic concession. Height gives the
singular majesty which is so marked in the remains
of Caernarvon Castle; and some of its loftiest
towers are still perfect to the topmost stone.
There are thirteen of these towers, most of them
being surmounted by tall slim turrets. From the
LIVERPOOL TO LONDON.
9
water side the aspect of the "Eagle Tower," from
which the broad flag of England floats, is imposing.
The principal entrance of the castle has a sober
grandeur that all the changes of time cannot de-
stroy. A featureless statue of King Edward I.
stands above the gateway arch. An area of three
acres is said to be inclosed by the walls. It is a
good place to study the plan and details of an early
mediæval castle built on the largest scale of regal
magnificence. The soldiers' quarters, prisons, sta-
bles, granaries, kitchen, servants' rooms, chapel,
royal chambers, banquet hall, jousting yard, can
still be perfectly made out. There seems to have
been a proud and complete separation kept up be-
tween the military and civil departments.
lord and servant are now one. Jackdaws have
poked their sticks in the windows of queens' cham-
bers; and it would not be possible for the lightest
maiden's foot to traverse the battlements upon
which kings have walked and mused. Stairways
hang broken midway; the sides of great towers
have rushed down, taking the heart out of them;
the stone eagles on the turrets of the Eagle Tower
are reduced to black, shapeless, wingless blocks;
and well has it been called "that worm-eaten keep
of ragged stone." The first Prince of Wales was
born in this castle, but the room shown as his birth-
place is not probably authentic.
But
The first part of the ride from Caernarvon to
Llanberis, a distance of ten miles, is a slow ascent,
and has no peculiar interest; and yet one has an
10
OLD ENGLAND.
opportunity to see the miniature white stone farm-
houses, with their black funereal-looking wooden
porticoes, and the small black Welsh cattle dotting
the hill-sides. The farms appear to be principally
grazing farms, and they become more and more
rocky and unpromising as one approaches the hills,
the stones growing as thick as in a New Hampshire
sheep-pasture. After some five miles, the moun-
tains of the Snowdon range are seen over the lower
hills in advance, rising by one bound in a bold wall
from the plain; and through a narrow rock-portal,
like that at Cluses on the way from Geneva to
Chamouni, one enters the mountains. "Snow-
don" is a later Saxon name; the more ancient
British name of this range is said to signify "Eagle-
ridge" or "Eagle-crag-ridge." The craggy and
wild characteristics of a mountain pass are now be-
fore and around; and one soon begins to skirt the
shores of the small twin lakes of Llanberis. These
are insignificant in size, it is true, rather ponds.
than lakes, - but the upper and inner one of some
ten miles in length, is a singular sheet of water,
lying smooth and glassy in the shadow of gloomy
and verdureless mountains. The sharp-edged and
splintered character of the slaty mountains of Wales
adds to their sombreness, being almost literally
black, and when wet glistening and gleaming
fiercely in the sun, and their immense shelving
precipices of sheer rock well atone for their want
of great height; for a thousand feet of bare Alpine
precipice always looks grander than three thousand
LIVERPOOL TO LONDON.
11
feet of wooded and gentle descent. The view from
the top of Snowdon is said to be one of the noblest
in England, commanding as from a central throne
all of rocky Wales, the sea, the island of Anglesea,
and the highest points of England, Scotland, and
Ireland. And another interest attaches itself to
this broken range of Welsh mountains; they are
held by the best modern geologists to form the old-
est portion of the island of England. They rose
first of all from the waters; and around them, as a
solitary nucleus in the ocean of the earliest period
of creation, the rest of the land was gradually
formed. We tread here on the primitive land of
Britain. We are at the head source of her an-
tiquity, before a living thing had appeared.
On the further shore of the lake of Llyn Peris is
a vast slate quarry scooped out of the mountain
side, and lying open to view, resembling a gigantic
Roman amphitheatre with its regular rows of seats.
A small locomotive puffs and smokes along at the
foot of the Alt Dû Mountain, to carry slates to
Caernarvon, whence they are shipped to all parts
of the kingdom, and to America. Slate constitutes
the wood of this region. It shingles the roof, clap-
boards the wall, makes the door, floors the room,
and builds the fence. Tall boards of it, knitted to-
gether with wire, form a very strong, enduring,
and neat style of fence; so that a farmer could con-
veniently make all his "calculations" while swing-
ing on his gate, as the farmer boys are said to
do in Yankee land.
12
OLD ENGLAND.
After passing through the village of Llanberis,
the real mountain Pass in its true wildness and toil-
someness begins; it is a rough scene; for the bed
of the Pass is strewn with vast fragments of rock
torn from the crags above; and in and out and
among these the road wearily turns and winds; the
walls of naked cliff rise boldly on either hand; and
the only relief to this savage desolation is now and
then a little clump of fox-gloves, that push up their
slender stems, hung with spikes of faintly crimson
nodding bells, from the crevices of the grim rocks.
From the summit of the Pass, a descending road
of five miles, affording more free and open views
of the irregular mountains of the Snowdon range,
brings us to Capel Curig, which is the centre of
the best scenery in Wales; for Southern Wales
is by no means so grand in its mountain scenery,
although it contains much that is boldly picturesque ;
and there is no place also which commands such
fine points of view within such short distances.
Capel Curig is a spot where one would be satisfied
to stay day after day, until the snow and storms
of winter made it dreary. The inn is a comfortable
and neat one, built almost entirely of slate, within
and without. Maps, books, a quiet parlor, a clean
table, and a tasteful garden, - these are charms for
any man; and then, by a few steps out of the house,
or by a climb up the steep hill at its back to a little
grassy alp or mountain pasture, one comes to perfect
solitude, with a noble view of the whole pyramidal
mass of Snowdon in the distance, and a tranquil
LIVERPOOL TO LONDON.
13
valley with a gleam of peaceful waters at your feet.
The wild flowers upon this hill-side appeared to
me to be wonderfully lovely; but with the exception
of the fox-glove, they were generally very small,
such as hare-bells, daisies, crow's-foot, and heather
blossoms; and the very grass seemed to be filled
with the most minute moss-smothered flowers, too
delicate even for fragrance. Wales is a favorite
botanizing region, and its ferns, heathers, and all
kinds of mountain plants, are of exquisite beauty
and numberless variety.
The road on toward Corwen, passes through a
region gradually growing less rocky, and milder,
and more fertile in its character; the lofty sides of
the vale of Llugwy are covered to the summit
with larches, beautiful trees when found standing
together in a wood,- making pointed lines of the
greatest regularity and softest hue. A step from
the road through the larch-forest brings one to the
verge of the "cataract of the Swallow; " something
more than a pretty waterfall, for without being on
a very large scale, it is really beautiful. The light
penetrating through such a dense mass of foliage,
and struggling in upon the water, is itself of a rich
emerald green. A little beyond is Bettwys-y-Coed,
the shady and romantic summer retreat of landscape
painters, reminding one of our own picturesque
Conway in sight of the White Hills. The church
at Corwen, just back of the inn, is of fabulous
antiquity; and its gray churchyard is patriarchal
in appearance, like that of Ramlah, or the old
14
OLD ENGLAND.
Hebrew burial-ground in Prague. It has a monu-
ment of Owen Glendower. Was not his name
derived from the river Dee?
It was market-day at Corwen, and the costumes
were primitive, particularly the high hat of the
peasant women, which, when crowning strong and
masculine features gives the impression of a man
being under it, especially if the whole figure is not
at first seen.
One may still meet in Wales the
conical “cappan or cap, which is said to come
down from the most ancient British days.
""
From Corwen to Llangollen, we come again
upon the romantic river Dee, here in its impetu-
ous youth. It was the sacred stream, the "Diuw,'
the Divine, of the ancient Welsh; and few rivers.
of the same length link together more opposite or
striking scenes, the quiet Bala lake and the
ocean, splendid modern Eaton Hall and venerable
old Chester, the rocky Welsh mountains and the
broad tranquil Cheshire meadows. We now reach
the region of cultivated fields, of flowering hedges,
and the white briar wild rose; the Berwyn hills
rise steeply from the valley; and indeed the scen-
ery now becomes a succession of changing and
lovely valleys - Llangollen the loveliest of all.
This vale spreads out into wide and majestic pro-
portions, its barriers of high green hills receding
and rolling away gently toward the east, forming
the very heart of all that is rich and lovely in
Welsh scenery.
Coming out of Wales, the first natural stopping
LIVERPOOL TO LONDON.
15
place is "good old Shrewsbury." Shrewsbury, in
the county of Shropshire, or Salop, is the ideal of
a hearty English town, comfortable and quaint; it
is still fit to live in, which cannot be said of some
old towns, such, for instance, as Chester, which is
too antique for modern breadth and convenience;
but it appeared to me as if the good citizens of
Shrewsbury, with their Welsh mutton, shady trees,
quiet walks and rippling Severn River, lived as
handsomely and happily as any people in England.
Abundance flowed down their streets; fat ducks
and poultry lay in piles in the market-place; Chesh-
ire cheese and butter barricaded the side-walks ;
rosy
farm-maidens, such as Edwin Landseer paints
and "George Eliot " describes, stood bare-armed
and bare-headed in the sun. How different these
buxom English peasant girls, from the gaunt and
care-worn market women that one sees in a Ger-
man town! In January, 1860, the statue of Lord
Clive was erected in the Shrewsbury market-place,
although Clive was born at Market-Drayton, not
far distant, where his youthful exploit of climbing
the church-steeple and sitting on the spout, is still
fresh in the traditions of the people.
The Severn River forms a bend around the city
of Shrewsbury, and at this bend outside the walls
there are meadows which have been left open as a
public park; and here, skirting the river, is "St.
Chad's Walk," the most stately avenue of lime-
trees in England. These trees were said to have
been planted by one man in one day, nearly a
16
OLD ENGLAND.
!
century and a half ago, another James Hillhouse
in good taste and public spirit. Battlefield Church,
on the spot where Falstaff fought his hour by
Shrewsbury clock, is about four miles distant; I
did not visit it, but am told that it stands desolate
and neglected, the roof having tumbled in, and the
nave being open to rain and weather. But one
tower of the ancient wall of Shrewsbury yet remains,
though the elevated site of the town and its long
line of old-fashioned buildings and steeples, still
show picturesquely from the river.¹
At Wolverhampton, on the London and Holy-
head road, where one passes into Staffordshire, the
scenery suddenly changes its character; it is as if
an invisible line were drawn between Paradise and
Purgatory. Instead of the sweet clear sky, one
rushes into an atmosphere like an oven's mouth;
and in the place of green and daisy-dropt fields, the
ground becomes herbless and black, gloomy enough
for Doré's pencil. Blast furnaces are vomiting
smoke and flame; the streams run darkness; the
sun glares raylessly and luridly through the simmer-
ing gaseous air; men and women look begrimed,
1 I never could see the Severn, whether here in its modest youth, or
near its mouth in its Amazonian greatness, without thinking of that
old quatrain:
"The Avon to the Severn runs,
The Severn to the sea:
And Wickliff's dust shall spread abroad
Wide as the waters be."
In 1425, Wickliff's body was exhumed by the order of the Bishop of
Lincoln, burned, and the ashes thrown into the Swift, a little stream
which emptied into the Avon.
LIVERPOOL TO LONDON.
17
and smutchy-faced children play hide-and-seek
through old burst engine-boilers; and the whole
country around is strewn with heaps of shag, scoria,
and the refuse matter of the blast furnaces. This
represents a narrow streak of country across which
the road passes, running from the neighborhood of
Newport down to Worcester; and there is also a
much broader coal region that lies between Lich-
field and Kidderminster. But in this "Black
Country," notwithstanding its Tartarean aspect,
the power of Old England couches herself like a
dragon breathing flame and smoke, — the dragon
that St. George of England (George Stephenson)
has manfully subdued and hitched to the car of
progress.
The railway into Birmingham, in Warwick
County, runs above the tops of an immense assem-
blage of low, dingy brick houses with red-tiled
roofs; block after block, street after street, undis-
tinguished by any architectural superiority the one
over the other, are passed over; the fragments of
machinery strew the work-yards; long factories
are glided by; sign-boards that seem to stretch the
length of a train are spelled out word by word;
and at length one comes to a stand-still in the heart
of the workshop of England, where John Bull has
his sleeves rolled up, and a square paper-cap on
his head.
All things have an opportunity to prove them-
selves in Birmingham; and from the last invention
in machinery to Dr. Newman's Catholic Convent,
2
18
OLD ENGLAND.
there is free and kindly soil for the theorist. Here
John Angell James, like another aged "John,"
made this work-a-day world of Birmingham sacred
with his apostolic presence. He was of that type
of practical Christian men who force respect from
all classes. His power lay in his moral energy; but
above all, there shone in his life that spirit of Chris-
tian love, that takes the world into its embrace.
I spoke of Dr. Newman. I had noticed a small
portrait of him in a shop window, which I mistook
for the likeness of Ralph Waldo Emerson; and
this awakened my curiosity to see his religious
establishment; so taking a seat in an Edgbaston
omnibus, I was soon at Dr. Newman's conventual
house, an unsightly brick building not far out of
the city, with a shabby little chapel attached to it,
-any thing but the imposing ecclesiastical struct-
ure one would have expected from a man of taste
and a scholar. Inside of the chapel door was
pasted this notice: "Plenary Indulgence to all the
faithful who after confession and communion shall
visit the chapel and pray for the intention of the
Pope." There was certainly nothing to attract the
faithful into this door; the whole affair was com-
mon, flimsy, dirty, and cheap, with some faded pre-
tensions to paint and splendor, and with a crude
image of the Virgin that would have hardly satis-
fied a third-rate Italian village church. If this be
the chief instrumentality to convert England to the
Catholic faith, it will probably fail; but in saying
this, I would say nothing against the amiable per-
LIVERPOOL TO LONDON.
19
sonal character of Dr. Newman, and that spell of
genius and power, with which he is said to attract
all who come within the sphere of his personal in-
fluence.
I noticed in Birmingham, what I also noticed
more especially in Liverpool and Manchester, and
in some other cities whose greatness is of modern
growth, that notwithstanding this fact, the city
looks perfectly finished. Every thing is as com-
plete and solid as if this life were to last forever.
There is nothing more to be done. There is no
gap to be filled, no pulling down and building up,
as with us. We may be sure that the English
would not be apt to pull down an old house like
"the Hancock House," to make way for a modern
building, though something of this sort has been
done of late in London by the pressure of neces-
sity. An old sign-board, half undecipherable,
would be very likely to be left hanging for the sake
of its past respectability. Whatever has stood the
trial of time, has acquired in England preëmption
from change. Whatever is established, is con-
cluded to be right, beautiful, and good.
In the midst of the earnest life of this hard-work-
ing city, at the exciting hour of high noon, when
the busy human tide was greatest in the streets, I
saw our lively little friend "Punch," in vigorous
discussion with his worthy helpmate. An Eng-
lish institution this! The contracted brow was
relaxed; the quick step was arrested; and the
English love of fun and fighting broke out.
High
20
OLD ENGLAND.
and low gathered around the small booth; men
with bars of iron upon their shoulders, carmen sit-
ting sideways on their elephantine horses, clerks
with their papers in their hands, all for the mo-
ment forgot work, and even bank hours, and as
they gazed roars of hearty laughter followed the
fierce piping denunciations, and the determined
thwacks of Mr. Punch.
Although, going out from Leamington Spa as a
centre, I visited Warwick, Kenilworth, and other
well-known places, I cannot bring myself to speak
of but one or two more of these places on the road
to London.
I have no intention to rhapsodize at the tomb of
Shakspeare. When I visited it, there happened to
be a great gathering of people in the church upon
the occasion of instituting "The Bard of Avon
Lodge of Free Masons; " and it appeared to me to
be a strange enough ceremony to occur in such a
place as this. The Masonic Brotherhood, distin-
guished by their dress and decorations, filled the
body of the church. A young clergyman preached
from the fifth chapter of Ezra, about rebuilding the
old temple of true worship and of Christian broth-
erhood in these godless and degenerate days.
Though not one of the initiated, I joined in singing
a hymn beginning thus:
"Great Architect of earth and heaven,
By time nor space confined,
Enlarge our love to comprehend
Our Brethren, all mankind."
LIVERPOOL TO LONDON.
21
One would think that better poetry than this
might have been produced and sung in Shak-
speare's church, and yet, after all, its expansive
sentiment harmonized with the spirit of the place.
An opportunity was given to contribute to the
erection of a new painted window to the edifice,
which will be something pleasant to think of here-
after.
While the religious services were progressing, a
loud and unearthly shriek rang through the church.
Such a singular interruption came from one of the
side-aisles, where a poor tired woman had been
suddenly seized with a fit. This event created
considerable confusion, and it was indeed, for the
moment, quite as startling as any of the poet's own
weird scenes.
In the heavy shadow of one of the ancient pil-
lars, I noticed a very old man wearing a red vest,
leaning on his crutch, with trembling head, bleared
eyes, and long, tangled, white locks, seeming to be
hardly conscious of what was taking place around
him; and here, I thought, truly was Shakspeare's
Old Age. And, I could also see, just about me
there in the motley crowd composed as they were
of the poet's own towns-people, the burly magis-
trate, the bearded soldier, the young man, or it
may be lover, the school-boy, and the nursing babe.
It was altogether like reading a leaf of the poet in
the same daily and natural light in which it was
written.
How strange that after centuries of acquiescence
22
OLD ENGLAND.
in the authorship of Shakspeare's plays, a Yankee
woman should be the first to challenge his claims.
And now another fearless American has taken up
the bold assertion. It is almost like attacking the
authorship of a gospel. Though the arguments are
ingenious the confidence of ages is not easily
shaken. Homer is believed to have written the
Iliad by the settled conviction of the world, founded
on internal evidence as well as the testimony of
history, although German criticism has exhausted
its strength to overthrow the claim of the unity of
its authorship. Above all, to add the fame of
Shakspeare to that of Lord Bacon, were to "pile
Ossa on Pelion." The world would groan under
the weight. The testimony and friendship of Ben
Jonson outweighs the envious assaults of a fellow-
play-writer on him whom he smartly calls "the
only Shake-scene in a countrey.'
That strange
and incomprehensible impersonality which has al-
ways been noticed in Shakspeare's writings, be-
longs to the greatness and universality of his mind,
not surely to the mere desire to conceal the author-
ship of the most wonderful works of human genius.
If Shakspeare could have written one of his plays,
he could have written them all; and his very great-
ness seems to lift him serenely above doubt, or crit-
icism, or discussion. But this is not the time or
place to argue this matter. In what promises to
be an exciting passage of arms, I am not now pre-
pared to "shake a spear." Doubtless there will be
a host of spears raised to sustain the falling heavens
of Shakspeare's bright, immortal fame.
""
LIVERPOOL TO LONDON.
23
The next day after, I looked from the window
of Elizabeth's room in the "Swan Tower" of Ken-
ilworth, over the region of what was once a part of
the forest of Arden, the same region that gave the
name to Shakspeare's mother, and where he laid
the scene of that rich June poem, "As You Like
It," — perhaps a poetic tribute to his mother, Mary
Arden.
At the Kenilworth railway station, there was
gathered a rustic bridal party. The bride wore the
invariable white ribbons and white veil, which
English etiquette requires of brides high or low.
I admired the honest sincerity of the scene, and the
modest meekness with which the bride bore the
smiles and pleasant remarks of all around. It was
a half-triumphal and half-annoying ordeal.
"I waited for the train at Coventry,"
and the "three tall spires" rising from the plain
proved that the old town still belonged to the un-
enchanted present, and is not yet spirited away into
fairy land. One is more painfully reminded of this
material present by the number of coarse modern
liquor-shops that spot and infest this ancient city,
as well as all other English cities and towns. In
some smaller places, it is said that every fifth
house is used for this purpose; and by far the most
elegant and ornamental shops in the kingdom are
those which bear the staring signs of "Stout,"
"Wine," "Gin," "Brandy." The light wines of
France and the Continent would be preferable to
the strong liquors and soddening beers used univers-
24
OLD ENGLAND.
ally by the common people; but it is quite doubtful
whether the English will adopt these light wines
to any extent, or, what is better, become soon an
entirely temperate people. They will sog on until
Mr. Gough, or that more eloquent speaker" Facts,"
converts them. But intelligent Englishmen are
feeling deeply the force of these appalling facts in
regard to the wide-spread and terrible ravages of
intemperance.
The antique interest of Coventry lies chiefly in
the neighborhood of St. Michael's Church, and the
more venerable St. Mary's Hall; the first of these,
with its towering spire of three hundred and three
feet, is inferior only to the great cathedrals. This
spire is a beautifully shaped octagon, supported by
flying buttresses; it pierces the sky like a wedge.
St. Mary's Hall by its side takes us back to the
days of the feudal "guilds" and pomps; and it is a
familiar fact that Coventry, even to this day, is a
marvelous city for shows and pageants. Some of
these, it is said, exhibit very odd and ludicrous
mixtures of ancient helmets and modern beavers.
The story of "Lady Godiva" meets you every-
where. It is repeated in street statues, in archi-
tectural ornaments, and upon shop sign-boards.
But in these coarse and grotesque popular illustra-
tions of the story, one cannot recognize the same
legend as it shines in the hazy amber light of Ten-
nyson's poetry, the pure and delicate picture of
her, who, for the love she bore the poor,
"took the tax away,
And built herself an everlasting name."
CHAPTER II.
LONDON.
LONDON, on the first visit, gave me little pleas-
ure, and I was glad to leave it for the free, sweet,
open country. It was overpowering. It was like
going into the stifled breath of a furnace-mouth.
Life is on so vast a scale, so terribly real, that one
has little opportunity to think calmly, or play, or, I
had almost said, pray. There is such an endless
mass of human life that a man grows insignificant
in his own eyes; he loses his individuality; he is in-
clined to cry, "I am a mere bubble — a speck
a speck — on
this immense sea of existence! I am worthless and
insignificant in the eye of God!" I know this
feeling is foolish, especially to a genuine Londoner,
than whom no one enjoys life more heartily. An
English gentleman, to whom I expressed some such
sentiment, remarked that one must be a difficult
person to please if he could not live comfortably at
the West End of London! A second visit, and
agreeable lodgings in clean and handsome St.
James' Street, gave me a far more cheerful impres-
sion of London life. Many London families, in the
summer time, I was told, are in the habit of renting
their houses or apartments, with all their furniture
26
OLD ENGLAND.
and table-service, while they spend the warm
weather in the country or on the Continent. Thus
there may be seen "Lodgings to let" in the best
streets of London, and sometimes on very fine
houses, reminding one of Ben Jonson's "Alche-
mist," and showing how English fashions do not
change. To take lodgings in some neat and com-
fortable quarter at the West End, is by far the
pleasantest way of spending a short time in Lon-
don.
The tranquil, free, and wide-spread parks of Lon-
don, yield one also at any time an escape from the
surging current of life that rolls through the streets,
-the countless trains of omnibuses, carts, car-
riages, men, women, and children. To slip into
St. James' Park by the side of the dingy old palace,
you are at once removed from the presence of the
heated and roaring city, and enjoying the pure air
and quiet freshness of Nature. The sudden con-
trast is the more refreshing.
One of the most delightful spots in London is the
"Botanic Garden" in Regent's Park, at the height
of the season of flowers. Here you may see gath-
ered the beauty and aristocracy of the city. Yet
you cannot but be struck by the fact, that when
crowds of the best and noblest London families are
brought together in an afternoon promenade con-
cert, few of these beautiful women and elegant men
seem to be acquainted with each other. They are
silent and unsocial. There appears to be, to a
stranger, an icy reserve among the English toward
LONDON.
27
each other, which all summer heats and the soft
breath of flowers cannot quite melt. The London
exhibitions of American shrubs, of such shrubs as
our wild azaleas and rhododendrons, brought by
skillful cultivation to great beauty and size, are
well worth seeing. Few know the vast pains and
expense taken in England, to send botanists to
every part of the world, and especially into new
countries, to collect every foreign species of tree,
plant, and flower. Even as far back as two centu-
ries ago, this painful and costly process was going
on. Our American maple-leaved hawthorn was
then introduced into England. The cedar and
larch were brought in a little earlier, and the mul-
berry in the reign of James I. The native of every
land on the globe may thus see with delight, in the
public gardens of England, his own familiar home
plants and flowers, and scent the breath as it were
of his own hills and plains.
The literary man, too, finds London his paradise.
The cosy book-shops about St. Paul's Churchyard,
and other snug grazing fields, are places too tempt-
ing for any but literary nabobs, or for that insa-
tiable hunter of books, Dr. Cogswell, to revel in.
Every thing golden in antique or modern let-
ters drops at last into these half-hidden but pro-
found treasure-houses. When I was in London,
many of Mr. Mitford's most precious books, with
his neatly written and valuable marginal notes,
could be purchased. Those russet-covered vol-
umes haunt the imagination, long after the poor lit-
28
OLD ENGLAND.
erary epicure has come back to his small study and
slender oat-meal. Mr. Mitford's books sold very
cheap. A Scaliger copy of a valuable Greek au-
thor, rich in historic annotations, was bought for
£1 1s. An Aldine Catullus, with four hundred
notes by Professor Porson, was purchased for
£3 68.
As a central point to see London, half an hour
spent on one of the bridges will enable a person to
impress some feeble picture of the mighty city on
his mind, and to take a sweep up and down the
almost unimaginable extent of London. Words-
worth's sonnet on Westminster Bridge at morning,
showed that he had a human heart, which some
have denied him :
แ
Earth hath not any thing more fair;
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
A sight so touching in its majesty.
The city now doth like a garment wear
The beauty of the morning; silent, bare,
Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie,
Open unto the fields and to the sky,
All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.
Never did sun more beautifully steep
In his first splendor, valley, rock, and hill;
Ne'er saw I, never felt a calm so deep!
Dear God! the very houses seem asleep;
And all that mighty heart is lying still!"
The poet was fortunate to see the city in this
"smokeless air." A London fog has often been
described, but rarely exaggerated.
That yellow
gloom, that "darkness that could be felt," rolling
into the innermost chamber of the house, and cast-
ing a haze about the friend who sits in the opposite
+
LONDON.
29
corner, can hardly be overdrawn. And yet three
miles from the city, at the same point of time, it
may be bright and clear. Another thought of
quite justifiable pride cannot but occur to an Amer-
ican looking at the river Thames, and that is, the
vast superiority of New York to London in its site
as a commercial metropolis. The Thames toward
its mouth is a broad river it is true, but how won-
derful is the harbor of New York, with two deep
arms of the sea on either side, and the magnificent
bay spreading out in front!
There is a great source of historic fact and in-
terest not always explored in the London churches.
Take, for instance, St. Giles' Church, Cripplegate;
this is in an out-of-the-way corner of the old city,
near Grub Street, where poor authors once starved.
In this church is the tomb of Milton. There is a
marble bust of him over the spot where he was
buried. It represents his face in old age, meagre
and deeply lined, like his picture in Pickering's
edition of Milton's Works. Here also is the tomb
of Fox, the martyrologist. There is an inscription
in this church upon the monument of a young noble
lady, that was so simple and beautiful that I copied
it. "Here lies Margaret Lucy, the second daugh-
ter of Sr. Thomas Lucy of Charelcote, in the
county of Warwick, Knight, (the third by immedi-
ate descent of y name of Thomas), by Alice sole
daughter and heire of Thomas Spencer, of Clareden,
in the same county, Esqr. and Custos Brevium of
the Courte of Comon Pleas at Westminster, who
30
OLD ENGLAND.
departed this life the 18th day of November 1634,
and aboute the 19th yeare of her age; for discretion
and sweetnesse of conversation not many excelled,
and for pietie and patience in her sicknesse and
death few equalled her; which is the comforte of
her neerest friendes, to every one of whom she was
very deare, but especialie to her old grandmother,
the Lady Constance Lucy, under whose government
shee died; who having exspected every day to have
gone before her, doth now trust by faith, and hope
in the precious bloode of Christ Jesus, shortly to
follow after, and be partaker with her and others,
of the unspeakable and eternal joyes in his blessed
kingdom; to whom be all honor laude and praise,
now and ever, Amen.”
In the yard of the same old half-hidden black
brick church, is to be seen a bastion of the Roman
wall. The obliging and intelligent sexton of "St.
Giles," was the only official that I remember in
England who refused a fee. "St. Pancras in the
Fields" was the last church in England whose bell
rung for mass. On the register of "St. Martin's
in the Fields," Lord Bacon's baptism is recorded.
In one of these old London churches, Cromwell
was married. Miles Coverdale was buried in "St.
,,
Bartholomew's." "Shoreditch Church was built
over the spot where Jane Shore died in a ditch from
starvation. What is now
What is now "Finsbury Circus" was
then about the limit of the city in that direction.
All English history, law, literature, religion, have
met in London, and have radiated from London
as a common centre.
LONDON.
31
With the aid of Murray here and there, the
following may be mentioned as a few such points
in London, touched by the presence of great men
and events. In the neighborhood of the Islington
suburb, was the scene of Suetonius' victory over
Boadicea, in which 80,000 Britons were slain.
Where "Barclay's Brewery " in Southwark stands,
the "Globe Theatre" stood, and Master William
Shakspeare played his own dramas and “suited the
action to the word." At this spot also General
Haynau was well drubbed by the sturdy brewers.
In Bethnall Green, still live the descendants of the
French silk-weavers who fled to England after the
massacre of St. Bartholomew. Milton's father re-
sided in Bread Street, Cheapside; and in this street
the poet was born. He was a true Cockney born
within the "sound of Bow Bells." The same
Cheapside" it is, whose stones did rattle with the
"chaise and four," and the precious burden of-
66
My sister and my sister's child,
Myself and children three.”
At Cheapside, Tyndale's English translation of the
Bible was burned in 1526. Goldsmith died at No.
2 Brick Court Temple. Benjamin Franklin lived
at No. 7 Craven Street, Strand. Handel lived in
Piccadilly. In King Street, Edmund Spenser died
for lack of bread." Here also Louis Napoleon
lived when he acted policeman; and rumor says,
he believes it is his destiny to die at Cheapside.
Lord Byron was born in a boarding-house on
Cavendish Square. Samuel Rogers' house was No.
32
OLD ENGLAND.
22 St. James Place. William Turner was born in
1775 at 26 Maiden Lane, near Covent Garden.
In the Inns of Temple Court, the memories of
Goldsmith, Johnson, Mansfield, Eldon, are still
fresh. In Whitehall Chapel one sees the window
out of which Charles I. stepped to his execution.
In the centre of Lincoln's Inn Fields, Lord John
Russell was beheaded. Every one knows of that
vast cemetery of Bunhill Fields near Finsbury
Square, where the best genius and piety of the
old dissenters found rest from their labors.
In Smithfield Market the martyrs of the Marian
persecution were burned, and William Wallace was
beheaded. Here also King Richard III. had his
encounter with Wat Tyler. Would one ask for
the burial-place of Cromwell? His body was dis-
interred and burned under Tyburn gallows, in the
new part of London now called "Tyburnia," and
the most aristocratic portion of the city. On
Temple Bar, which must soon come down like
a rock in the middle of a busy river, the heads of
traitors were hung. At Guildhall one may still
see "Gog and Magog" in all their bearded majesty,
in spite of Mr. Punch. One of the most intensely
interesting places in London is Christ's Hospital,
founded by pious Edward VI. for fatherless children
and foundlings. This is the famous "Blue Coat
School." I was told that there were eight hundred
now belonging to the school. Here Stillingfleet,
Richardson, Lamb, Leigh Hunt, and "the inspired
charity boy," Coleridge, went to school. A frisky
LONDON.
33
herd of boys just let out careered through the yard
in front of the hall bare-headed, many of them
with their long blue coats tied up around them in
front, and their spindle shanks and yellow stockings
making a great display.
I visited a spot where the memory of one "gentle
spirit still lingers, and makes the most unromantic
place in the world attractive. Set down in front
of a sombre row of columns, and a low dingy pile
of buildings, one could hardly conceive that this
was the seat of that company of merchants who
once ruled a vast empire with absolute sway, the
East India House in Leadenhall Street. An apart-
ment up one flight of stairs toward the back of the
building, was where Charles Lamb used to write.
There I was introduced to a courteous white-haired
gentleman, who told me (though I know nothing
more of him) that he was a fellow-clerk with Lamb,
and occupied the next desk to his. He showed the
place where Lamb's desk stood, under a window
which looked out on the blank brick wall of a house.
He spoke of him whom he was proud to call a friend,
with enthusiasm. He said he was the best-hearted
man in the world. Sometimes he would say to him,
"Now you, who live in the country, go and spend
a day at home with your family, and I will take
care of your books." He had tremendous fits of
work, and would accomplish three men's tasks in a
day. At other times he would keep them all merry
with his stories, and fill his pages with the oddest
scrawls and etchings. This called to mind Lamb's
3
34
OLD ENGLAND.
boyish delight, which he speaks of in one of his
letters, when he had learned to make "flourishes"
and (poor Elia) "corkscrews, the best he ever
drew." Among other pleasant things and sayings
which this old gentleman related, I recall but this :
"One day a wealthy London merchant was ushered
into the room, and introduced to Lamb as • Mr.
So-and-So, a distinguished spice merchant.' 'Oh
yes,' said Lamb, quick as lightning, 'I'm happy
to see you, sir; I smelt you coming.'
999
The India House Library forms a rich and splen-
did collection of some 24,000 Oriental works, 8000
of these being still in manuscript. Among them
is the famous "Koran," copied on vellum by the
Caliph Othman III. A. D. 655.
Let us now turn to quite another theme and
quarter of the city, and glance at the English
"House of Commons."
Ascending the noble staircase leading up from
old" Westminster Hall," one passes into an ave-
nue or corridor, connecting with the new "Houses
of Parliament." This superb avenue is called "St.
Stephen's Hall." Along its sides are ranged full-
length statues of Hampden, Falkland, Selden,
Chatham, Burke, Pitt, Fox, and others of the
great Commoners of England. This hall leads
into a vestibule highly decorated and gilded, by
which one enters immediately into the "House of
Commons on the one side, and the "House of
Lords" on the other. Let us enter the House of
Commons. We go up a flight of stairs, and seat
99
LONDON.
35
ourselves in what is named the "Reporters' Gal-
lery." Opposite us are the reporters' desks, at
which you see anxious-looking men seated, who,
after writing a little time with intense application,
get up and go out, being relieved of their severe
toil by others. The House of Commons is almost
as gorgeous as wrought gold, fine brass, oak-wood
carving, rich frescoes, and stained-glass windows
can make it. I say "almost," for the House of
Lords, though of the same general architectural
character, is still more elaborate in its finish and
ornament. It blazes in crimson and gold.
After having looked around and above, and
sated our eyes with richness, and studied out the
Tudor rose and portcullis ornaments, and other
historic emblems, then look down and see what
this magnificent house of the gods contains. Are
they gods or men? They are truly but men; and
they are men who all wear their hats on as at a
Quaker meeting. But it is no Quaker meeting;
for the spirit of heavenly repose which broods over
the assemblies of the saints, is not surely here.
There is an anxious, angry, almost fierce spirit of
debate and conflict. The only unexcited counte-
nance is that of the Speaker, who, profoundly
buried in his big gray wig, sits imperturbable as a
machine, or rises at long intervals to put a vote in
the shortest and driest manner.
It is odd to see the quiet, matter-of-fact way in
which vast money-bills are voted upon and disposed
of in the English Parliament. I heard money
36
OLD ENGLAND.
enough to set up a small government appropriated
in about five minutes, all the members voting in
favor of it, though there had been a protracted and
violent debate upon it, in which it seemed as if the
tottering government must give way. The real
business goes on by machinery. Discussion is like
a dance on the mill-floor while the great wheel goes
steadily round. The cold, firm will of the govern-
ing class, sovereign in the House of Commons as in
the House of Lords, allowing little possibility of pop-
ular interference, manages every thing in its own
way. A long, green table stands in the centre of
the room, at one end of which two bewigged clerks
are seated, and at the other end hangs the ponder-
ous "mace." The Government party occupy
seats on one side of this table, and the Opposition
on the other.
There is an impression now prevailing in Eng-
land, that the business of the nation has become so
gigantic and complicated that Parliament is really
not equal to its transaction. I have certainly
rarely seen a more wearied and fagged-out set of
men than the Government bench at that time pre-
sented. The brilliant gas-light streamed down on
care-worn, haggard faces. They were then, it is
true, in a state of siege, and brought by a powerful
and unrelenting opposition into the most desperate
condition. Lord Palmerston, however, carried a
bold air. In the broad and racy expression of his
face he looked the born Irishman. He seemed to
have the elasticity of immortal youth. It was
LONDON.
37
highly interesting to hear this inimitable veteran
debater roll off his easy and stereotyped phrases of
defense, now rising into stately rhetoric, now get-
ting up an immense indignation, now casting him-
self back on his official dignity, and now darting a
fatal thrust of mingled ridicule and power into the
weak place of his opponent's harness. His vener-
able compeer, Lord John Russell, has a pompous
way of speaking for a small man, but is ingenious
in gliding oilily around a difficulty; and when he
cannot answer it, has an imperious way of tramp-
ling it down. It was wonderful to see these old
men sustaining these severe midnight debates; for
the sessions of Parliament begin at five or six in
the evening, and last sometimes until three o'clock
in the morning.
Confessedly the most polished and fluent speaker
in Parliament is Mr. Gladstone; but, as a rough
Englishman said to me, "He is too eloquent to be
honest;" not that this is literally true, but with
English people too great facility is looked upon
with suspicion. I was fortunate to hear Mr. Bright
speak, although but briefly. He has a round, full
forehead, and a large, resolute mouth, but the ex-
pression seemed to me gentler and more refined
than I had imagined of this strong popular tribune.
He looks like a good man a man whose heart,
whose moral nature, predominates over and sub-
ordinates his intellect. You get just the reverse of
this idea, I think, from the face of Gladstone, who
is pure intellect, though he has shown that he pos-
38
OLD ENGLAND.
J
66
sesses a noble heart. Bright's speech was charac-
terized by straightforward plainness, and also by
singular force of condensed scholarly expression.
There was none of the drawling mannerism of
the other speakers, but a marching right on in
a free, fresh, direct current of remark. There
seemed to me a consciousness that he was the
leader of a growing power in the State, and was
bound to say something telling" and strong.
He stands on his own legs, and not on pre-
scriptive reputation, opinions, or policies. He is at
this moment the grandest figure, the foremost man
in England. He seemed to me, morally, to tower
immeasurably above all the nobles and distinguished
men about him. He is indeed a dangerous man.
He goes rather too fast for John Bull. "Still," as
one of my English friends said to me, "England
will and must have substantial reforms, it matters
not what minister may be in power." The most
striking-looking man in the House of Commons is
Disraeli. I did not hear him speak. His head,
from the distance where I sat, appeared not un-
like Webster's, though of far less massive mould;
perhaps it was his saturnine complexion and im-
perturbable countenance that gave me this impres-
sion. His dark features and black hair, his con-
templative and even sombre expression, single him
out among all. He is a stranger there. Although
his spirit may not be wholesome, and his eloquence
is often more brilliant than sound, he has dared
to rise above the dead level practical standard of
LONDON.
39
English debate into a new world of ideas and prin-
ciples, and to discuss subjects in a more comprehen-
sive and philosophical way. The best speech I
heard on the whole, for its vigorous English and
manly thought, was from Sir T. Baring. Judge
Haliburton (Sam Slick) delivered a long, gossip-
ing discourse with no particular point. With no
lack of point was Mr. Roebuck's attack on the
Chancellor of the Exchequer. He speaks deliber-
ately and in a low voice, but with that distinct
whisper, or hissing tone, that makes every word
tell. His keen shafts, drawn firmly to the head,
are sent twanging home with no reservation of
human feebleness or pity. Chaucer must have
written prophetically of him:
"The arwes of thy crabbed eloquence
Shall perce his crest and eke his aventayle."
Although seated on the lower tier of benches oppo-
site the reporters' desks, it was some time before I
could begin to understand a word that was said.
The thick articulation, and the broken, jerking way
of speaking, made the English language sound like
another tongue. Even Lord Palmerston at times
got floundering and gasping in a painfully pro-
longed course of barren “eh-eh-eh's.”
In the House of Lords, the dull and drawling
style of oratory was still more pronounced. Lords
Normanby, Clanricarde, Waters, De Canning,
Brougham, and others spoke. Some of the
noble lords actually went to sleep with folded
arms beneath their broad-brimmed hats. Lord
Brougham has still the lionlike look and the
40
OLD ENGLAND.
energetic sweep of the arm; but the silver hair,
bent back, and, above all, failing voice, tell of the
decay of physical force. In the remarks that he
made there was no lack of mental vigor, and
of downright crushing common sense. He made
the impression of greater genuine oratorical power
than any speaker whom I heard in England,
though it was power on the wane, and the old fire
but faint. Sir Stratford de Canning, who has done
a great work as a diplomatist, wielding the influ-
ence of England on the side of humanity and Chris-
tian civilization, is certainly no speaker, judging by
the effort which I heard. His place is not in the
stirring field of debate. He delivered an elaborate
speech that read remarkably well the next morning
in the "Times," but he nearly broke down twice
in doing it.
The best way for a young man to see London,
is to take "Cruchley's Map of London," which
has references to more than six hundred streets,
squares, and public places, and which distinctly
denotes what buildings and institutions are wor-
thy of being visited on both sides of every street,
and then to see London by walking. In this way
he is independent of valets and cabmen, loses
nothing that is memorable, and gains some, it may
be tiresome, personal experience of the incredible
vastness of the city.
An American need not be reminded to visit
Westminster Abbey, the Tower, St. Paul's Cathe-
dral, the National Gallery, and the British Mu-
seum. His national instincts will probably lead
LONDON.
41
him to the Bank of England in Threadneedle
Street. The British Museum comprehends a
square in the heart of London. To go through it
is like walking through the avenues of a dead
world. It is a pleasant toil, but toil it certainly is.
By going day after day, or rather week after week,
it may be slowly conquered. When in visiting
Athens I saw the holes in the frieze of the Parthe-
non out of which the Elgin marbles had been torn,
it was with a feeling of indignation and sorrow;
but as one reflects that it was by this means that
the sculptures were probably saved from the de-
struction of war, or from being ground into lime by
the Turks, and that they have been the instrumen-
tality of regenerating modern Art, he is reconciled
to the change; and perhaps, hereafter, when
Greece becomes a nation worthy of the name,
some "Great Eastern will transport the marbles
back again, and they will take their old place in
the entablature of the temple. In passing the case
that contains the "Codex Alexandrinus," one is
inclined, like my genial and accomplished friend
Mr. Henry Stevens, the librarian of the American
department of the library to take off his hat.
This version, according to Cyril Lucar, Patriarch
of Alexandria, was copied by an Egyptian woman
named Thecla, in the fourth century; and it bears
evident marks of female chirography. Tischendorff
and other modern scholars, however, assign it to
the fifth century. It stands next in value after the
Vatican and Sinaitic versions. It was a gift from
Cyril to Charles I., in 1629.
CHAPTER III.
LONDON ART AND THE LONDON PULPIT.
ART in London has been derided by those.
who live on the Continent, and nothing beauti-
ful is thought capable of blossoming in that foggy
atmosphere. It is true that Nelson's monument
in Trafalgar Square does not permit Nelson to
be seen; and Wellington's statue at Hyde Park
is the ideal of military "old fogyism;" and all
the "pleasant singers" are Italians; and many
of the metropolitan sculptors and builders have
foreign names; yet, in spite of all, London is one
of the world's art-centres. It would be too great
a task to discuss English Art as developed in the
numberless schools, galleries, and expositions of
London. Between three and four thousand new
pictures are annually on exhibition. Who can say
that English Art is doing nothing? Perhaps no-
where in the world is there so much done, to
judge by the quantity, and in some respects the
quality, of the fruits. There has been an impor-
tant revolution in English Art, as every one knows,
since the days of Reynolds, Wilson, Romney, and
Gainsborough. In some respects it has lost, but
LONDON ART AND THE LONDON PULPIT. 43
in others gained, power. The trials of Wilkie,
the agonies of Haydon, and above all the eccentric
but inspired studies of Turner, have produced de-
cided changes. English Art has gained in natural
vigor, and in truthfulness of drawing and detail,
what it has lost in ideal power. It is a good thing
to go back to Nature, and copy even her stones
correctly; this lays a foundation for genius to build
upon. Pre-Raphaelitism is already giving over its
minute realness, and beginning to clothe its lean-
ness with the beauty of life and of higher truth.
It has done good; but it has not proved that
those things which God has made small and
earthly are as beautiful as those he has made
great and heavenly. "There are glories terres-
trial and glories celestial." Purity is not sufficient
for greatness, or a little child would be morally
greater than a tried and victorious man. Passion,
ideality, the divine life, must breathe and glow in
every truly great work of Art. I am Ruskinite
enough to think that Turner, in his best style, was
as near an approach to the great English painter
as has yet been made. "But after my words they
spake not," said Job; and who wishes to enter
into an elaborate discussion of Turner after the
Oxford oracle has spoken. Turner did a great
work, if it were only to have been the occasion
of Ruskin's marvelous eloquence. One has a per-
fect right, however, to look, and see, and judge
whether he likes or dislikes Turner's paintings.
There was, when I was in London, a fine oppor-
44
OLD ENGLAND.
66
tunity to do this at the Kensington Museum, popu-
larly the "Boilers," where there were three large
rooms full of Turner's best and worst pictures,
arranged it is said by Mr. Ruskin himself. What
impressed me most in Turner's greatest pictures,
those which belong principally to his second and
sound style, was their imaginative power. In such
paintings as "Dido building Carthage," in the
National Gallery, and the Shipwreck," and
"Ulysses deriding Polyphemus," and "The Fight-
ing Téméraire tugged to her last Berth" — (who
gave these taking titles? 1) and "Childe Harold's
Pilgrimage," say what you will about their "light
and "atmosphere," their "depth" and "aërial
perspective," it is the power that brings before you
new things, that calls them up from the
from the pure realm
of imagination, it is this poetic power that gives
the charm to these pictures. They awake the
sense of the infinite that a great poem does. They
take down the bars and let you into the green
fields of joy and freedom. One has the feeling
(always a delightful one) that the author of
these pictures could do any thing he wished, could
build a Carthage or a Rome.
As I was looking at one of those sublime scrawls
before which the real votary of Turner is drunk
with frenzy, a plain farmer's wife came in and read
1 Since writing the above I have seen it expressly stated in
Thornbury's biography of Turner, that the name of "The Fighting
Téméraire," and the names of others of his pictures, were Mr. Tur-
ner's own titles. Turner was a poet, though he wrote but poor poetry.
His poems were his pictures.
LONDON ART AND THE LONDON PULPIT. 45
the title, "The Day after the Deluge."
" Wull!
I should think it wur!" was the only remark she
made; and then she walked through the room
without noticing another picture.
That there is any thing in these later fantasies
of Turner's brain which appeals to the universal
understanding and common sentiment of beauty,
I cannot suppose; though, for expressing this opin-
ion, an Englishman almost told me that there was
a want of appreciation in myself. And he added,
moreover, that these last pictures of Turner com-
manded better prices than his earlier ones. I
pitied him as too far gone to be saved. Looked
at as unfinished sketches, or dashing experiments
in color, or studies of the concentration of light,
they are artistically interesting, and some of them
have a confused grandeur, as the sketches of " A
Fire at Sea," and "The Deluge." But to call
the "Angel standing in the Sun," and "Rain,
Steam, and Speed," and "Hannibal crossing the
Alps,” and the various spotty reflexes of "Venice,"
true pictures of Nature, or of a healthy imagina-
tion, this were like calling Carlyle's worst style
pure English. They have no regard to form or
fact. They are but dashes, streaks of pigment.
Take the picture called "Tapping the Furnace;"
there is no furnace, nor bell, nor workshop, nor
any thing that particularizes such a scene, but it
is a universal explosion of high colors. Yet before
Turner's finished pictures, radiant with truthful
splendors, full of the movement of life, boldly fol-
46
OLD ENGLAND.
lowing Nature and catching her deepest expres-
sions, honestly regardful of fact, painting, as he
gruffly declared, "his clouds from the clouds in the
sky-how else would you paint them?" but
despising the minute and the dull, we may rever-
ently bow. His coloring, as well as drawing, is
inspired by one living impulse; that is, it is paint-
ed from the momentary pregnant suggestion, and,
as it were, flash of Nature. This shows the great
painter whose coloring is not the result of elaborate
work in the study, but the inspiration of living
truth. We had rather see mistakes in such great
and original pictures, than the most careful per-
fection of execution in common works.
""
"Landscape painting," De Quincey said, "is
the peculiar product of Christianity; and it is
certain that the most Christian nation delights in
landscape painting. The walls of its galleries are
not hung with huge historic scenes and battle
pieces, as those of France; or with ideal paintings
of heathen poetry and religion, as of Italy; but
with tranquil views of beautiful English nature,
lighted by some simple sentiment or home affec-
tion. The historical style is having its commence-
ment in England. Such powerful painters as
Maclise and Ward, prove that England need go
no more to the Rubenses and Van Dycks of other
countries to illuminate her story. But let a man
wander over England, walk from one northern
lake to another through the whole string of pearls,
climb the mountains of Wales, explore the lonely
LONDON ART AND THE LONDON PULPIT. 47
coves and rocks of Cornwall, roam through the
ferny combes of Devonshire, and over the smooth
downs of Kent and Surrey, sit in thatched cot-
tages, linger in the solemn shades of old cathedral
towns, and then let him go into the Fall Exhibi-
tions of Art in London, and he will see it all over
again, and will almost know the very rocks and
meadows, houses and hay-ricks, in the pictures.
He must have dined with more than one of those
artists, an angel unawares.
One is willing to say,
"Let High Art go to the sepulchres of Ossian's
heroes!" when enjoying these delightful pictures
of Nature, that draw the thorn from the care worn
mind. And if one wishes for power, vastness,
agitation, terror, he has it in the sea and storm
pieces, that no artist loves more, or has a better
opportunity to delineate, than he who lives in an
island which is the home of tempests, and on
whose thousand bold headlands the ocean perpet-
ually thunders. Turner painted a snow-storm off
the coast of England, in which his own life was
imperilled.
English Art has of late years, as every one
knows, run much into the representation of pure
animal life. Animal life has been strangely lifted
into the sphere of sentiment and poetry. We do
not see merely Paul Potter's bellowing "bull
and cows," but we see a reflex of human traits,
whether noble or mean, in the rough faces and
mute actions of the creatures made for man. It
is a fine Christian recognition of the hidden links
48
OLD ENGLAND.
66
of being, and of the love of God in his plan of
creation. Yet this idea may be overstrained, as
in Landseer's picture of a Highland Deluge,'
exhibited in the "Royal Academy." A dying
cow is made the heroine of that tragedy, of which
a whole Highland family are but subordinate feat-
ures. Our pity is turned into contempt, on the
principle of Jonathan Edwards' definition of vir-
tue, that it is "love to being in general," but
graduated in strict accordance to its standard of
worth. We are inclined to give the palm to
Rosa Bonheur over Edwin Landseer. The last
paints wonderful pictures, the first living animals.
We heartily believe the story that Rosa Bonheur
lives with her animals, and does not shun the
reeking shambles and abattoirs, to study the psy-
chology of her dumb favorites. She evidently
loves them, and does not paint for money or rep-
utation, but to express her affection for animals,
and to embalm the memory of her friends and
heroes.
The American will be glad to see in the
"British School" not only the most famous
paintings of West, grand though cold, but some
of Gilbert Stuart's lifelike portraits; and many
of Leslie's works, who, born in England, was of
American parentage, and resided for a time in
America. He was, moreover, a student of Wash-
ington Allston. There is clearness and bright-
ness in his coloring, and an air of sunny life
about his pictures. He is not a great painter,
LONDON ART AND THE LONDON PULPIT. 49
but no one has caught the airy spirit of Shak-
speare's comedy and Cervantes' humor better than
he. "Don Quixote reproving the Ecclesiastic,"
in the British Institution, is not a coarse carica-
ture of the brave knight, but it revels in the ludi-
crous points and contrasts of the scene, the flaming
indignation of the demented hero, the red-hot,
roaring, stamping rage of the fat priest, the Count
holding a hard battle between mirth and Castilian
dignity, the beautiful Countess really more inter-
ested for the Don than struck with the comical
aspect of things, and the unconquerable gravity
of the Spanish attendants. The illustrious Gov-
ernor of Barataria, last but not least, lives again.
in Leslie's paintings. Still it must be said that
Leslie did not work a deep vein.
The "Bridgewater Collection" is rich in Italian
and Flemish pictures. Three exquisite Raphaels
would seem to be enough for one collection. The
masterpiece of Gerard Dow is there. There are
also two powerful landscapes by Richard Wilson.
To England belongs the glory of painting in
water-colors. It may be called an English art.
Turner himself was one of its originators, or
rather reformers. He introduced the new system
of employing local tints, and of shading each
object with its own tint, instead of laying on first
a formal groundwork of India ink, or some neu-
tral monotone, and tinting it afterward. The
present system lends freedom and brilliancy to the
painting. It is like genuine oil painting. Colors
4
50
OLD ENGLAND.
are intermingled as in Nature, and there is a pecu-
liar transparency and vividness that oil-colors do
not give.
I do not know a more refreshing and pleasing
place to spend an hour, than an Exhibition of
English Water-color paintings. Every hue of
water, earth, and sky is flung around. Fancy
plays endless freaks. The subjects are as various
as the expressions and wantonness of Nature.
The delicate fineness of Birket Foster's land-
scapes equals the exquisiteness of a camerâ ob-
scura. Almost every individual flower and grass-
spire upon a natural bank or meadow, flourishes
in his little cabinet pieces. There is a gem-like
light on them. This kind of painting is better
fitted for landscapes than for "genre" pictures.
And one is surprised to see the boldness and power
often thrown into these small paintings. The
gloomy "Pass of Glencoe" with its frowning
walls of misty mountains, or a deep black Welsh
tarn, or broken coast scenery, or the ocean torn
by a winter tempest, are scenes that these artists
do not shrink from. But to catch the bright
sparkle of English summer fields, or the green and
golden gleam of an autumn corn-field, or to invade
the cool home of the shy lilies, or to paint a pink-
cheeked Dutch family of squat mushrooms and a
group of blue-bells and buttercups, or to give a
gleam of the portentous harvest moon silvering an
old castle with a broad-winged bird of night flying
athwart its face, is more to the taste of these
bright-fancied playful artists.
LONDON ART AND THE LONDON PULPIT. 51
Holman Hunt's picture of the "Finding of
Christ in the Temple," has created much contro-
versy. Though learned and marvelously elab-
orate, it will not establish the superiority of the
Pre-Raphaelite school in the higher elements of
the art. It wants unity and elevation. I have
seen just such dull, blear-eyed Rabbis in Jerusa-
lem, representing the utmost fall and degradation
of modern Judaism, but certainly not representing
the proud and philosophic princes of the old Jewish
hierarchy of our Lord's time. The Saviour is rep-
resented as a youth of genius, with blue Saxon
eyes and bright auburn hair; there is nothing Ori-
ental, or what is infinitely more, Divine, in his face.
But I will say no more of Art here, for it is a
subject upon which every one thinks that he knows
more than others, and therefore is disposed to treat
what others say with contempt.
While in London I heard Charles Spurgeon
preach twice, and saw the power this apostle of
modern Babylon exerted upon the masses of the
people. He has the prime quality of great preach-
ers, that he speaks to the popular mind; and “the
common people heard him gladly." There he
bends his efforts, and there he shows his greatness,
and his resemblance to his Master. I heard Spur-
geon several times afterward in Paris, and prob-
ably he then preached with more than usual care
in the arrangement and style of his sermons,
though they may for that very reason have lost
something of their rough popular power. I will
52
OLD ENGLAND.
give the impression his preaching then made upon
me, with the simple addition that it fails to convey
a full idea of his free, homely, and often coarse
illustration. I would apologize for the particularity
of the description, but it may serve to correct some
false popular notions of this preacher.
Mr. Spurgeon preached his first sermon in the
American Chapel, Rue de Berri. This service was
well attended. The chapel was full, and the aisles
crowded. All his congregations were chiefly com-
posed of English people. At the "Oratoire" a
larger portion of the audience was French than at
the American chapel. There was no rush, how-
ever, at either place. The capacity of the houses
was quietly and entirely filled, and that was all.
But it was something remarkable for Paris. Mr.
Coquerel draws such audiences on the Sabbath,
but we know of no one else who does so. Whether
he could have done the same five times, on week-
day afternoons and evenings, is a question.
After prayer, and a running comment upon the
103d Psalm, Mr. Spurgeon said that he should
preach upon the simplest text in the Bible. He
then announced his text from Acts xvi. 31: "Be-
lieve on the Lord Jesus Christ, and thou shalt be
saved." He commenced with the description of a
city of refuge in old Hebrew times, and the roads
leading to it. These were made straight and
smooth, that the fugitive might not miss them, or
stumble on them, but shoot over them to the open
gate, like the arrow from the bow. These roads
LONDON ART AND THE LONDON PULPIT. 53
were carefully kept. It was the duty of preachers
to keep the roads to Christ as open, and straight,
and smooth as possible. All he would do, then,
would be to heave out of the way any stone of stum-
bling that might hinder the sinful man from com-
ing to Christ. He went on to clear the road — of
the stone of a man's imagining that he was too
great a sinner to be saved; of the stone that he
was unable to come to Christ; that he had not
enough feeling; that he had doubts, fears, and evil
suggestions. Then he told what was this refuge,
this salvation. It was Christ alone, not even the
faith that brought to him. It was Christ's five
wounds and bleeding side. He ended with a touch-
ing appeal to come at once to Christ. Say not,
" Go away, thou sorrowful man, thou makest me
sad, and destroyest my happiness. I cannot en-
dure thy thorn-crowned head, and deep gashed
side." The preacher seemed to wish to say noth-
ing else but Christ— to point to Him crucified and
bleeding. He tore down all drapery, all form, all
doctrine, all philosophy that hung around the cross,
and veiled the blood of Christ. He spoke in this
relation some strong and earnest things.
"The
five wounds! the blood! the blood! the blood!"
He dwelt upon this with passionate pathos.
There was a fresh and sensible, it may be said
sensuous, setting forth of the agony and passion of
our Lord. The sinner might almost say, " How do
those five wounds bleed for me? How does that
blood wash away my sin?" And to answer this,
in the simplest way, would be philosophy.
་་
54
OLD ENGLAND.
The next day Mr. Spurgeon preached another
sermon in the chapel, upon the passage contained
in Eph. iii. 19: "And to know the love of Christ
which passeth knowledge," etc. We might know
that which was beyond our powers to grasp entirely.
We might know the science of astronomy, without
piercing all the secrets of the illimitable universe
around us. The knowledge of Christ had to be
learned in its own proper schools, such as holy
Scripture, Penitence, Suffering, Communion. He
then went on to speak of what was learned in these
schools, or the true nature of the love of Christ
-its breadth; its depth; its length; its height.
This easy and textual plan was beautifully filled
out. There was every thing in the sermon to
charm and move the mind. Little love, little faith,
was precious. By touching the hem of the Saviour's
garment, the woman was made whole. But it was
the Christian's privilege to be filled with the love of
Christ, to pierce its depths, to soar into its heights,
to lie in the embrace of his God. This love was
not a miserable trickling stream, soon running dry,
but it was a broad perpetual river flowing from
eternity. The love of Christ was deeper than any
sin, higher than any attainment in holiness, or
heavenly joy. In treating of the different schools
in which this love was learned, his language (said
a friend) might have satisfied Coleridge or Charles
Lamb. He said the Bible was not a book of rules
dry as autumn leaves, but a great, rich, illuminated
missal, delightful to turn over, every leaf filled with
LONDON ART AND THE LONDON PULPIT. 55
golden letters, and exquisite pictures, and flowers.
He traced the features of Christ in it from Gene-
sis to Revelation. In speaking of the enduring
character of the love of Christ, that it was from
God and therefore unchangeable, he introduced a
touching episode borrowed from an old writer, of
a conversation that might be supposed to have oc-
curred at the feast given on the return of the Prod-
igal Son. In the midst of all the joy, the son was
sad. "What makes you sad, my son?" said the
father; "is there not enough of good things at the
feast? "Oh yes,” said the son.
6 Do you
doubt that I love you, my son ?"
father." "What then makes you sad?"
father, that I shall sin again, and go away. Make
me stop here, father." And the father promised
this, and sadness rolled away from the face of the
son, and the feast went on with unclouded joy.
The simple, tender manner in which this was told
brought tears into many eyes.
“Oh no,
"I feel,
He
Mr. Spurgeon preached again in the evening at
the church of the "Oratoire." His plan is to make
a short introductory prayer, then give out a hymn,
then read a portion of Scripture, with copious expo-
sition, then another hymn and the sermon.
reads every verse of the hymn twice, and insists
upon loud, universal congregational singing. He
gave the organ a contemptuous buffet for spoiling
all the singing, and would have it done away with
altogether. Congregational singing, and united
prayer, were his idea of true worship. His sub-
56
OLD ENGLAND.
-
He compared
The rope hung
ject for the evening was Prayer, from Psalms
lxxiii. 27. There were many powerful passages in
this sermon, but it had not the rich and delightful
flow of the morning's discourse.
prayer to a bell in a tall tower.
down to earth; and when it was pulled it made
music in heaven. But if the rope were cut, there
was no response on high. There must be true
union with God in the heart through faith in Jesus,
to make prayer efficacious. Prayer, he said, was
invincible. Like the "Old Guard," God's children
kneeling might receive the hosts of evil upon the
bayonets of their prayers. This whole passage,
which was highly elaborated and impassioned, was
spoken in a kneeling attitude. This dramatic
power was continually perceptible in Mr. Spur-
geon's preaching. He at one time held the great
Bible above his head with outstretched arms, to
show that it was above all human authority.
The fourth sermon was in the American chapel,
on the next afternoon. It was the crowning effort,
and established the conviction in the minds of all
who heard it, that the preacher was capable of a
very high character of calm, literary excellence,
and of elevated spiritual thought. His language
flowed like a river, easy, abundant, clear. After
expounding the 23d Psalm, comparing it with the
song of a nightingale, till it sung itself into heaven,
he took his text from the first sentence: "The
Lord is my Shepherd." It was a sweet pastoral
sermon. He had evidently been in the sheep-feed-
LONDON ART AND THE LONDON, PULPIT. 57
ing districts of England. He never laid aside the
shepherd's crook to the end, but ran every thought
and argument into this simple mould. Some sheep,
he said, needed to be lamed and disciplined, because
they were always leaping fences and straying away.
This laming was deliberately done by good shep-
herds. There were always a few pet sheep in the
flock, that followed close to the shepherd, and they
were the fat sheep. They got the dainty bits. If
the shepherd reached up and plucked a soft tuft
from a high rock, they who were always fondling
his hand were ready to get it. When he described
the Shepherd laying down his life for the sheep, he
drew a vivid and tremendous picture of the death-
grapple between an Eastern shepherd and a lion
that had leaped the fold-turning it gradually to
the dreadful conflict and passion of our Lord with
the power of darkness and evil. His illustrations
were almost always of this fresh and picturesque
character. They were sensible, material, palpable.
He does not deal in refined and subjective parallel-
isms of thought, nor does he seek for the scientific
or the hidden truth. He takes the revealed world
and Word of God, sees its beauty, draws forth its
power, is content with its teachings. He alluded
in the course of this sermon to three men who had
followed the Shepherd with wonderful closeness,
who lived upon his hand, and enjoyed his smiles
and caresses the evangelical Puseyite, George
Herbert; Rutherford, the loving Presbyterian ;
and another whom he called the odd, adoring Puri-
58
OLD ENGLAND.
tan. Mr. Spurgeon has evidently not drunk deep
at the fonts of modern literature, but he shows his
reading of the old Puritan divines. His words often
have a quaint Old English sound to them. He
speaks of the Devil "sniffing at such paltry de-
fenses." His sentences are compact and nervous.
They are sometimes as condensed and massive as
any of Webster's sentences. They have a hurl,
and weight, and hiss, like hot shot. But in the ser-
mon of which we are speaking, the preacher's words
had a singularly musical and rhythmical flow; he
seemed almost to be reciting verse; and this was
heightened by his frequent and spontaneous intro-
duction of snatches of hymns, not always the best
poetry, but always hearty, sensible, and spicy with
the devotional associations of ages.
""
The last sermon was in the "Oratoire," on the
same evening. It was upon the "New Song,'
from Rev. xiv. 3: "And they sung as it were a
new song before the throne." In this discourse
there were bursts of true eloquence, but it lacked
the unity and spontaneous character of the preced-
ing sermon. The speaker seemed to have the
feeling that more was expected and required in
that great church, that more eyes, and hostile
eyes, were upon him. In illustrating the loudness
of the new song, he piled roaring sea upon roaring
sea in massive layers, but turned skillfully from this
stupendous chorus to paint the sweetness of the
song, even as the music of harps, which he de-
scribed in an exquisite strain, that none but a gen-
uine lover of music could have done.
LONDON ART AND THE LONDON PULPIT. 59
It is sufficient to converse with him for a little
time to see that he has a thoroughly kind and char-
itable heart, and bears no man living ill-will.
Mr. Spurgeon's personal appearance is too well
known to need description. He has a blacksmith's
frame, and a ruddy face, glowing with health and
good nature. It is a good face, with great purity
of expression, and at times it shines with a kind of
celestial radiance.
The first element of power in his preaching (not
to mention those higher and secret helps which God.
gives the true preacher of his Word) is undoubt-
edly his earnestness. No one can doubt that his
one great purpose is to serve the Master, and
bring men into his kingdom. He shoots every
shaft in his quiver with a well-aimed, inflexible in-
tent to transfix the conscience. There was nothing
in his Paris visit to show that he was displaying
himself, but he evidently bent himself to the work
of awakening Christians to a higher life, and pleas-
ure-seekers to thought and repentance. Then his
fluency. This quality may be said to be unrivalled
in his case. It seems as easy for him to speak as
to breathe. He preaches without notes, with never
a stop or break, or ill-made sentence. In the easy,
continuous flow of his speech, the hearer's mind
floats along upon it with hardly a consciousness of
the speaker, which is always a delight. Then again
his voice. He has a regal voice, with youthful tones
still in it. It is an
It is an "organe très agréable," as a
French gentleman sitting beside me remarked. It
60
OLD ENGLAND.
1
is loud without ever losing its roundness and sweet-
ness. Also his practicalness. We have said that
his style of preaching was exceedingly simple and
objective. It would not be considered sufficiently
logical or philosophical (in a true sense) for an
American congregation. He does not reason pro-
foundly, and avoids the speculative side of truth.
Yet there is substance and soul-travail in his ser-
mons. They are not devoid of a certain kind of
logic. He does not leave his hearers with a mass
of crude matter, but is careful as to the orderly de-
velopment of truth. Yet every thing he says is for
immediate effect. It is pointed to the present in-
stant. His preaching abounds in well-told facts —
in close, apt, ringing bits of human experience that
clench the important and perhaps unwelcome truth.
He has the Luther temperament, that delights in
pithy sayings, and stories that penetrate into the
springs of action, let them be even odd and laugh-
able. And his dramatic talent. This we have
spoken of. He is a native orator, knowing how to
handle his arms, his feet, his head, his eyes; and
this subtle faculty all men perceive, if they cannot
comprehend and describe it. Above all his good-
ness. This shines out from him. He looks kind,
friendly, frank, and sympathetic.
Let him say
what he will, he wins esteem, confidence, love.
He has no cant and long-facedness, though he
shows himself tremendously in earnest. He has a
big, warm heart, a sunny countenance, and a pure,
simple, Christ-like spirit.
LONDON ART AND THE LONDON PULPIT.
61
I have thus dwelt on this English preacher be-
cause he seems to me to be a singular illustration
of a higher wisdom in the choice of its instru-
ments. No dainty-fingered orator, no feeble arm,
could thus lift up the Gospel in the heart of
London, could smite with the rod of God's Word
the Black Sea of London's reeking ignorance, cor-
ruption and sin. While possessing more refined
qualities than is generally supposed, he is above
all a man who can say plain things, who can speak
strong words.
It has been estimated that in London less than
one quarter of the population are attendants upon
public worship. This is an astounding estimate of
the number of non-worshipers in the gigantic cap-
ital of Protestant Christendom. But let one enter
a London church and he can believe it. The vast
tide of human life flows past the churches, not into
them. Why this apathy to the regular worship of
God? Why do these hosts turn away from the
temples of the Most High? Undoubtedly the mass
of them belong to the poorer and laboring classes,
who take Sunday for a day of bodily rest and
amusement. A great number of them also are
branded outcasts, religious "pariahs," who would
no more think of entering a church than a palace.
And they could no more do so, as the churches are
constituted. But this would leave an immense
class still, who have sufficient means, social position,
and intelligence, to be good church-going people in
formal Old England. Why do not they attend
62
OLD ENGLAND.
public worship?
It becomes a traveler who has
limited means of observation to speak modestly, but
one of the principal reasons of this non-attendance,
I believe, is that neither the people's minds nor souls.
are sufficiently fed by the preaching. The preach-
ing that I heard from the two bodies of the Estab-
lished Church, and also in some of the dissenting
churches, was, as a general thing, I am forced to
say, dull and jejune, wanting in interest and draw-
ing power. On the part of the Establishment there
was either a narrow circle of argument upon the
mystic functions of the Church and ritualistic ques-
tions, or a dry repetition of common orthodox state-
ments of theology, with little personal earnestness
and application; there was a dogmatic assailing
of heresies, without making the truth itself shine.
out clear; and lastly, there was such an exclusive
preaching of the Old Testament as almost to ex-
clude the brighter light of the New. The only re-
lief was a tone of tenderness and devotional warmth
which often broke out unexpectedly, and illu-
mined the whole service. Among Dissenters there
seemed to be, with great purity of doctrine, some
lack of spiritual earnestness, and also of cultured
style. Such remarks could not of course apply to
men like Dr. Raleigh, Newman Hall, Dr. Massie,
and many others. But among both classes, rarely
did I hear any thing like close thinking, grasping
the depths of the subject, and manifesting an orig-
inal development of truth. The theology seemed
to be taken bodily from the Prayer-Book, or some
LONDON ART AND THE LONDON PULPIT. 63
ancient manual of doctrine. It was not burned into
the preacher's mind, and poured glowing into the
minds of others. And there seemed to be too lit-
tle of true metaphysical groundwork. It was not
thought out and through, and the profound and
delightful harmonies of Truth made to come forth.
Bald, disjointed, and monotonous declarations, ut-
tered with the positiveness of ages of unchallenged
authority, cannot now hold men. Nor is such
preaching fitted to awaken practical benevolence
and sympathy for the poorer classes. It does
not touch the wants and hearts of men, and the
heart will not go where it does not find either life
or repose. It is probably the contrast to such
preaching that makes Spurgeon, notwithstanding
his occasional rudeness and homeliness, so popular.
There are many very eloquent divines in England,
men of fervid faith and stalwart minds; but the
level of preaching in England, as to the essential
qualities of earnestness, force, and manner, is, I be-
lieve, below that in America, and below it also in
practical results. I heard Henry Melville preach
a sermon addressed to working people at Christ's
Church, Newgate Street. I had long had before
me an ideal of this distinguished pulpit orator,
with a name like the sound of a flute. Every thing
noble, beautiful, and scholar-like was blended in
that conception. He was probably thin, worn with
thought, but with classic features and spiritual
brow, and with the voice of a silver trumpet. He
was calm and peaceful like a deep river, but rolling
64
OLD ENGLAND.
along rich burdens of thought. Alas! I found a
grizzle-haired athlete in the desk, a brusque old
gentleman, with sanguine manner, with a voice
like a November storm, and a dogmatic positiveness
in the enunciation of sensible but commonplace
He flamed
propositions, that fairly astonished me.
away against sceptics, and called them "pert cox-
combs," and other old-fashioned names of scorn.
What he said may have been sound, but it was not
peculiarly salted with learning, nor inspired with
high spiritual views. It was undoubtedly meant to
be adapted to the class of working people, which I
did not think of at the time, and I hardly recovered
myself sufficiently in the course of the evening to
recognize a remarkable degree of vigor of style
and delivery. My English friends told me it was
not a favorable specimen of his preaching. I had a
different but not much more satisfactory experience
in listening to another sermon addressed to working
people by Rev. F. D. Maurice. It was in the
ancient chapel of Lincoln's-Inn-Fields, that den of
lawyers. He is a short man, with piercing black
eyes, very pleasant face, but worn and scholar-like,
and with a thoughtful pensiveness of expression.
The loved brother-in-law of Sterling, the friend of
Archdeacon Hare, of the present Bishop of Oxford,
of Kingsley and Tennyson, he must have an attach-
ing and stimulating power. But he does not show
it in the pulpit, and his small congregation proved it.
His delivery was artificial, almost a sing-song tone,
and by no means distinct; and his style was alto-
LONDON ART AND THE LONDON PULPIT. 65
gether too high-pitched and essayish, to reach a
common audience, much less an assembly of uned-
ucated men. It sounded just as his books read;
with now and then the gleam of a suggestive
thought, but with no clear development of it. The
experience of some others in respect to Mr. Maur-
ice's preaching is also different from my own,
therefore I advance it with some hesitation. He
wields in England an indefinable though perhaps
not now increasing influence. He is liked for his
manliness, his progressive capacity, and his noble
sympathy with the religious doubts and difficulties
of men. He shows more sympathy for the igno-
rant and lower classes than practical power to help
them. He does not certainly possess the logical
faculty in a high degree, and his style is criticized
for its vagueness; but his intuitions of truth are
penetrative and sometimes profound. He is not
a good guide, but is an independent explorer. His
bold gropings in the dark will have increased the
limits of truth. He lacks that objective or positive
element of faith, that all great preachers and theo-
logians have had, and is disposed to refine Christian
truth too much. In his controversy with Mr. Man-
sell he showed the more Christ-like spirit, and in
many things assumed a higher and more immovable
position. He by no means admits himself to be an
innovator upon the old Faith; but means to be a
reviver of its deeper claims on our obedience and
love. He holds that our nature was made for
Faith. He thinks that man can know God, and
5
66
OLD ENGLAND.
the Son of God; that he may feel assured of the
truth, and have the living demonstration of the
truth in his own heart. His views of the character
of God are also attractive, regarding Him prima-
rily in the light of a Father. Yet it must be
said that generally in England he is considered
to have introduced an ideal and modified system,
that views Christianity in the aspect of a fact ac-
complished, and which every man has but to open
his eyes upon and enjoy, rather than of a truth that
must be personally received by every man, and
enter into every soul's individual experience for its
renewal and eternal life. In conversation at his
own pleasant home, if one be not converted to all
of Mr. Maurice's opinions, he will be converted to
Mr. Maurice himself, as a noble man and Christian
gentleman. Rev. Newman Hall occupies the pul-
pit of Surrey Chapel in Southwark, where Rowland
Hill preached for nearly fifty years. It is a dingy,
octagonal brick edifice, plain within and without.
Mr. Hall is a whole-souled man, speaking that
which he knows and believes, and reminding one
of an earnest American preacher. There is spirit-
ual life in his ministrations, but he has, it appeared
to me, a somewhat strained and hammering style.
The audience looked like an intelligent New Eng-
land congregation
In polish of manner and outward grace, Dr.
Cumming, of Craven Court Chapel, near Covent
Garden, is superior to all these. Nor, when I
heard him was there aught visionary or apocalyptic
LONDON ART AND THE LONDON PULPIT. 67
66
in his discourse. Before the sermon he gave an
exposition of the 23d chapter of Matthew, which
might have been continued through Mark, Luke,
and John. A peerless capacity for "continuous-
ness," has Dr. Cumming. But there was much
that was fresh in it. He did not shrink from say-
ing that such and such a passage was not translated
rightly, as for instance "straining at a gnat and
swallowing a camel," should be "straining out a
gnat," &c., in allusion to the practice of straining
wine through a fine sieve. His sermon on the
text, "O Jerusalem, Jerusalem," &c., had a mag-
nificent ending, in which he described the new
Jerusalem coming down from heaven, and em-
bracing all the goodness that God had inspired and
recreated in human nature. He has little sweep
or largeness of manner, but great ease and flow.
It is a conversational style. His voice is rich and
mellow without being powerful. He is a tall man,
with high white forehead and dark hair. It was
difficult to find a seat even upon the pulpit stairs.
Dr. Cumming, as a graceful yet not effeminate
preacher, has good claims to his celebrity.
I will not speak further of the preachers of the
Established Church whom I heard. Some of them
compared well with those already named; but in
regard to the Church of England, in its ministry,
polity, and general features, notwithstanding its
noble history, its benevolent spirit, and its essential
purity, from my own limited observation, and cer-
tainly from no uncharitable or prejudiced state of
68
OLD ENGLAND.
has not truly
Methodism ran
But how much
mind, I am disposed to coincide with a remark
in the London Review," "that great practical
changes must be made in the arrangements and
working of the Church of England if she is to be
the spiritual home of the whole people of the land,
as she ought to be." The English Church has not,
in the spirit of true Christian philanthropy, gauged
human misery to the bottom
preached the Gospel to the poor.
before and did this work for it.
remains still to be done in a city like London!
Yet, it should be said, while these high instru-
mentalities of the great London parish churches
fail to do their appointed task, humbler ministries,
raised up and going forth it may be from their
bosom, are effecting a silent but mighty work in
the moral wastes of London, and like invisible
angels are continually active in soothing the sor-
rows and spreading the tables of the poor.
There is one thing to be admired in the worship
of the English Church the apparent unity and
fervor of devotional interest and feeling in the
congregation. The moment the text is announced
there is a general opening of Bibles, all following
the preacher's explanation of the passage with the
greatest earnestness. The singing also is diffusive
and congregational. There are no instrumental
interludes between the stanzas of the hymn.
There is no flourishing of trumpets in the playing
of the organ, and nothing like executing music.
Art is subordinated to devotion more than it is
LONDON ART AND THE LONDON PULPIT. 69
with us.
The choir is mixed up with the congre-
gation, thus giving correctness and fire to the sing-
ing of all the people. I have never heard in
Catholic countries, or in any part of the world,
church music, that for beauty, animation, and fer-
vor, at all equalled the choral singing in the public
service of the great English cathedrals.
In closing this chapter, I would simply add that
in speaking of the defects of the English Church,
I have not had reference so much to the individ-
uals composing that Church, as to the system itself
which produces these defects. The faults of the
Established Church, in whose body may be reck-
oned some of the most perfectly developed and
beautifully symmetric Christian characters to be
found on earth—these faults are inseparably con-
nected with the working of a State Church. In
the same manner much of the rigid controversial
spirit of Dissent arises from its long continued and
sincerely maintained hostile position; and in such
hard soil have matured some of the richest and
noblest spirits of the age.
CHAPTER IV.
ENVIRONS OF LONDON.
WHILE in London I made an excursion to Stoke
Pogis, the much-bewritten scene of the most sol-
emnly harmonious poem in existence. It was the
favorite poem of Daniel Webster, in whose mind
there was a vein of pensiveness, and its music
soothed the weary statesman's dying hours. As
was the case with Goethe, so it was true in a far
more marked manner with Gray, that "nothing
came to him in his sleep." He wrote, it is said,
on an average about ten lines of poetry a day :
three golden verses of "The Elegy on a Country
Churchyard" a day, were surely enough for any
man to have wrought. The village is situated
near Slough, on the Great Western Railway.
After leaving Slough one drives into a hedge-
fringed lane with tall elms on either side. Passing
the entrance of Lord Taunton's Park, and turning
into it by the side of a flower-embosomed cottage,
the spire of the church comes in view; and trav-
ersing the trim lawn of the Park one arrives at
the gate of the "Country Churchyard." This
ancient church is now, of course, more • ivy-
mantled" than in Gray's time. It is built of flint
66
ENVIRONS OF LONDON.
71
pebbles, with red-tiled roofs, and has three low
gable fronts, with long windows and a tower
draped thickly with ivy. The spire upon it looks
modern. There is a brick wall and screen of tall
trees about the churchyard, separating it from the
Park. The "rugged elms" and the "yew-trees'
shade," spread their shadows in front of the curi-
ous wooden porch and over many a "heaving
turf." There are some moss-grown monuments,
but not as many as I expected to see.
It is a
humble "country churchyard." A small slab
under the window of one of the gable ends of the
church bears these words: "Opposite to this stone,
in the same tomb upon which he has so feelingly
recorded his grief at the loss of a beloved parent,
are deposited the remains of Thomas Gray, the
author of The Elegy written in a Country
Churchyard,' &c., &c. He was buried August 6,
1771.”
The tombstone which lies under the window
bears an inscription to the poet's aunt, and also
the following one to his mother: "In the same
pious confidence, beside her friend and sister, here
sleep the remains of Dorothy Gray, widow, the
careful and tender mother of many children, one
of whom alone had the misfortune to survive her.
She died March 11, 1733, aged 67."
Birds in great numbers flew around among
the trees, and hopped fearlessly upon the tombs.
The air had the delicate hum of insect life, and
now and then the whir and flutter of little wings;
72
OLD ENGLAND.
otherwise it was
grave.
as still and reposeful as the
Walking a short distance over the green meadow
in front of the church, one comes to a pretty
laburnum-fringed path, that leads to a stately and
classic stone monument, with a grove over against
it and a swelling green hill beyond. It commands
a fine view of the church and graveyard. The
monument is in honor of Gray, and of the region
consecrated by his genius. It has quotations from
the "Elegy" and other poems. In the direction
of the grove is written the stanza beginning with,
"Hard by yon wood now smiling as in scorn."
On the opposite side toward Eton are the well-
known verses,
"Ye distant spires,
Ye antique towers," &c.
On the side looking toward the churchyard are
the deathless "household words" that sing so
sweetly of death and the grave.
I sincerely hope that in the foregoing brief
description I have not committed the blunder of
another American tourist, who, after expending a
great amount of poetical sympathy upon the spot,
discovered that he had pitched upon the wrong
churchyard.
Hampton Court, standing quiet and empty amid
its gardens, is but three quarters of an hour's ride
from the Waterloo Station, by the South Western
Railway. We are set down on the bank of the
Thames, but as different from the Thames at Lon-
ENVIRONS OF LONDON.
73
don, as a fair-faced and pure-hearted child from a
black giant man reeking with every foulness and
corruption. We row over the tranquil, osier-fringed
stream, followed by greedy swans that fearlessly
oar themselves along by our side. We are met
on landing by a greedier company of little girls,
who press upon visitors their baskets of straw-
berries. The sober though majestic red-brick walls
of the Palace are before us, and we enter its clean-
swept and solitary courts. Court-yard opens be-
yond court-yard. The first is that of Wolsey;
the second that of Henry VIII.; the third of Wil-
liam III.; and the fourth of George II. We
ascend Wolsey's grand staircase, a type of his
superb taste who designed and built this palace on
a scale corresponding too nearly to his own regal
ideas. Hampton Court opened the eyes of Henry
VIII. Here, the prelate who just missed the
Popedom from having been a private tutor in the
Marquis of Dorset's family, had bishops to wait
upon him, and compelled the first noblemen in the
realm to present him water and napkin. So says
the historian; who also relates that at Hampton
Court were two hundred and eighty beds of silk
for royal and noble guests. The Richelieu of
England would also have governed it to the end,
had Henry VIII. been a Louis XIII. But this
monarch had great governing capacity of his own.
In his face, with his thick dewlaps and eyes stand-
ing out with fatness, there is a vast rough energy.
Be his sins ever so great, he was master of his
74
OLD ENGLAND.
kingdom. He outgrew his minister. He could
understand the greatness of Wolsey, and so high
was the king's estimate of his talents, that some
of the last political failures of Wolsey were evi-
dently attributed to his want of fidelity, not of
foresight; this fact sealed his downfall. There
have been in the long course of English history
three prelates who have attempted the subjugation
of England, Dunstan, Thomas à Becket, and
Thomas Wolsey. Froude says, Wolsey "loved
England well but Rome better." He dreamed
of rebuilding the Catholic Church in more than
its former glory. In these late years there has
been another bold attempt of this sort, but the
scheme, though deeply laid, has lacked the pow-
erful genius to direct, or has happened some cen-
turies too late. The long suites of apartments
in Hampton Court, "empty, swept, and garn-
ished," contain a few good pictures, especially the
portraits of the children of George III. by West;
but there is a rumor that this palace is made a
lumber-room for things too valuable to be thrown
away, yet not good enough for the choicer collect-
ions. Perhaps this is saying too much; Hamp-
ton Court is understood to be a gathering place
of historical antiquities. In the room hung around
with the beauties of the Court of Charles II.
and they are splendid English beauties it is
well that the irreproachable one among them
should be the most lovely of all, the Countess
of Grammont.
ENVIRONS OF LONDON.
75
Many of the rooms have pictures commemora-
tive of the reign of William III. His own home-
ly but high and intrepid face is frequently seen.
Here was the favorite residence of this king who
loved to shut himself up in perfect seclusion; and
it was when riding from Kensington to Hampton
Court, that he fell and broke his collar-bone, which
was the occasion of his death. The "Cartoons 1"
of Raphael are the precious things of this palace.
These original drawings on paper are nobler than
any copies of them in tapestry or on canvas.
They show that grace was not the greatest quality
of Raphael, that breadth, dignity and power were
equally his. These "Cartoons" justify the re-
mark of Lanzi, that notwithstanding the beauty
of Raphael's female heads, his male heads have a
nobler character. Yet it is after all a little amus-
ing to hear art-critics attempt to defend the small
boats, and the storks, in the picture of the "Mi-
raculous Draught of Fishes."
In the “Hall of Henry VIII." the architectural
glories of the palace centre. The ceiling is of the
richest open beam-work, with pendent corbels.
Here also is some genuine old arras. There is a
tradition that in the time of Elizabeth, Shaks-
peare's plays were first acted in this hall. Small
but interesting portraits of Wolsey, Henry VIII.,
and his seven wives, adorn the room. In this
room probably James I. held that annoying confer-
ence with the conflicting parties of the Church and
Puritan denominations, in which he enunciated the
1 Lately removed to Kensington Museum.
76
OLD ENGLAND.
famous apothegm of "no bishop, no king;" and he
boasted afterward, in a letter to a Scotch friend,
"that he kept such a revel with the Puritans these
two days as was never heard the like; where I
have peppered them as roundly as ye have done
the Papists. They fled me so from argument to
argument, without ever answering me directly, as
I was forced at last to say unto them," &c., &c.
Glimpses of the garden from various windows and
angles made me more desirous to see the outside
than the inside of the house, on such a sweet,
cloudless, balmy morning. It was in the month of
June. The loveliness of an English garden! I
don't care to describe it artistically, even if I were
able to do so; it is enough to enjoy it. In what
other country could one find the same perfection ;
not in France surely, where the trees stand like
"gens d'armes," shouldering their muskets. The
grass, green the year round, is as soft, and bright,
and springy, as that of some hidden alpine pasture.
It grows close up under the trees and shrubs, to
their very stems, so that the shadows are beauti-
ful upon the smooth velvet. We do not always see
this in our more fiery America. The rich varieties
of standard roses, and the English guelder-rose with
its superb white blossoms, embroider the borders of
the long terraces. The dark shade of the sycamore
mixes with the lighter green of the oak.
smooth-leaved elegant lime, brought into England
by the Romans from Italy, whose blossoms are so
deliciously fragrant, forms groups with the rougher
The
ENVIRONS OF LONDON.
77
pine and the trailing elm. What matters it that
the lines are artificial? It can be forgiven when
every thing is so fresh, and so wonderfully neat, as
if the elves and fays had shaved the borders and
polished the leaves. Naught is heard but the faint
plash of the fountain and the warble of birds. Near
the fountain we found some blind persons sitting.
They had been invited to pass the day in the gar-
dens, to enjoy the summer perfumes and the pleas-
ant sounds. The English excel in these little refine-
ments of benevolence. They make them a study.
The visitor is shown the famous Black Hamburgh
vine, which requires a whole conservatory for it-
self, and produces every year from 2000 to 3000
bunches of grapes. It is said to be over two hun-
dred and fifty years old.
I took a carriage and drove through Bushy
Park toward Twickenham and Richmond. The
first part of the way lay through a splendid avenue
of horse-chestnut trees, the Park stretching away
pleasantly in green glades on either side. It
seemed to be a merry time on this midsummer
day. Everybody was out junketing. There
were dancing parties under the oaks, with all the
gypsy apparatus of baskets, plates and pans, spread
upon the grass. We met cricket matches going
on, each with its absorbed crowd of spectators.
Every little village has its cricket ground; but
there are permanent centres, or societies, for the
instruction and organization of this game, that give
the law to the kingdom. The laws of cricket, as
78
OLD ENGLAND.
put forth by the celebrated "Mary-le-bone Club,"
are contained in forty-seven articles, as precisely
drawn up and worded as the statutes of Parlia-
ment. And all this to knock down two or three
sticks stuck in the ground! But these sticks are
guarded by such skill, activity, and tenacity, that
all the manhood in the field is brought out in this
exciting sport. Cricket, and foot-ball, and quoits,
and golf, and bowling, and hurling, and rowing,
and riding, and hunting, go far to make the deep-
chested, big-armed, enduring English race. Are
not these sports preferable to the flashy listlessness
with which many of our fashionable youth, both
in city and country, consume their leisure hours?
It is better to get an arm broken in foot-ball, or
in being thrown from a horse, than to have the
whole system and soul eaten out by smoking,
drinking, and in-door idle dissipation. When a
youth or young man has grown to be too lazy to
play foot-ball, or base-ball, or cricket, there is not
much hope for him intellectually or morally. Of
late years, it is true, American muscularity has
made astonishing progress, and the war has done
more for us than cricketing. But this love of
energetic sport and of out-of-door life runs through
all classes. It gives England her race of Nestors
in the field and in the council. We heard of Lord
Palmerston riding thirty miles on a stretch. Have-
lock drank no wine, brandy, or even ale.
early riser, a hard rider, a lover of Nature, he was
ready to do the impetuous work of a young man
ENVIRONS OF LONDON.
79
in his old age. An English family of the wealthier
class considers it the greatest luxury, and the real
superiority which wealth gives, to be able to be
out of doors, walking, sketching, botanizing, riding,
driving, almost all the day. Perhaps this is car-
ried too far by the "spindle-side " of the family;
for an English lady, it is said, knows very little
of the practical management of home matters.
She secures fine health and a well-stored mind,
but her hands rarely touch the household machine.
This is left pretty much to the housekeeper and
the servants a rank heresy in the eyes of a
New England matron who possesses "faculty."
We soon came on to "Strawberry Hill," the
home of Horace Walpole. A high wall shut in
the grounds and indeed the house itself from the
road, though glimpses of the lawn and garden
showed that they were charmingly laid out. They
were not open to visitors. King Louis Philippe at
one time lived here. Here the cunning letter-
writer sat like a spider, and drew into his brilliant
dew-spangled country web all things, characters,
history, and gossip, that was rife in his day. He
sucked the life out of his times, and sometimes
ejected his poison also into them. "That was the
great event in the day," some one has said, "when
the mail was made up at Strawberry Hill." It
may be remembered that in one of his letters he
speaks of " a young Mr. Burke, who wrote a book
in the style of Lord Bolingbroke, that was much
admired."
80
OLD ENGLAND.
sus.
Leaving the Teddington Road upon our right, I
drove on through a shaded lane to Twickenham,
passing by the spot where Pope's villa once stood.
It must be acknowledged that these wits, Wal-
pole, Pope, Thomson, and their London fellow-
poets who ruralized in the vicinity, had good
taste. The Thames lies in broad, silvery reaches
in the vale of Twickenham, with gem-like islets;
and "Richmond Hill" is a green cockney Parnas-
We do not wonder that the neighborhood of
London gave a tinge of the artificial sublime to
their productions. Pope could not forget that
the brilliant Lord Bolingbroke was to have the
reading of his verses, and that they would be dis-
cussed by befrilled gallants at the clubs. He
never got at the heart of Nature or man. If he
"scorned the city and its meaner ways," and the
smiles of the great, and the shams of polite life, and
drew pastoral pictures of humanity, it was still "the
pride that apes humility." Give me poor Cowper's
more genial and honest love of Nature, and of man,
with all his diseased fancies! He did scorn the
mean and evil things of his day, and sought his
refuge in the solaces of Nature, his own heart, and
the Divine Word.
At Twickenham is a French colony of royal ex-
iles. Orleans House, beautifully situated near the
river, where the Duc d'Aumale now lives, was
purchased by his father Louis Philippe. The story
is told here with gusto that when the king, under
the name of " Mr. Smith," applied to the man who
ENVIRONS OF LONDON.
81
had the care of the house, in order to look at it, he
recognized in him a person whom he had pre-
viously known when he lived in this neighborhood.
He said, "I have seen you before, have I not?
"It may be, I was once gardener at
"Well, what do you do now?" "Now I keep
the Crown."" "Ah," said the ex-monarch with
a shrug, “I tried to keep the Crown too, but I did
not succeed." Claremont House, where the old
Queen Amelia lived, is some distance away from
the river to the right. We drove over the mead-
ows and crossed Richmond Bridge, climbing up
that long and far-famed hill, to the "Star and Gar-
ter Hotel." With every evidence of the most
sumptuous abundance, I could not get a morsel of
luncheon, and was decidedly informed that it was
impossible to be served, that orders must be left
four hours beforehand. This was true, as every-
body in England must dine alone, and all the rooms
were occupied. After enjoying the fine view from
the terrace of the hotel, over the valley, park, and
river, softened with a delicate golden haze of early
summer afternoon, I went on to Kew. Here, at a
neat inn, I met with a better reception, and when
the strawberries and cream were finished, was pre-
pared to enjoy a walk in the Gardens. They are
the largest public gardens in England. They for-
merly belonged to the Georges, and were part of
the grounds of the old Kew Palace. Sir Joseph
Banks in his day was greatly interested in the lay-
ing out and nourishing of the Botanic Gardens,
6
82
OLD ENGLAND.
and planted them with exotics obtained by himself
in his voyage around the world. In 1841 a new
impulse was given to the improvement of the
grounds, and the plan was adopted to make this the
home of all the plants that grew within the borders
of the British Empire, the world over.
One sees
the harmoniously combined beauties of all parts of
the earth, and the marriage of the tropics with the
arctics, as if it were Eden from which all things
sprung, or a restored Eden, in which all things
again flourish. Such a garden makes us think of
the physical capabilities of the earth, when it shall
be brought under the perfect influences of Love,
Light, and Order. The immense "Palm-house,"
or "Palm-stove " in the midst of the garden, is its
chief point of interest. From it three broad walks
or vistas radiate, one of them running nearly a
mile to the river's brink. Its hot-water pipes ex-
tend 24,000 feet in length. Beneath its glass roof
one may see the fan-leaved trees of the Pacific
Islands, and the spice-trees and banyan of India,
the caoutchouc, the cotton and the indigo plant.
Near by is the tropical "Aquarium,” where the
glory of Kew Gardens, the "Victoria Regia "
from South America, grows. Here also the papy-
rus is cultivated, from which good paper has been
made.
To the west of the "Palm-house" extends
the "Pinetum," a grove of some twenty-four acres,
devoted to coniferous trees. In front of the
"Palm-house" is an artificial pond. It is delight-
ful at the calm hour of evening to walk in a garden
ENVIRONS OF LONDON.
83
like this when the flowers are sending up their in-
cense, and all colors blend together, and all de-
scriptions of plants, from the cedar of Lebanon to
the lowly English laurel, and whinbush, are to be
seen. The humblest ferns and heaths are not
wanting. The heaths of Australia, I remember,
were particularly beautiful.
CHAPTER V.
HOMES OF ARNOLD AND COWPER.
EIGHTY-THREE miles from London, upon the
London and Birmingham Railway, is the town of
Rugby, anciently Rokeby. Although Rugby lies
near the river Avon, it has little natural beauty.
Speaking of mountain scenery, Dr. Arnold writes:
"I only know of five counties in England which
cannot supply it, and I am unluckily perched down
in one of them. These five are Warwick, North-
ampton, Huntingdon, Cambridge, and Bedford.
I should add perhaps Rutland, and you cannot
name a seventh; for Suffolk, which is otherwise just
as bad, has its bit of sea-coast. We have no hills,
no plains, not a single wood, and but one single
copse; no heath, no down, no rock, no river, no
clear stream, scarcely any flowers, for the lias is
particularly poor in them; nothing but an endless
monotony of inclosed fields and hedge-row trees.
This is to me a daily privation; it robs me of what
is naturally my anti-attrition, and as I grow older I
begin to feel it. My constitution is sound but not
strong, and I feel any little pressure or annoyance
more than I used to do; and the positive dullness
of the country about Rugby makes it to me a mere
HOMES OF ARNOLD AND COWPER.
85
working-place. I cannot expatiate here even in
my walks." It proves the nobleness of the man,
that during his vacation rambles, his visits to West-
moreland, and his journeyings in Switzerland and
Italy, in which he showed the bounding enthusiasm
of a boy, he always kept his eye steadily on uncon-
genial Rugby as the place of his work. He had an
aim in life, a work to do, which he placed above
the cultivation of the beautiful, and which was the
most beautiful thing. He was wont to repeat the
words of Bacon, "In this world God only and his
angels may be spectators."
But before speaking further of Dr. Arnold, or
Rugby, I would say a word about a brief visit to
Bilton Hall, the home of Addison. This is a mile
and a half to the south of Rugby. I was kindly
permitted to see the house and grounds. There is
a fine avenue of trees, or short drive, leading up to
the house, which last is not seen until one comes
into the court-yard itself. It is an old-fashioned
and picturesque building, rather low, but covering
much ground. Though aware of the historical fact,
one naturally asks how could a literary man have
gotten himself housed in such a famous old pile?
I passed through the house into the garden. This
is large and pleasantly laid out, without being stiff.
Beyond the garden and separated from it by a wire
fence, is an ancient park. There were po orna-
ments but trees and smooth lawns. The trees were
here and there disposed for shady walks. A little
summer-house upon a green knoll near the mansion
86
OLD ENGLAND.
was the favorite resort of Addison. This summer-
house is particularly mentioned in the sketch of Ad-
dison's life in the "History of the Kit-cat Club."
It was an agreeable nook for well-dressed Sir Roger
de Coverley with his moderate and well-regulated
love of Nature, to take his philosophical siesta in.
The flower-garden, especially rich in roses, and just
then in its June brilliancy, was directly in front of
the house, sending its delicious perfume into the
open windows. It seemed altogether a most genial
and home-like spot. The drawing-room was a fine
apartment, hung around with full-length pictures,
chiefly historical, among which James I. figures
with his look of wisdom. I was last of all shown
up-stairs into Addison's study, truly a contrast to
Henry Kirke White's, or even Southey's. It
seemed to correspond in size with the room below,
and here Addison wrote much of his "Spectator,
walking to and fro the length of the room, as was
his wont. There was the very table (so I was
told) upon which he wrote. It was now well cov-
""
ered with books, and the whole apartment bore ev-
idence of a refined culture in its present occupants.
How could it be otherwise with Addison himself
looking down upon them in a life-like portrait!
The features are handsome, but there is a shade too
much of the fine gentleman in the redundant curls,
open collar, and brave air. The portrait of his
child, "Miss Addison," as the waiting-woman
called her, hung by his side. In the other part of
the room was the likeness of his wife, the Countess
HOMES OF ARNOLD AND COWPER.
87
Dowager of Warwick, a very good face, resembling
Queen Anne, but more amiable and gentle. Yet
she was any thing but gentle, it is said. There was
also a portrait of her son, a slender, aristocratic-
looking youth, the same whom Addison summoned
for him to see how a Christian could die.
And now for Rugby School. Its battlemented,
castle-like walls and buildings form the prominent
object in the small country town. It is indeed all
the place. Its army of boys and teachers over-
whelm every other interest and association. The
school was founded in Queen Elizabeth's day by
one Lawrence Sheriff, a London merchant born in
Rugby. The original donation during this long
period has greatly increased in value, so that the
school enjoys a revenue of some £5000 from this
source alone. The general plan of the school is as
follows: "Any person who has resided for two
years at Rugby, or at any place in the county of
Warwick within ten miles of it, or in the adjacent
counties of Leicester and Northampton, to the dis-
tance of five miles from it, is entitled to send his
sons to receive their education at the school without
payment. But if a parent lives out of the town of
Rugby, his son must lodge at one of the regular
school boarding-houses, and the expenses of his
board are the same as those incurred by a boy not
on the foundation. Boys who have this right to
the advantages of the institution are called 'founda-
tioners,' and their number is not limited."
Classical studies are all in all at Rugby, and in
88
OLD ENGLAND.
Arnold's time the school won its preeminence in
these studies. He introduced a thorough drill in
the grammatic elements of language, that laid a
sure foundation for good scholarship. Nothing
could atone, in his eyes, for grammatical incorrect-
ness, no beauty of expression or ingenuity of con-
struction. He threw new life into the readings of
the old authors, by opening to the minds of his pu-
pils fields of illustrative truth in history, geography,
ethnology, and art. He taught his pupils to dis-
criminate between different ages of the same lan-
guage, the colorings of outward circumstances, and
the changes of idiom. The consequence of this
training was that Rugby boys have studied with
the zest of mature minds, and have taken the first
stand at Oxford. Arnold also had the courage to
introduce the natural sciences and the modern lan-
guages into Rugby, and though it is said that he did
not become himself a perfect German scholar, he
has done for England what Stuart did for America;
he opened the way to the general study of the Ger-
man in English schools and universities.
"He
changed the face of public education throughout
England." But he did infinitely more than this, -
he drew back education to its true source. He
chased out the spirit of a negative philosophy, which
separated the school from all divine influences and
nourished a deep immorality. In the discipline of
the school, and its entire system of instruction, he
let in the sunshine of the Divine Word. He chris-
tianized the school as he would have done the
state.
HOMES OF ARNOLD AND COWPER.
89
The buildings of Rugby School are of the
square English Gothic, and are of considerable size
and extent. There is a turreted gateway Tower,
a handsome Chapel, and a cloistered quadrangle.
The whole edifice, however, has a rough look, or
the boys have made it look so. What building
could stand centuries of boys! The pyramids have
never stood such a test. There is a large park
upon one side, with great elms but miserable
scanty grass. The whole has a half-ecclesiastical,
half-military aspect. I was introduced through a
flower-embowered porch into the principal's house
and study. It was Dr. Arnold's room.
It was
the room where "Tom Brown" had his heart-
searching interview with the great man. The por-
trait of Arnold, with its intense, almost fiery expres-
sion, as if in agony with some brave thought or
purpose, and other pictures and busts, adorned the
room. Papers, pamphlets, and books, crowded
every part of it. It was "the heart of the con-
cern," where the "Head-master" wrote, thought,
toiled, and prayed. I was allowed to visit the
whole establishment, and had considerable conver-
sation with some of the instructors. Boys under
thirteen or fourteen years of age were not recom-
mended to come to Rugby, as the system was
adapted to minds and characters that had acquired
some tone of self-regulation. No one can remain
at Rugby after he has reached nineteen. I peeped
into the boys' studies, minute apartments six by
four, opening into a large arched passage-way.
90
OLD ENGLAND.
Here was amusingly shown the natural history of
a school-boy's mind. The arranging and orna-
menting of each room is according to its own occu-
pant's particular fancy. Pictures, plaster-of-Paris
figures, flowers, whips, boxing-gloves, mingled with
maps, slates, and books. Here was the boy artis -
tic, the boy athletic, the boy commercial, and the
boy sentimental. But, on the whole, pictures of
hunting scenes predominated. The boys' un-
leashed minds evidently ran on horses and dogs.
Some of the little dens were as neat as Shaking
Quakers' herb-stalls, and some, say most, were
genuine hurra nests.
-
I may have passed
"Brown's" and "Arthur's
""
room, and that of
their queer, bird-stuffer friend, but I did not know
them. It is a good idea to let a boy have a place
that he can call his own, where he is lord of his
own castle. This breeds contentment, develops
taste, and encourages the reflective spirit, so want-
ing in the hasty mind of youth. The dormitories
were bare, lofty rooms, the scenes of many a
Waterloo pillow-fight, shy prank, and hard joke.
No wonder little Arthur could not say his prayers
unmolested here! The class-rooms, and even the
room where Dr. Arnold taught the illustrious
"Sixth," were of the barest, roughest character.
As every boy is allowed to cut his name on his
own desk after having been a certain time in
school, the desks and tables are horribly hacked.
Some of them are but spindle-waisted skeletons of
what they once were. They look like the work of
HOMES OF ARNOLD AND COWPER.
91
beavers. One hardly sees how they can be used
for the purposes of writing and study. Compared
with the convenient furniture and handsome fit-
tings of modern American school-houses, these
apartments appeared semi-barbarian. But there
was a certain pleasing contrast in the polished classic
culture that issues from these rooms, and the abso-
lute savageness of their whole aspect and furnish-
ing. Rugby is considered rough, though standing
the highest in manhood and morals of all the Eng-
lish schools. Eton and Harrow are the aristo-
cratic schools. Shrewsbury is now equal to any in
scholarship.
•
The Arnold Library, which has been built since
the Doctor's decease, contains the nucleus of a fine
classical and historic collection. I noticed among
the books a complete set of Arnold's own works. In
the yard under the chapel windows we saw some
young Rugbyans playing racket. Out of this yard
extends the broad and famous " Campus Martius,"
the scene of the foot-ball glories. Rugbeia floreat!
What a grand spirit of movement and power
Arnold infused into his whole system of instruction.
It was a mingling of the best idea of old Greek cul-
ture with the Christian, in which the body should
become the strong instrument of the trained mind
and free heart, open to every pure, high, heroic
feeling!
The Chapel is the culmination of the interests of
the spot. In the north transept stands the monu-
ment of Dr. Arnold. It bears a Latin inscription
92
OLD ENGLAND.
from the pen of his friend Bunsen. As a specimen
of monumental Latinity I give this inscription.
VIR. REV.
THOMAS. ARNOLD. S. T. P.
HISTORIÆ. RECENT. ÆVI. TRADENDÆ. APVD. OXONIEN. PRO. REG.
HVIVS. SCHOLÆ. PER. ANNOS. XIV. ANTISTES. STRENVVS. VNICE. DILECTVS.
THVCYDIDEM. ILLVSTRAVIT. HISTORIAM. ROMANAM. SCRIPSIT.
POPULI. CHRISTIANI.
LIBERTATEM. DIGNITATEM. VINDICAVIT. FIDEM. CONFIRMAVIT. SCRIPTIS.
VITA.
CHRISTVM. PRÆDICAVIT. APvd. Vos.
IVVENVM. ANIMOS. MONVMENTVM. SIBI. DELIGENS.
TANTI. VIRI. EFFIGIES. VOBIS. HIC. EST. PROPOSITA.
CORPVS. SVB. ALTARI. CONQVIESCIT.
ANIMA. IN. SVAM. SEDEM. PATRE. VOCANTE. IMMIGRAVIT.
FORTIS. PIA. LÆTA.
NAT. A. D. XIII. JVN. MDCCXCV. MORT. A. D. XII. JVN. MDCCCXLII.
AMICI. POSVERVNT.
The windows of the Chapel are of painted glass.
One of them in commemoration of Dr. Thomas
Arnold, is touching in its design. It represents
the meeting of the Saviour and Thomas, with the
words inscribed beneath, "And Jesus said unto
him, Thomas, because thou hast seen me thou hast
believed; blessed are they who have not seen, and
yet have believed." These are said to have been
among his last words. Under another memorial
window there is a plate of brass inscribed with the
names of Rugby scholars who fell at the Crimea.
Everywhere in school, and church, and domestic
fireside, the martial ardor of the youth of England
is nourished. The beautiful death of those who
die for their country was one of Arnold's favorite
themes. We do not stop now to speak of this
peculiar trait of English Christianity, that it min-
gles the heroism of the earthly and spiritual soldier,
HOMES OF ARNOLD AND COWPER.
93
But
and blends their glories as it were in one.
here the true soldier of Christ lies on the field of
his glory. Arnold is buried near the pulpit,
where he so often preached in living earnestness
and power to fresh young minds. He pointed
them directly to Christ. He dropt the worn-out
robes of dogmatism, ecclesiasticism, pietism, and
stretched out the arms of love, truth, hope, to the
young. The words of Dr. Arnold's favorite morn-
ing hymn, from the German of Baron von Canitz,
are expressive of his life: -
Come, my soul, thou must be waking,
Now is breaking
O'er the earth another day;
Come to Him who made this splendor,
See thou render
All thy feeble powers can pay.
From the stars thy course be learning;
Dimly burning,
'Neath the sun their light grows pale ;
So let all that sense delighted,
While benighted
From God's presence fade and fail."
Olney, in the county of Buckingham, or
"Bucks," as it is called, is situated in the marshy
valley of the slow-winding river Ouse, as if it
had been formerly the bed of a wide and shallow
lake. Long before arriving I saw the spire of
John Newton's Church, frequently referred to by
Cowper as a grateful way-mark in his weary pil-
grimage. It is the only salient feature of the
otherwise flat and melancholy scene. The town
itself, of about five thousand inhabitants, is on
94
OLD ENGLAND.
very slightly rising ground, with the river run-
ning, rather sleeping, at its side. Two bridges,
or one bridge in two parts, cross its wide
undefined bed, for it seems to have no particular
current at this spot, but generally diffuses itself
around in stagnant ponds and pools. It was not
the river to rush through a poet's brain, and
cleanse it of its unhealthy fancies. The very
bridge this over which the Postman of the "Task
came thundering and tooting, -
แ That with its wearisome but needful length,
Bestrides the wintry flood."
I drove directly to Cowper's house, a tall red-brick
mansion, with stripes of black brick, and under
each window an ornament of carved stone-work.
It was the most presentable house in town, and
stood at the angle of a triangle formed by the
meeting of three roads. In the square or open
place itself was one large tree, which must have
flourished in the poet's time. The house seems
to be now cut up into two or three dwellings. Its
roof also has been altered, being made a plain
shelving roof, whereas it had formerly been a bold
parapeted one. The front room, which was Cow-
per's sitting-room, is now used as a milliner's shop,
and is filled with bonnets and caps. The amiable
mistress of the shop did the honors of the house,
seeming to have an appreciation of Cowper. The
room is very small, with bay windows; Cowper's
bedroom is smaller still. In these rooms the
"Task" was probably written, for it was com-
HOMES OF ARNOLD AND COWPER.
95
posed mostly in the winter time. Here also he
kept his hares, Puss, Bess, and Tiny. We might
see a faint smile pass over his sad face, when he
wrote of the veteran survivor of the famous
three:
"Though duly from my hand he took
His pittance every night,
He did it with a jealous look,
And when he could would bite.”
The garden is now disjoined from the house, but
still exists in about its ancient size and integrity.
Its present owner is a hospitable, open-hearted
man, who entertained me with fruit and luncheon
in Cowper's own garden-house. This is getting
rickety, but still stands. Cowper wrote here much
that bears his name, and this same little summer-
house has its own place in the map of human
freedom! Here he used to sit in conversation
with his friend John Newton late into the night.
Newton's house is just beyond the garden, over a
narrow field that the poet called his guinea
orchard," having purchased a right of way to his
friend's house for a guinea a year. I walked
through this field to the parsonage. Newton's
study-window looked directly down upon this
meadow. Under this roof these two pure spirits
held sweet counsel together, and in many ways
important results have flowed from their apparent-
ly accidental friendship. To Newton's influence
the world probably owes Cowper's poetic works.
From that eleven years' imprisonment in the house
66
96
OLD ENGLAND.
of bondage, flowed forth the sweetest spiritual
songs in the English language. Newton's house
is now occupied as a vicarage, as it was formerly.
The present young vicar of Olney showed us
Newton's study, an attic-room, ornamented with
Scripture texts painted in large letters on the
walls. I crossed over also to the church. The ·
yard and the church itself appeared neglected. It
looked like an earthly rather than a spiritual
sheep-fold. Newton's pulpit still stands. With
what feelings must he have given out some touch-
ing tender words from the "Olney Hymns," with
that almost ever-vacant seat before him!
I called upon a very venerable lady of the name
of Mason, living near Cowper's house, who re-
members to have seen the poet when she was a
little girl, and was frequently at his residence.
She said "he was a good man, but quite, quite
reserved." She showed me a poker which he in-
vented for his friend Sir John Throckmorton.
She said very simply, that "if we were good
enough to go to heaven we would meet William
Cowper there."
I drove over to another well-known home of
Cowper, about two miles distant, "Weston Under-
wood." He removed from Olney to this place on
account of its greater healthiness, and to be nearer
the Throckmortons. The house called "The
Lodge" is a superior house to the one at Olney.
It was wreathed over with a luxuriant vine, and
seemed to be a comfortable mansion. On account
HOMES OF ARNOLD AND COWPER.
97
of the illness of the lady of the house, I did not
see the chamber where the poet has left some
desponding lines, written in pencil on the inside
of the window-shutter, dated July 22d, 1795. I
carried away a branch of the yew-tree standing in
the garden. A walk in "The Wilderness," near
by, brought to mind the poet more vividly than
any spot I had seen. It was the most of genuine.
Nature that he enjoyed. It is a thick luxuriant
copse-wood left apparently just as when Cowper
was living. At the end of a shadowy walk stands
the bust of Homer with the Greek inscription.
Here are the monuments to the "pointer," and
the spaniel "Fop." An old white decaying acacia
in front of the arbor seemed like his own leafless
spirit, seared by mental disease, but kept from
dying by the invisible stream of a divine faith, so
that it now stands transplanted, putting forth
leaves and blossoms on the border of the River of
Life. Here also is the favorite lime-tree walk, and
beyond this, in the depths of the Park, is the
famous "Yardley Oak." So thick is the shade.
in "the Wilderness," and so perfect the quiet,
that no words would better fit the place than those
of his own simple hymn :-
"The calm retreat, the silent shade,
With prayer and praise agree,
And seem by thy sweet bounty made,
For those who follow thee.
"There, if thy spirit touch the soul,
And grace her mean abode,
7
98
OLD ENGLAND.
Oh with what peace, and joy, and love,
She communes with her God.
There, like a nightingale, she pours
Her solitary lays,
Nor asks a witness of her song,
Nor thirsts for human praise."
}
CHAPTER VI.
WESTON UNDERWOOD TO CHELTENHAM.
I MADE (to myself) an unexpected discovery in
Weston Underwood, of the house where Dr.
Thomas Scott once lived. Taking in Turvey, a
little way from Olney, where was Leigh Rich-
mond's home after he left the Isle of Wight, and
much of interest, in the history of English faith,
is comprised within this circle of ten miles. New-
ton, Richmond, Cowper, Scott, do you call them
the representatives of a type of religion that in
some respects was narrow, and is now undergo-
ing changes? But they were the faithful of their
day a day in which scholarship in the illustra-
tion of divine truth was at a low ebb. Dr. Scott's
house stands at the head of the principal street of
the village. An intelligent and cultivated family
now occupy it. It is not the large thatched-roofed
cottage diagonally opposite, which Hugh Miller sup-
posed it was. It is strange that so accurate an ob-
server should have made this mistake.
It arose
probably from hearing it said that the cottage was
formerly the parsonage. But Scott clearly defines
the situation of his house in his Autobiography. In
a front chamber of this house he wrote his "Com-
100
OLD ENGLAND.
mentaries." In the garden stands the same pear-
tree (a wall-tree covering nearly all of one end of
the house) to which he refers in his Autobiography.
"In fact Mr. H." (his landlord) "took no rent of
me but a hamper of pears, annually, from a fine
tree in the garden, for which he regularly sent me
a receipt." Cowper, in a letter to John Newton,
speaks of "Mr. Scott" as an admirable preacher,
but one who was apt to spoil his sermons by "scold-
ing" too much. The stone church where Dr.
Scott preached is not far from the house, a solid
structure containing monuments of the Throckmor-
ton family. This was a Catholic family, and
strange to say, in the village where Scott and
Cowper lived, most of the inhabitants at this day
are Catholic.
That genial though thorough Englishman, “ Ar-
thur Helps," has made the remark that tempera-
ment is but the atmosphere of character, while its
groundwork in nature may be fixed and unchange-
able. This remark might explain the difference
between the Englishman and the American, look-
ing at both in their broad national traits. It has
been pleasant to me to think that deep down under
all the changes of history and circumstance, there
was a common root to the two nations, and that
this still is to be found. The temperament of the
American, since his ancestors landed in New Eng-
land and Virginia, has been affected by a thousand
new influences. More oxygen has flowed into his
soul as well as his lungs. His nature has been in-
WESTON UNDERWOOD TO CHELTENHAM. 101 .
tensified. His sympathies have found another
range of objects. But, after all, it is hard to wash
away the original basis of nature. Its force and in-
tegrity remain. What can be more different than
a genuine Yankee and a true John Bull? Yes, we
can say they are no longer the same; but still they
do not differ as an Englishman differs from a
Frenchman, or a German, or an Italian. Many
unchangeable qualities belong to each, though
transformed. I have an American friend in view,
a traveling acquaintance, who has the distinctive
American traits in broad relief; and I should be
perfectly willing to show him the following photo-
graph. He would recognize it, laugh at it, and
glory in it. He worshiped his own country. He
meant that everybody else should know how great
it is. There was nothing that America did not
have; there was nothing in fact out of America.
He hated an Englishman because the Englishman
would not acknowledge the same thing. He was
ready to fight England, just to make her wake up,
and open her eyes, and see the "living truth"
about America. But if he hated an Englishman,
he had an infinite contempt for a Swiss, because he
considered him to be mercenary and not to be de-
pended upon. In going over some of the wilder
passes of the Alps, although he had a horse so that
he might not appear to be mean, he would not
mount the horse until his guide happened to ask
him if he were afraid; then he jumped on, and rode
unconcernedly along the edge of the most terrific
102
OLD ENGLAND.
abysses, where every one else dismounted. He
told me that he had never had a sensation of fear
in his life, and I believe him, for he would climb
places where few would dare to follow him, and
then go
"a touch beyond," and dangle his legs over
the precipice. He took a guide rather as a matter
of course, for he always found the path himself, and
walked ahead. He filled his pockets with small
change every morning, to be distributed to all the
little children he met during the day, but he would
raise the hotel when he thought himself cheated to
the value of a ten-cêntime piece. He was a rich
man, and had made himself. When he had just
begun business he discovered by reweighing an
article that he had charged a customer a dollar too
much. He went immediately and rectified the
mistake. His customer, an old Quaker gentleman,
said to him, "Young man, thee shall never be the
poorer for that dollar." "And that dollar," he
said, "had brought him thousands." Every thing
new, useful, and practical, he swooped upon in-
stantly. He spoke little about the Alps, but a new
style of bolt running upon rollers, which he found
in Switzerland, he was much interested in, though
he said he had the same idea himself when a boy.
Stone stairs, in case of fire, was the only thing I
ever heard him acknowledge as something pecu-
liarly foreign and good. He did not like any thing
because it was old, and despised a "battered old
torso"; but if a work of Art looked nice and beau-
tiful at the present instant, whether new or old, he
WESTON UNDERWOOD TO CHELTENHAM.
103
indulged in vehement praises of it. The past was
past with him. A thing must be entirely up to its
professions, for the slightest respect on his part.
He affected to scorn sentiment and the emotional,
but he was ever doing little delicate and kind
things. I discovered accidentally this iron-nerved
man, who prided himself on his sang-froid, gazing
with bedewed eyes on the miniature of his dead
wife, that he had caused to be painted in the most
exquisite manner by Lamunière of Geneva, and set
about with enamels of forget-me-nots in a casing of
massive gold.
Whatever he bought, or wore, or ate, or had,
must be of the best quality, and he put himself on
a lower seat to no living being.
Now in many things, although absolutely trans-
formed, do we not see here the original English
nature, its self-confidence, uprightness, courage,
practicalness, acquisitiveness, womanish tenderness,
and insufferable pride? He disliked an Englishman
for the same reason that an Englishman disliked
him. But is there not here, in better things, a
ground of future union of the two nations to civil-
ize the world? They both have the same English
"pluck." There is in both nations the same love
of home, the same capacity of religion. They are
nations that do have a conscience. Therefore they
are better, and worse, and greater, than other na-
tions. A far more strongly marked comparison
might be drawn between the Englishman and the
German. They too are not mentally or morally
104
OLD ENGLAND.
antagonistic, as are the English and French, but
only, as the Englishman and the American, tem-
peramentally dissimilar. The chief feature of dis-
similarity consists in the practical directness of the
English mind, as compared with the thoughtful cir-
cuitousness of the German. This comes out amus-
ingly in conversation. The German dwells on par-
ticulars while tenaciously pursuing the main track;
is minute and episodical; must examine every stone,
and turn over every straw, and does not perceive,
or does not wish to do so, the few things of true im-
portance. The Englishman goes to the other ex-
treme in brevity; marches immediately to the con-
clusion; disdains the intermediate; relates a fact
and gives a reason without obscuring either in un-
essential detail. But a German who wishes to say
"I went home from the Post-office," would feel
obliged to tell every corner he turned around,
every person he met, every thing that every person
told him, and every thing that he told every person.
It is sometimes, therefore, a small torture for an
Englishınan or an American to talk with a Ger-
man, because the definite fact or idea which he is
seeking for is so long in finding expression. But
on philosophical and scientific topics, this systematic
method and absolute thoroughness of the German
mind is a noble feature, while English bluntness
and American rapidity become real faults, and lead
to intellectual superficiality. Another striking dif-
ference between an Englishman and a German is,
that if the former has in him any thing like senti-
WESTON UNDERWOOD TO CHELTENHAM.
105
ment, he tries to conccal it as a weakness of which
he is heartily ashamed; the latter delights to make
a show of sentiment. The Englishman hates
scenes; the German revels in such manifestations.
The Englishman tries to look contemptuous; the
German appears rapturous. The Englishman de-
spises pipe-claying and outward manifestations; the
German glories in red tags and demonstrations.
And since we are in for it, to strike out in the gen-
uine Macaulay vein, the Englishman has an island
solitariness of temper; the German has a conti-
nental sociality. The Englishman thinks more of
himself than of his neighbor; the German thinks
more of his neighbor than of himself. The Eng-
lishman has more self-respect; the German has
more self-complacency.
—
There is one quality in the English character
patent to all observers, which is one of its least
worthy features, suspicion. Whether it be so
or not, there is almost always an apparent suspi-
cion of every thing, and of everybody, in his looks
and conduct. He seems to be suspicious lest his
right-hand neighbor is a thief, his left-hand neigh-
bor an artful imposter, and the man who sits oppo-
site him a humbug. Sometimes when one really
supposes he is on terms of easy confidence with an
Englishman, some trivial thing happens to rouse
the old John Bull suspicion, and your pleasant and
intelligent companion is instantly transformed into
a lump of ice and formality. Perhaps the next
time you meet him, he will either not know you,
106
OLD ENGLAND.
or you are so disgusted as not to know him. This
suspicion has seemed to me sometimes to poison an
Englishman's own happiness. I remember a little
incident in riding from Mansfield to Chesterfield
through the Robin Hood forest region. The
weather was good, the roads smooth, and all the
company seemed to be in excellent spirits. Two
burly gentlemen in front of me took an especial
liking to each other, and chatted, and joked, and
laughed, till the groves and orchards rang again.
Something, however, jarred suddenly in their con-
versation, the English suspicion seemed to creep up
into their faces, they looked at each other askance,
the conversation dropped, each buttoned up his
top-coat, settled himself in his seat, and one felt
that if any thing more occurred between the two, it
would be to pitch each other off the coach. This
little circumstance had an evident effect upon the
whole company. Each one seemed to be reminded
that he, too, had been too free with his neighbor
with whom he had no previous acquaintance. It
was in vain after this to attempt to raise a conver-
sation, and rain coming on, the discomfort and
wetting confirmed this unsociability for the rest of
the ride, into downright savage taciturnity.
On arriving at an English inn, apparently the
same chill suspicion meets one. A prim landlady
receives the traveler and consigns him immediately
to the laconic offices of "Boots." He is shut up
alone in a sombre-looking parlor; is obliged to ring,
and ring, and ring, for the most common and in-
WESTON UNDERWOOD TO CHELTENHAM.
107
dispensable services; eats his dinner alone and in
silence; and when he leaves is besieged by the inso-
lent demands of three or four understrappers, to
whom he is not aware of having been indebted for
any assistance.
But the trim and pleasant-looking
landlady appears again at this moment of departure,
with the invariable courteous commonplace, "I
hope you have passed an agreeable time, sir!"
I have indeed sometimes amused myself with
the idea, that a traveler entering an English inn
is looked upon in the light of an intruder upon a
private family circle. He can get little informa-
tion by asking questions; is expected to keep his
own room, to make as little noise as possible, and
give as little trouble. In traveling in England,
one meets with few pleasant personal adventures,
because it is rare that an Englishman suffers you to
assist him, or suffers himself to be interested in you.
I asked an educated Englishman once what was
the reason of this. He said it was English phlegm.
John Bull would n't absolutely take the trouble to
ask questions or answer them, to sympathize with
others, or to strive to win others' sympathies. He
prefers to sit still and tranquilly digest his plum-
pudding. It is hard for a genuine Englishman to
meet a stranger, as a Frenchman does, on the neu-
tral platform of well-bred indifference. He must
either be cool or hearty, suspicious or all-confiding.
I have found in traveling in England that if I
could chastise my own intemperate nationality,
and not let it stick out offensively, that I soon made
108
OLD ENGLAND.
friends with Englishmen, who, in the end, would
volunteer more in reference to their own failings
than I should ever have thought of producing to
them. Mutual pride prevents Englishmen and
Americans from seeing each others' good traits
and positive resemblances. And all Englishmen
are not disagreeable, neither are all Americans in-
sufferable. There are the pleasantest and sweetest
people in the world in both nations; so there are
undoubtedly the most insolent and contemptible.
I remember one evening at Bath occupying the
coffee-room with one of the most agreeable men I
ever met. He was not only a cultivated man, and
one too who did not despise an American book, and
who lived daily with our best authors and poets,
but he was an Englishman who had no prejudices
against us as a people, and where he disagreed with
us did so in a manly way. He was a genial man,
open as the day. He was a Christian man, not
dry or solemn, but the heart of the true Christian,
the fighter against all wrong and meanness, was in
him. His spirit met your spirit in love. So free
and pleasant was our talk, that it was near one
o'clock before we parted. During the evening, an-
other man had taken his dinner in the same room.
While we were conversing upon the Crimean war,
he had joined in the conversation. I could not
make out what he was. He was neither decidedly
military nor decidedly clerical. He might have
held some civil post in the army. He was coarse,
and there was something about him that did not
WESTON UNDERWOOD TO CHELTENHAM. 109
speak the gentleman. My friend thought differ-
ently. He supposed that a campaign in the East
might have roughened him. But the next morn-
ing he came into the room, ordered the waiter in a
peremptory manner, ate his meal in sullen silence,
and neither in coming in nor going out, although
we had talked together the night before, did he
make the slightest sign of recognition. After he
had disappeared, my companion raised both hands,
pronouncing the awful sentence, "Snobus est!"
In the same way one is continually encountering
people of different characters, and of all shades of
character. One man is obliging and another rude.
We should surely not forget the many agreeable
people we meet, when we think of the opposite
ones. In traveling in other countries, I have for
many days, and even weeks, been thrown in com-
pany with English persons of rank, occupying neigh-
boring rooms, sitting at the same table, taking the
same rounds in walking and riding. Some of them
have possessed the faculty of ignoring the pres-
ence of other beings, though in an unexception-
able way; of not seeing when looking; and of giv-
ing to perfection the "stony British stare." But
others have good-humoredly resigned themselves to
what they may have considered the force of circum-
stances, and consented to recognize, on the neutral
ground of good society, those about them who were
respectable and intelligent. Should we go away
and say that all the English nobility are proud and
supercilious? Perhaps there might be even hidden
110
OLD ENGLAND.
reasons of considerable weight, why common po-
liteness and kindness of heart should not be mani-
fested to all, if felt, though it were hard to see
this. For myself, whenever I have had the good
fortune and skill to open the English oyster, I have
rarely failed of finding a pearl. Dr. Bushnell was
about right when he said, that you must break an
Englishman's head and walk in, and you would find
most excellent accommodations.
We were traveling in the neighborhood of
Woodstock. The road here, whether over hill
or through dale, was bordered by the invariable
hedge-rows, and the fields divided by the same.
Yet even the English hedge is said to be getting
into disrepute among the farmers, because it takes
up valuable ground, and nests so many predatory
little birds. But may the English hedge never
give way. It has a beauty higher than any spirit.
of utility. It is a blossoming, tangled conglomera-
tion of briar, rose, and thorn, impervious to any
thing but an English fox-hunter's rush. The
Hawthorn, or White-thorn, is the chief basis of an
English hedge. Its thick, luxuriant foliage is of a
rich dark green, and its blossom is of pure white,
whose delicate perfume in the months of May and
June, comes on every breeze over the fields,
แ "The milk-white thorn that scents the evening gale."
But every other kind of blooming running thing
mixes up with it, the Wild Rose, the Blackberry
with its colored flowers, the Stone Bramble, the
WESTON UNDERWOOD TO CHELTENHAM. 111
spiky-leaved Holly, the common Raspberry, the
bright-green Buckthorn, and the Hazel, whose long
tassels, or catkins, are the first blossoms of spring.
All these left to grow and twine together, on a
sacred ridge, one might say for centuries, then we
get the English hedge, to be seen only however
in its perfection in the South of England, in Dev-
onshire, or the Isle of Wight. Bloom on centuries
more, sweet English hedge!
From Mr. Everett's description I had mustered
up very splendid visions in regard to Blenheim.
They were not entirely realized. The gardens
were lovely, they might be called magnificent ;
but the park and grounds for miles around looked
deserted and uncared for. The water of the arti-
ficial lake lay in broad, stagnant pools, the home
of bitterns, piping frogs, and mosquitoes. The im-
mense palace itself of yellow limestone was rusty
and begrimed. It had a vast, faded splendor, but
never could have had architecturally a very im-
pressive character. It is heavy and strained. Of
the interior, the Library is by far the finest room,
having a length of 183 feet. A statue of Queen
Anne stands at one end. The "great Duke," with
his hooked nose and decided mouth, like a later
but better great duke, figures everywhere upon
miles of canvas and fresco. He drove six marshals
of France out of the field, but could not write the
English language correctly. The tomb of Marl-
borough in the chapel has no particular meaning or
point. It is a huge, cold, and pompous pile. A
112
OLD ENGLAND.
modern finely carved pulpit, of one piece of Derby-
shire spar, was by far the best thing in the Chapel.
Marble and paint, and we have seen Blenheim, the
great Duke's show-place, built for him by the Eng-
lish nation at the cost of half a million pounds ster-
ling!
Just by the side of the Triumphal-gate of Blen-
heim Park, stood once the house of Chaucer. The
gentleman who lives upon the spot allowed me to
see his garden, and what very little remained of
the poet's house. He told me that he himself took
down what there was of it to construct his own
dwelling; preserving, however, two or three small
arched windows which he built into a wall.
possessed an original title-deed of Chaucer's in re-
lation to this very house.
He
Woodstock is a gone-by little town, contented to
sleep under the shadow of the Duke of Marl-
borough's wings. It makes buckskin gloves and
tippets. It is on the south or opposite side of the
stream upon which old Woodstock stood, the scene
of Scott's novel. The palace has entirely disap-
peared.
By one of the few remaining stage-routes, I rode
from Oxford to Cheltenham, about forty miles. It
was good to sit by an old-fashioned English coach-
man, and behind a team of well-matched nags. A
ringing, musical gallop was indulged in down a
gentle plane; and as we drew up to some lonely
"Barley-mow" hostlery, the horses reeked with
smoke in the morning air. Not long after crossing
WESTON UNDERWOOD TO CHELTENHAM.
113
the Isis, and leaving Oxford, we came into the
neighborhood of Cumnor Hall. From the simple
ballad that begins with a picture of the moonlight
shining on the towers and oaks of this ancient
place, Scott was inspired to become a poet.
We passed by one of the new cemeteries es-
tablished according to a recent act of Parliament,
requiring all burial-places to be outside of towns.
The yards belonging to the Established Church
and the Dissenters were separated by a high wall,
and were made as distinct as possible. Can it be
that such divisions are carried up to the tomb's
mouth?
The town of Witney, famous for its blankets,
but now gone rather to decline, lay upon our
route. It has a fine old church in the early Eng-
lish style. This, and Burford, presented the usual
features of small inland English towns,
one wide
street of sober low stone houses, more picturesque
than neat, with frequent open butchers' stalls, and
now and then an inn sign, with somewhat more
of bustle about the inn door than elsewhere.
Shortly after leaving Burford, and before coming
to Northleach, we left Oxfordshire and entered
Gloucestershire. Our ride was through a farming
and grazing country, a region celebrated for its
wool-raising. There is a notion that one kind of
land makes good mutton and another good wool.
In the farm-yards, with their high stone walls,
stood immense symmetric straw-ricks, partially
cut, and as precisely as a wedding-cake. Great
8
114
OLD ENGLAND.
differences in the neatness of yard, and house, and
fields, were observable here, as in other countries.
All the farmers were not thrifty, as all doubtless
were not intelligent. Before reaching Cheltenham
we drove over a very high range of country, com-
manding fine prospects into the vales of Evesham,
Tewksbury, and Worcester, even as far as the
Malvern Hills. This is said to be an exceedingly
bleak and storm-swept region in winter. At Chel-
tenham I stopped at the ancient "Plough Inn,"
now a fashionable and luxurious hotel.
CHAPTER VII.
CHELTENHAM, BRISTOL, AND GLOUCESTER.
CHELTENHAM, on the river Chelt, under the
Cotswold hills, is a well-grown city of some 40,000
inhabitants. It is one of those peculiar English
towns where our serious "Motherlanders " gather
themselves together to enjoy and display their
wealth in fine equipages, elegant assemblies, and a
nice union of gayety with comfort. It is not one
of those migratory and butterfly watering-places
that shines for a month or so; but it is a place
where people have a good time all winter long,
where they live in their own substantial stone
villas. I was in Cheltenham at the dull season,
and the heat was oppressive. The Assembly
Rooms, and Pump Rooms, and the spacious orna-
mental grounds at Pittville, were all in the highest
condition of neatness, but quite solitary and de-
serted. The pleasantest incident in my visit was
the privilege of seeing Lord Northwick's immense
collection of paintings at Thirlestane House, before
it was scattered. It was like visiting one of the
public galleries of the Continent. It is marvelous
how one man's purse, and one man's will, and one
man's life, could have brought together so many
116
OLD ENGLAND.
precious works of Art. Few kings have had such a
collection. With some trash, the gallery abounded
in original works of the great masters. Titians,
Van Dycks, Raphaels, Rubenses, were plentiful.
The portrait of the Duke d'Urbino, taken in a
common dress trimmed with fur, and a black hat,
is one of Raphael's finest pictures. It has large
animated eyes, and is full of life. If he had not
painted the Transfiguration, the Sistine Madonna,
and the School of Athens, Raphael would have
been immortal by his portraits. How manly and
honest they are! The gloomy and imaginative
picture of Salvator Rosa, called "L'Umana Fragi-
lata," was one of the glories of the collection.
Even in Italy there is no more characteristic or
powerful specimen of this painter's genius. The
coloring is deep, with strong contrasts. Life and
death seem to mingle in the picture. There was
an odd but vigorous picture of "Jacob and the
Mandrakes," by Murillo. I noticed also a highly
finished "St. Jerome," by Albert Dürer, and a
"St. John," full of feeling, by Guido. There
were two very beautiful Claudes, one of them a
sunset. There were many noble paintings of the
Spanish school. The older Flemish and German
masters were fully represented. The collection
was rich in Cuyps; but especially in Ruysdaels.
One might there have been convinced, if not
before, of the power of this last painter. He
gives the rush of torrents, the movement of rivers,
the grandeur of rock and precipice, the still-life
CHELTENHAM, BRISTOL, AND GLOUCESTER.
117
in the depth of forests, the aspects of unchanged
Nature, with unequaled freshness and boldness.
Though all the great modern artists seemed to be
present in their familiar works, I did not see a
single Turner. Perhaps the old lord, who died
at eighty-nine, and who was whimsically inde-
pendent and fastidious in his taste, would not give
in in his old age to Turner and Ruskin, but re-
mained true to his Claudes, and Gainsboroughs,
and sweet old English landscapes. We saw the
little desk where he was accustomed to sit, with
two small pictures of a church aisle, and of an old
beggar's head hanging over it. His life was un-
doubtedly lengthened through his love of Art. He
lived in his gallery; and when he could find any
one like-minded, who would walk with him through
the rooms, he would pour out immense erudition
in relation to Art and artists. But he was willing
to explain his pictures to the common laborer and
the child, and to instruct all in the method of com-
prehending and studying paintings. He left no
will; and his intentions in regard to this vast col-
lection were not then certainly known. But these
choice paintings, these cases of historical gems,
these bronzes, marbles and cameos, these thousand
objects which to the smallest of them bore the
stamp of mind, were to be separated, some of them
perhaps finding their way back to their native
shores. They were soon afterward sold at public
sale, and found purchasers, if I am rightly in-
formed, from many different lands. One hardly
118
OLD ENGLAND.
sees what great purpose such a stupendous gallery,
formed at such cost and care, and suddenly falling
into its ten thousand original. parts, could have
answered. If it were merely for the enjoyment
of one man it looks selfish. But doubtless many
English artists have received here their first in-
spiration; and in a quiet way it may have served
to mould and refine the taste of the land.
In a small stone mansion at Cheltenham, called
the "Georgiana Villa," Lord Byron, it is said,
composed the "Corsair." He did not do it sitting
in a stalactite cavern in one of the rocky isles of
Greece, as Byron-mad youth might imagine. But
if the noble lord had gone to his own Sherwood
Forest, or to the Malvern Hills near by, or over
the Severn into rocky, legendary Monmouth, or
along the bold and romantic shores of Devonshire,
he would have found a much better English hero,
and as lovely scenery.
Among the pleasant drives about Cheltenham,
one may visit the fountain-head of the Thames,
on the road to Birdlip. It is a small pond of very
clear and sweet water, shaded with trees. Here is
the meeting of seven springs.
Let us now, without going through the details.
of the journey, find ourselves in Bristol, a dirty
old business city, but with aristocratic suburbs, and
not without some interest to the stranger in itself.
In the ancient church of St. Mary Radcliffe, situ-
ated in a still and deserted quarter of Bristol, one
finds more architectural riches than in the Cathe-
CHELTENHAM, BRISTOL, AND GLOUCESTER. 119
dral, which is chiefly interesting as containing the
monument of Bishop Butler, that most massive of
reasoners, who marked out for all time the affinities
between religion and the constitution and course
of Nature. The inscription upon the monument
was written by Southey. The exterior of St. Mary
Radcliffe is extremely worn and black, but its inte-
rior is one of the finest examples of the pure Per-
pendicular Gothic that there is in England. An
intenser interest attaches to it as the place where
young Chatterton wrought his wondrous literary
forgery. I climbed the narrow stone stairs of one
of the transept towers, so often bounded up by the
feet of Chatterton on his stealthy and mysterious
errand, and entered the small open-windowed and
many-sided room, where are still the two old chests
in which he pretended to have found the Rowley
manuscripts. The windows look out over the city,
with its red roofs, and many hollows, hills, and ir-
regularities. From this strange and lofty study,
open to the air and birds of heaven, how often did
he look down on the toiling city, feeling himself
entirely cut off from all that glowing human life.
It was singular to be alone in the room where that
young and restless mind worked so intensely upon
a lie! Having once conceived the idea as a flash
of fancy, did he not almost begin to believe it him-
self, and really to live in that old world of romance
and battle? Would that then he could have had
one true friend of genuine heart and wisdom. If
Southey or Coleridge had been living, instead of
120
OLD ENGLAND.
Horace Walpole, how different would have been
the event. The chests are rough affairs, and the
liveliest imagination cannot make any thing more
of them than old coal-boxes. They are now much
decayed, though some large nails still remain in
them. But they are more like rough troughs than
those carefully made and iron-bound "chestes," in
which precious things were anciently deposited.
Chatterton, it is said, would roam in the fields.
about Bristol the whole Sabbath long, and lie
stretched on the grass gazing at the tower of old
St. Mary's Church. He preferred to write, it is
said, by moonlight. He was but seventeen years
and nine months old when he died.
Broadmead Chapel is situated at the opposite
extreme of the city from the Church of St. Mary
Radcliffe, and is outside of the old walls. It is in
the commercial, or sailor quarter of the city. I
approached it by a long back street lined with little
shops for the sale of old clothes, old iron, ship fur-
niture, etc., and sprinkled freely with tap-rooms,
decorated with their red-baize curtains. Nothing
in particular indicated the fact of a church, but a
little notice upon the door of a block of houses.
The portress admitted me into the chapel through
some low entries; and it seemed to be a room situ-
ated between two streets, and all about it was so
filled in with houses and shops, that no one would
suspect that there was such a chapel there. It is
itself a small church, capable of seating perhaps at
the largest estimate five hundred people, and as
CHELTENHAM, BRISTOL, AND GLOUCESTER. 121
plain as plain could be. There were three pillars
on a side, supporting low galleries. A black iron
chandelier hung in the centre. The pulpit was of
painted wood, and clamped together, where it had
been broken, with common iron bands. It had no
ornament of any kind. And here preached the
prince of preachers, Robert Hall. The visit would
have done any one good. It taught both humility
and hope. Here a great genius was content to
labor for his Master. The place does not make a
man small or great. A little marble slab, on the
wall by the side of the pulpit, bore three inscrip-
tions to three ministers of the chapel. The middle
one was in these words: "The Rev. Robt. Hall,
A. M. Pastor of this church 5 years. Died 21st
Feb'y, 1831, aged 66." I went into the vestry
where he used to retire after preaching, to throw
himself upon a bench in perfect agony. It was the
merest miniature of a room. In an adjoining
apartment hang the portraits of Robert Hall, John
Foster, and other distinguished Baptist ministers.
The elderly woman, looking upon his portrait,
(which represents him as leaning on his desk, and
simply raising his hand from the Bible,) said, " I
remember Mr. Hall very well, and that was all the
gesture he made." But Robert Hall could not be
hid any more than a mountain. His strength lay
in the solidity of his intellect. The intellectual
element predominated. His mighty mind pene-
trated by the pure weight of thought to the depths
of subjects. There was joined to this a vast power
122
OLD ENGLAND.
of moral feeling and of burning indignation against
all untruth. He apprehended clearly the far-off and
most distant results of wrong opinions, and this made
him the greatest moral reasoner of his age. What
great trains of thought run in expanding light
through his magnificent argument on Modern Infi-
delity! And how marvelously his style blends the
totally opposite qualities of simplicity and splendor
of diction!
I was fortunate while in Bristol in hearing that
remarkable "man of God,"
man of God," - I can think of no
better name, George Müller, who built the Or-
phan Houses at Ashley Down. The life of this
primitive Christian is well known in America. He
was born in Prussia in 1805. While a student in
the University of Halle, he made the acquaintance
of a body of warm-hearted and active Christian
disciples. He devoted himself from that time to
preaching and doing good. He came to England
in 1829 to apply to the Continental Missionary So-
ciety to be sent as a missionary to the East. He
preached for some time at Teignmouth, living upon
the small voluntary contributions of his friends.
He was a man of child-like faith, who practically
believed in the power of prayer and the Father-
hood of God. He was frequently brought down
to the lowest extremity. He and a Scotch friend,
Mr. Craik, removed to Bristol, establishing there a
little preaching chapel, which in its temporal affairs
was to exist on the same principle of trust in God.
He was led to do something for poor children, and
CHELTENHAM, BRISTOL, AND GLOUCESTER. 123
This
to found an institution for giving them a religious
education; and he commenced this plan of benevo-
lence when he and his friend were actually reduced
to a single shilling. For the pressing wants of
himself and the poor children he made particular
prayers, and seemed to be supplied just enough for
every day. He established in this way a "Script-
ural Knowledge Institution" as it was called, and
afterward the larger "Orphan Houses."
last establishment has been supported entirely by
free-will offerings. At some junctures there would
not be a half-penny in the hands of the matrons of
the houses, to provide the children bread. Yet
Müller would not borrow, and some providential
event, or gift, would carry him around the point,
into smoother waters. He personally applied to no
one for assistance, but it flowed in upon him, as he
asserted, and who will deny it, through the power
of prayer. He had received, up to 1858, £147,-
667, had built substantial and spacious buildings for
his Institution, and had nourished and taken care
of more than a thousand orphan children. This is
a singular tale, and I trust that no one who goes to
Bristol, whether he looks upon him as an enthusiast
or no, will forget to visit George Müller's Orphan
Houses at Ashley Down. He is a thin, black-
haired man, quiet but with flashing eyes, and in his
gestures and expressions giving the idea of great
energy. His little children, and their instructors,
in neat dresses, were present, in the plain, Quaker-
like church.
124
OLD ENGLAND.
There are twenty-nine churches in England en-
titled to be called Cathedrals. Perhaps it would
not be out of place, for the benefit of young read-
ers, to name them. They are Bangor, Bath
Priory, Bristol; Canterbury, Carlisle, Chester,
Chichester; Durham; Ely, Exeter; Gloucester;
Hereford; Lichfield, Lincoln, Llandaff; Man-
chester; Norwich; Oxford; Peterborough; Roch-
ester; Salisbury, St. Asaph, St. David, St. Paul's;
Wells, Westminster, Winchester, Worcester;
York. Of these, the Cathedral of Gloucester is
neither one of the largest or smallest. It compre-
hends the whole range of English church architect-
ure. Begun at the latter end of the 12th century,
and finished at the beginning of the 15th, it em-
braces all styles. Its nave, foundations, and crypt
are Norman, of the most solid and massive charac-
ter. The sixteen round unornamented and ponder-
ous columns of the nave are majestic. The
The repose
of eternity seems to sleep under their shadows. The
ancient Anglo-Saxon phrase of "God's house" is
here well applied. It looks unchangeable. It is a
place of rest. The stone vaulting of the ceiling is
also simple and plain, but there is much elegant
flower-work and tracery-work about the clere-story,
the windows, and the western end, which were all
later additions. This is the chief feature of
Gloucester Cathedral, that it mingles massiveness
and lightness, simplicity and richness. The central
tower, which is the most modern part of the build-
ing, is the perfection of elegance and harmony.
It
CHELTENHAM, BRISTOL, AND GLOUCESTER.
125
is like a full-blown rose on an oak stem. Its
pierced and open tabernacle work, and its fretted
clusters of graceful pinnacles, when seen at a dis-
tance, form a rich vision. And this is one benefit
of these great churches, that they afford a charac-
teristic feature to the town. They are sacred land-
marks to every one born under their shadow.
They are his "golden mile-posts" on the road to
eternity. They are hailed by him when coming
home with joy, and make his first involuntary
thought on returning, one of God. Though we are
apt, in America, to speak disparagingly of these
mighty edifices of stone, supposing that they dero-
gate from the spiritual temple, I am not disposed,
for one, to yield up too easily an early enthusiasm
for them.
Gloucester Cathedral has felt the modern move-
ment in England to restore the old churches. And
this is chiefly apparent in the complete renovation
of its noble cloisters, only they look too new and
staring. They are the most perfect in England, and
perhaps in the world. Their low-branching fan-
tracery ceiling is like travelers' descriptions of a
thickly arching, low bamboo forest in South Amer-
ica. These cloisters, formerly as now, were entirely
shut in with glass, which in ancient times was
richly painted. They were habitable places; and
were not alone used for the sober walk and solitary
musing. They were evidently employed for read-
ing and work; as the little adjoining monks' rooms,
or stalls, now testify.
126
OLD ENGLAND.
Among the monuments in the church there is
one of Duke Robert of Normandy, "Robert Curt-
hose." The effigy is carved of Irish bog-oak, and
covered with a wire net-work; its legs are crossed,
for he was one of the first Crusaders; the head
is crowned with a coronet of pearls and fleur-de-lis ;
the body wears a chain-mail suit of armor, and his
right hand grasps his sword, which still bears its
ancient coloring and gilding. It is not too much to
say that this is the likeness (if it be a likeness) of
a remarkably handsome man. The limbs are long
and gracefully turned, and they are by no means
so stalwart and big as we might suppose the build
of the strong Norman race to have been. The
features of the face are as regular as those of a
young Greek warrior. There is a mournful inter-
est attached to this monument. Robert, from
having been a stirring, bold, ambitious prince, with
a life full of adventure and fighting, was made
prisoner by his brother Henry, his eyes put out,
and for twenty-eight years he lingered in misery as
a close prisoner in Cardiff Castle, Glamorganshire.
He was the eldest son of the Conqueror.
I said that the pillars of the nave were unorna-
mented. Their capitals, however, were strung
around with meagre but curious flower and carved
work. Nothing is more varied than the Norman
capital. Its shape is usually that of a bowl trun-
cated at the sides; but its carving and ornament
are exceedingly diverse and fanciful. Sometimes
it is braided with interlacing lines of bead-work, as
CHELTENHAM, BRISTOL, AND GLOUCESTER. 127
if hung over with a net of pearls. Sometimes it is
wreathed with large-leaved flowers, or a stiff wide-
spreading vine, resembling a Corinthian capital.
At other times it is like a number of bird's-nests,
with the birds sitting in them. Then a strange
monster, or dragon-lizard, twists around the bell of
the capital. Then human faces appear, sometimes
of men holding their mouths open with their
fingers; and sometimes of female heads, or the
upper half of the figures of veiled nuns inter-
lacing their arms around the column. And I have
been much struck with the resemblance between
these human-headed capitals and the Isis-headed
pillars at Denderah, and other temples in Egypt.
Nor is the resemblance less striking between the
common tulip-capital of the Egyptians, and one
rather rare capital of the Norman architecture, ·
which is composed of a single bell-shaped cup.
All architecture came from the East; and the in-
fluence of the Byzantine style upon the Norman
is very direct.
direct. What is Norman architecture but
the ancient Byzantine-Roman, still further modified
by the gloomy and grotesque fancy of the North?
It has the ponderous masses and round lines of the
older Roman edifice. Sometimes the Norman arch
has its centre above the line of the impost, and
then curves inward below the point of springing,
making a perfect horseshoe arch, thus increasing
the resemblance to Oriental buildings. The chapel
in the White Tower in London, and the little Iffley
church near Oxford, are among the best examples
128
OLD ENGLAND.
of the peculiarities of the most ancient Norman
architecture in England. This style was intro-
duced into Britain by William the Conqueror, and
continued about one hundred and twenty-four
years, to the end of the reign of Henry III., in
1189. Then came the first true Gothic, or Early
English style.
Gloucester is beautifully placed in a broad valley
on the banks of the Severn, and has just claims to
its British name of "Caer Gloew," the "fair city."
It is a city which mingles largely in the early
history of England, and was one of the twenty-
nine principal towns of the Britons before the
Roman invasion. It was "Colonia Glevum" of
the Romans. Hengist, Athelstane, and the un-
fortunate Elgiva, wife of Edwy, are said to have
died in Gloucester. Here Edward the Confessor
lived, and the Norman kings frequently held their
court. Henry III. was crowned in the old Abbey
church, and Edward II. was buried in the Cathe-
dral. After his accession to the throne this was
the residence of Richard of Gloucester, of whom
Sir Thomas More wrote, "Richarde, the thirde
sonne of Richarde, Duke of Yorke, was in witte
and corage eqall with his two brothers, in bodye
and prowesse far under them both, little of stature,
ill fetured of limmes, croke backed, his left shoulder
much higher than his right, hard fauoured of vis-
age, and such as in states called warlye, in other
menne otherwise, he was malicious, wrathful, envi-
ous, and from afore his birth ever frowarde. It is
CHELTENHAM, BRISTOL, AND GLOUCESTER.
129
for trouth reported that he came into the world
with the feete forwarde, and also ontothed, as if
Nature chaunged her course in hys beginnynge,
whiche in the course of his lyfe monny thinges
vnnaturallye committed.” But he adds, "none
euill captaine was hee in warre.
""
Gloucester sustained a memorable siege by the
royal army commanded in person by Charles I.;
the inhabitants enduring great sufferings. It is
likewise not without its interest in the conflicts of
truth and religion. Here George Whitfield was
born and preached his first sermon; here Robert
Raikes, in 1781, began his Sunday-school enter-
prise, which vitalized the Christian church, and
brought back the primitive spirit in respect to her
fostering care of the young; and here, above all,
the good Bishop Hooper, one of the most illustrious
victims of the Marian persecution, suffered martyr-
dom near the old Minster gate, proving that he
held a
"doctrine that would abide the fire."
9
CHAPTER VIII.
WORCESTER TO DUDLEY.
For those who are traveling about England, and
are of necessity left to spend an odd hour now and
then in a railway station, there is nothing more
entertaining than to look over the books in the
ample stalls at the station-house of every consider-
able town. And there is more of interest and
point to this, from the fact that one house in Lon-
don (W. H. Smith & Son) supplies all the rail-
ways in the kingdom, with the exception of a
single line. One gets, therefore, a pretty good
idea of the books that are read by the traveling
community; and this, after all, represents the
more intelligent class. Thus we may approximate
to a tolerably correct judgment of what is the
living modern literature of England. Of course
we do not expect to see the books of the highest
scientific character at the railway stands, though
even this is not impossible; but we find there the
books that are read, that seize the popular mind
and heart. One finds in these stalls books that
glow with the fresh life of genius, whether they
be new or old. Translations of the Iliad I have
Robinson Crusoe everywhere
frequently seen.
"
WORCESTER TO DUDLEY.
131
displays his peaked cap. Macaulay's Lays and Es-
says are more common than his Histories. Kings-
ley's vigorous productions abound. Tennyson's
poems are rarely wanting. Such books as Hugh
Miller's "Testimony of the Rocks," and Liebig's
Chemistry, and works upon scientific agriculture,
are generally to be found.
It is surprising how many female authors supply
this every-day literary food to the traveler. The
works of Charlotte Brontë, Mrs. Browning, Mrs.
Stowe, Mrs. Gaskell, Miss Yonge, Miss Mulock,
and above all the authoress of "Adam Bede,'
occupy the prominent places on the crowded
shelves a delicate index this, of the high and
true character of English civilization. In few
other countries are women suffered to instruct or
give the moral tone to society. The writings of a
George Sand, or a Bettina von Arnim, are read,
it is true, in France and Germany, for their ex-
citing and novel spicery, but they give no perma-
nent nourishment to the thought or life of the
nation. It is gratifying, also, to see how many
American books pass daily through the hands and
minds of the English public. When I was in
England, besides Mrs. Stowe's writings, which
appear at all book-stalls and shops, Hawthorne's
stories, Irving's and Cooper's works, Arthur
Coxe's poems, H. W. Beecher's "Life-Thoughts,"
Dr. Holmes's works, Prime's book on the East,
Motley's and Prescott's histories, but, above and
beyond all, Longfellow's poems, were the famil-
132
OLD ENGLAND.
iar hand-books of every reading person. An Eng
lish gentleman told me that Longfellow was even
more generally read in England than Tennyson.
I could almost believe him, for I have frequently
met cultured persons who could quote Longfellow
freely. He is really, as De Quincey says, "pub-
lished” in England. He has struck that happy
middle chord of sentiment and fancy that vibrates
in the English heart averse to high excitement and
pure idealism. Wordsworth was metaphysical, and
gathered the select circle about him. Tennyson
is, perhaps, too subjective for the present money-
making age. He is not yet altogether understood.
Longfellow plays upon the familiar, pathetic harp,
that hangs by the fireside, that breathes of com-
mon duties, home affections, pure thoughts, and
ennobling fancies; that just touches the imagina-
tion and fires it, without tasking thought.
แ Who ne'er his bread in sorrow ate,
Who ne'er the mournful midnight hours
Weeping upon his bed has sate,
He knows you not, ye heavenly powers!"
Even to such a translated verse Longfellow has
given his inimitable grace and music, and one likes
to be crooning and singing it over to himself. It
eases the heart of annoyances and pain, and does
one good.
Worcester comes next in our course of travel
north. Its imposing cathedral is nearly of the same
magnitude, and has much the same character, as
Gloucester Cathedral. Like that edifice, its crypt
WORCESTER TO DUDLEY.
133
and nave were Norman, and it has no western tur-
rets, but its central tower, with rich open parapet
and octangular turrets, is the very flower and per-
fection of the later style. The choir is Early Eng-
lish, with highly carved canopied stalls, and won-
derfully bold flower-work. Those old artists seemed
to have brought basketfuls of all the flowers of the
field into the church, and flung them over the
walls.
As the Early English may be called the second
style of architecture to be found in England, we
will say a word about it. This style gradually suc-
ceeded the Norman, and prevailed from the begin-
ning of the reign of Richard I. in 1189, to the end
of the reign of Henry III. in 1272, a period of about
one hundred years. We may date the time of tran-
sition from the chivalrous epoch of the first cru-
sade, when the troubadour and ballad poetry arose,
and new-born ideas of freedom and beauty seemed
to be struggling with the old force and tyranny.
The simple characteristic of this style is the pointed
arch, long and narrow at first like the head of a
knight's lance, and then expanding into the great
windows, such as those at York Minster, which,
filled with painted glass, have such a glorious effect.
Still the round lines of the Norman architecture
were retained in many particulars, in the trefoil
and quatre-foil heading of doors and windows, and
in the large circular windows, like those at Lincoln
and Peterborough. We can even see how the
pointed arch grew from the accidental intersections
134
OLD ENGLAND.
To
of round arches with each other, making pointed
arches of the intermediate spaces. The pointed
arch lifted the building from its heaviness and
earthiness. It heightened the ceiling, and as a nat-
ural development, it sprung toward heaven as far
as it could carry upward its lines in the slenderly
pointed spire. We find perhaps the most perfect
instance of the Early English style, from end to
end, from foundation stone to the summit of the
exquisite spire, in the Salisbury Cathedral.
support this greater height, this mighty upspringing
mass, wide and prominent buttresses were added,
which in the compact Norman architecture were
usually but small round projections from the wall
itself. These flying buttresses with their double.
stories of arches and their pinnacled tops, form a
new and bold feature. In the original contract for
the building of Fotheringay Church, it is written :
“And aither of the said Isles shal have six mighty
Botrasse of Fre stone, clen hewyn; and every Bot-
rasse fynisht with a fynial." A very characteristic
ornament of the Early English style is the "tooth-
ornament,” taking the place of the Norman zigzag
moulding around the arches of the windows and
doors. It is as much like a necklace of shark's
teeth that the Pacific Islanders wear, as any thing.
But all kinds of rich and delicate decoration begin
to appear in the later period of this style. Profuse
flower-work is seen in the garlanded heads of pil-
lars, and the budding tips of corbels. Every thing
ended in a flower. There was far more of grace
WORCESTER TO DUDLEY.
135
and delicacy, and yet hardly less of strength, than
in the Norman style. The vaultings of the roof at
their lines of intersection were ribbed; and cross-
springing and transverse ribs were introduced, thus
weaving a rich tracery over the plain Anglo-Nor-
man ceiling, though it was just as massive stone-
work as before. And while the columns and piers
were as mighty and ponderous, yet the rounds and
hollows into which they were cut gave them a more
elaborate and elegant character. So that the
Early English style has been judged by some to be
the perfection of English architecture, because it
retained the strength and simplicity of the Norman
united with most of what was truly ornate and
beautiful in the later styles. But these old churches
were so long in building that we find examples of
all the ages of architecture in their various portions,
and a practiced eye will take them apart and read
their history at a glance. From a little moulding,
or hidden newel, the age of the hand that reared
the tall tower might be known. For an educated
American youth to have no knowledge at all of
architecture, this would deprive him of a species of
sharpened culture that is not dreamy or vague, but
is as scientific and harmonious as the laws of music.
It requires study, and taxes the analytic powers.
Such a youth would not be fitted to visit Westmin-
ster Abbey, and to tread the solemn and storied
temples of Old England. Let him defer his voyage
a year, until he knows the difference between a
tower and a spire, a groin and a gable. Besides,
136
OLD ENGLAND.
there is nothing finer in the architecture of the
world than the English Cathedrals.
In Worcester Cathedral is the tomb of King
John. Some sixty years ago the tomb was opened,
and the dress was found to be precisely similar to
that represented upon the monument. His statue,
which was probably a portrait, looks better than his
portrait as it stands in history. The point of his
sword is held in the mouth of a crocodile with a
lion's body, denoting strength and cunning. The
strong old Bishop of Worcester, St. Wulstan, who,
tradition says, struck his silver crosier into the rock
so that no one but himself could draw it out, is also
buried here. Here too is the monument of Stilling-
fleet, who was Bishop of Worcester, appointed by
William III. It is interesting to happen upon the
discovery of the spot where a great man lived and
died, for one easily forgets these local particulars in
recalling the work that he did and the ideas he
originated. Stillingfleet did no small work for the
cause of rational Christianity and a true Christian
philosophy.
From Worcester I took the regular coach to
Great Malvern, which stands upon the slope of the
hills that rise gracefully from the plains to the
height of 1300 feet, and extend in a long ridge run-
ning from north to south. The crest of the green
hill just above the town is grand from its height and
steepness. Until late in the evening I saw the
moving of small white figures upon the dark back-
ground of the sky; they were indefatigable English
WORCESTER TO DUDLEY.
137
see.
ladies, who will walk and climb as long as they can.
These hills are a favorite roaming ground for
all who visit Malvern, lifted up into the pure cool
atmosphere, yielding magnificent prospects, and
sprinkled with brilliant and hardy flowers. I spent
the next day in driving about the hills to Little
Malvern, West Malvern, and Malvern Wells. The
way lay through a laurel-fringed road opening con-
tinually upon a wide panorama below, stretching
away over the vale of the Severn and the flat green
plain of Worcester and Warwick, like an immense
prairie. Macaulay sings,
Till twelve fair counties saw the blaze
On Malvern's lonely height."
We passed Camp Hill, cut into military terraces by
the old Romans for one of their strong mountain
citadels, when they held a half-conquered country
by main force. I may be wrong in saying this, for
it may be remembered that when the northern
tribes began to threaten and harass the British, the
last sent a petition to Rome called "the groans of
the Britons," showing a thoroughly crushed and
discouraged people, and one that had become en-
tirely dependent upon their conquerors for protec-
tion. I saw on both sides of the Malvern Hills the
entrance to the Tunnel which runs through them
for a mile and a half, and which is not yet com-
pleted. It promises to be as arduous an undertak-
ing as the "Hoosac Tunnel," but English pluck
and capital will carry it through, as Yankee energy
will doubtless do what it undertakes. The sheep
138
OLD ENGLAND.
were nestling beneath the banks in little hollows in
the dirt, to protect themselves from the heat. They
run almost wild over the hills, and in winter sustain
themselves upon the clumps of "gorse" which they
dig out from the snow. They do not wander far
from the spot where they are first turned out and
fed. Brown thrushes and yellow humbers were
plentiful.
In the distance, upon the Hereford side of the
Malvern Hills, rose the monument or pillar of the
Somers family. This is one of those proud memo-
rials, the one responding to the other over hill and
vale, which remind us of the well-known fact that
England is divided up chiefly among twenty or
thirty great families. The Marquis of Bute, who
not many years since attained his majority, has im-
mense estates in nine counties of Great Britain.
These rich and powerful families give the law to
every thing. All is cut to this large pattern, and
the tendency is and will be, until a great change
comes, for landed property to be more and more
consolidated in the hands of a few. The land ap-
pears to one like a great temple, around which the
"Dii majores" and the "Dii minores" sit, and
shed down upon the common people influences in
some respects perhaps benign, but certainly not al-
together so. Among some useful virtues of order
and reverence that may be engendered by this sys-
tem, it would be extraordinary if the vices of mer-
cenariness and servility were not also bred by it.
"Your Honor this," and "Your Honor that," sig-
WORCESTER TO DUDLEY.
139
nify
""
"act the lord now by your humble servant,
"do the generous thing." None are more willing
to confess this than intelligent Englishmen them-
selves. The class of people who are the immediate
dependants of the great are the most injuriously
affected. They catch a faint reflection of the
higher polish with which they come in daily con-
tact, and this serves to separate them from people
of their own station, which in turn drives them
back into a closer and more slavishly humiliating
dependence upon the higher class. It would re-
quire singular virtue for such a class to retain any
nobility of character. The insular position and con-
fined spaces of the kingdom tend to fix and stratify
these distinctions of society, and do not permit
classes to come nearer together. The old Danish
distinction of the people into "eorls" (earls) and
"ceorls" (churls) exists still in English society.
The fact however, that some have derided, of so
many of the English peerages having had a com-
mercial origin, as the modern Earls of Northumber-
land and Warwick, and the older houses of Dart-
mouth, Pomfret, Leeds, Ducie, and Ward, is on
the whole a fact that speaks better for the aris-
tocracy than many others that might be named.
Even the rigid old law of primogeniture is not so
rigid as I for one had supposed. Justice Sir John
Barnard Byles, now of the Court of Common Pleas,
stated to a friend of mine in conversation that the
entail of all the entailed estates in England could
be cut off, when the eldest son coming of age con-
140
OLD ENGLAND.
sented, excepting in four cases. These four were
estates conferred and made hereditary by act of
Parliament, and the entail could be cut off only by
Parliament. They were the estates of the Duke
of Wellington, Duke of Marlborough, Earl of
Shrewsbury, and Earl of Arundel. It is quite pos-
sible that one or more of these may have derived
their estates from some other source, the main point
being that the entailment is permanent. The Jus-
tice furthermore stated that no property could be
entailed for any period longer than a life or lives in
being and twenty-one years. He illustrated this by
the case of the Duke of Buckingham, who got so
heavily in debt that his personal property could not
pay his debts. His eldest son, heir to the title and
estates, the Marquis of Chandos, being of age,
joined with his father and cut off the entail, thus
giving up the property to satisfy the creditors. He
said the Duke was at that time living in lodgings
in London, too poor to keep a servant. The Duch-
ess was living at Hampton Court in apartments
granted by the Queen without charge. The Mar-
quis of Chandos was held in great respect, and on
the death of his father would doubtless become a
peer of the realm.
England is a country which moves onward,
though in its own way; and the majority of Eng-
lishmen believe with Lord Bacon that political
changes, like those of Nature, should be gradual.
Sooner or later, however, they must come.
WORCESTER TO DUDLEY.
141
"When Reason's voice,
Loud as the voice of Nature, shall have waked
The nations; and mankind perceive that vice
Is discord, war, and misery; - that virtue
Is peace, and happiness, and harmony;
When man's maturer nature shall disdain
The playthings of his childhood."
But we cannot judge England by America.
There is a painful and ponderous sense of form in
the English mind that we cannot comprehend.
There is often real freedom where there seems to
be but servile routine. A newly created constitu-
tion built upon abstract principles and cut off from
the Past, however perfect, would not work well for
England, or at least all at once. A "Code Napo-
leon" would be out of place. Something like it, I
believe, is being now attempted in England in the
reform and codification of statute law; but the vast
confusion and overturn it would necessarily intro-
duce, were it carried out suddenly and thoroughly,
will probably prevent a transformation of the pres-
ent English Constitution into any thing like a
purely philosophical system.
Would that in America we could see our real
advantage over England, and not those factitious
advantages concerning which we are sometimes in-
clined to glorify ourselves. The principle of self-
government is a higher principle than that of loyalty
to the best sovereign, genuine as that principle may
be; for it is fidelity to the highest good of all, and
to virtue, intelligence, and God. He who shares
in the government gains in moral dignity. His
142
OLD ENGLAND.
manhood is developed by responsibility. He loves
and will maintain a government in which his own
will and intelligent choice are involved. He will
feel that upon his single arm, his single voice, his
single life, hangs the preservation of the govern-
ment and the national freedom. This is the Amer-
ican feeling. It burns in every true American
breast. It gives us an incalculable advantage over
aristocratic nations such as England, but it is a
perilous superiority. We have cut away from a
vast deal that is useless, and worse than useless,
and we have a free field before us, if we can but
stand fast in this liberty, and not be again entan-
gled in the bondage of Old World political ideas,
and of our own low passions for power and wealth.
Man is free in America to develop himself if he
can govern himself. This is the difficult but glori-
ous problem before us to work out. Let us be
humbler and more watchful, for we carry the
world's higher destiny with us over the trembling
road that leads to the universal freedom of the race.
That with all our faults and imperfections we have
in the main succeeded thus far in the maintenance
of the principle of popular sovereignty, the people
of the Old World cannot deny. Many have been
magnanimous enough to confess it, as have such no-
ble minds as Jeffrey, and Macaulay, and such true
men as Goldwin Smith, Richard Cobden, John
Bright, and Thomas Hughes. What great praise
was that which was freely accorded to our country,
by an English newspaper, in connection with the
1
WORCESTER TO DUDLEY.
143
Prince of Wales' visit: "He has seen a nation of
soldiers without an army; civil order without a
police; wealth, luxury, and culture without a court
or an aristocracy. He has learned to mingle with
the busy crowd of men without the intervention of
chamberlains and courtiers; he has found respect.
without ceremony, and honor without adulation."
England is the only truly free country of the
Old World, and the Englishman is a free man;
but our glory is, that humanity itself, one and indi-
visible, may rise to a higher plane with us than in
England. In England the son treads precisely in
the footsteps of his fathers, and it is hard for a man
(though there have been a few marked exceptions
to this) to rise above the dead level of the class of
-in which he was
society — it may be the lowest
born. There is an oppressive weight resting on
the spirit of the lower classes, and a volcanic heav-
ing beneath this mass of ancient tyrannic opinion.
If the English government had spent as much for
the education of the people, as it has to sustain the
Poor Laws, there would have been a different state
of things now in England; but so long as the abso-
lute caste-system prevails to such an unnatural and
irrational extent, the government will feel no sincere
desire to educate the people above their present
condition. Here then is our undeniable ground of
superiority. And yet we seem to be ever on the
point of casting away this inestimable practical ad-
vantage, and of allowing the really vulgar idea of
material luxury to overcome and overwhelm the
144
OLD ENGLAND.
higher and nobler good. But let us leave such
high themes on this gentle summer's day! The
wild thyme of the hills smells too sweet for contro-
versy.
We come now to a different region from the
green and fragrant Malvern Hills. Dudley, where
I happened to be detained for some two or three
hours, is one of the reeking mouths of the great
Stafford coal-pit. I walked up the long, dirty,
paved hill, to see the ruins of Dudley Castle. Ruins
they were indeed, not smoothed over, and cherished
and sentimentalized upon, but left pretty much to
time, decay, and filthiness. Yet there was some-
thing rather grand in the grim old keep, that looked
down in majestic scorn on a hundred modern man-
ufactories. Lady Jane Grey, whose death the
world mourned, probably lived here for a while.
The castle belonged to an ambitious, bad, and plot-
ting race, of which Robert Dudley, Earl of Leices-
ter, was one; and which in the person of John
Dudley, Duke of Northumberland, grew all-power-
ful. Protector, but as history more than hints,
murderer, of Edward VI., and the tempter of Lady
Jane Grey, he undoubtedly aspired to absolute
power. Now his very home, and seat of power,
which he also obtained by treachery, is one of the
least cared-for wrecks in the land. Its stones are
defiled, its trees are cut down, its broad lands are
turned into scorched coal-fields and places for flam-
ing blast-furnaces. It is singular to look down
from the walls of this feudal castle, over a region
WORCESTER TO DUDLEY.
145
like the plain of Shinar, as far as the eye can reach,
glimmering with fires, and its smoke ascending
continually to heaven. The town of Dudley itself
is hardly less smutchy and comfortless than the
castle. A savage-featured, reckless set of dirty
men and women hung about the little station-house,
which was in the neighborhood of a large mine
three hundred yards deep. A brutal "mill" be-
tween an obese gray-haired man and a powerful
middle-aged man, came off upon the platform of
the station-house. I helped to raise the old man
who fell on his back like a bag of sand, and appar-
ently as lifeless. The affair seemed to be a matter
of course, and I need not have interfered. These
men have a lawless code of laws among themselves,
and fighting is a daily business, a way of settling
pretty much every thing. The word is followed
by the blow. Life is not valued too highly. If a
man is killed by a fall of coal, or by being crushed
in the shafts, there is a kind of "wake," which is
rather a merry-making than a funeral. The col-
liers make a great deal of money, and spend it as
quickly in carousing. The proportion of crime in
the mining counties is lamentably the greatest.
Some faint attempts at reformatory and missionary
operations in this vicinity have been thus far of
little avail. It requires the courage and self-devo-
tion of a Wesley, to go among this people. They
differ entirely from the Cornish miners, and a part
of this is owing to the noble efforts of Wesley him-
self amid the rocks and pits of Land's End. In-
10
146
OLD ENGLAND.
stead of quarreling about white surplices and purple
chasubles, what a noble field of Christian warfare
is here! Some George Müller, or Miss Marsh, or
Florence Nightingale, will doubtless come down
like an angel and stir this black pool. But here
lies the material strength of England. "Deep in
unfathomable mines" God has here garnered up
her physical resources. If there be a correspond-
ing depth of trust in His work and Word in spirit-
ual things, England may yet stand some cycles
more against the world. England has not had the
fatal gifts of gold and silver, but she has had the
better gifts whereby she may get gold and silver,
and all that they stand for, and at the same time
draw out her own skill and force.
After other geologic ages which had their impor-
tant place in the foundations of the world, and of
this favored corner-stone of it, there was an untold
period when England, rising above the waters in a
number of scattered islands, was one great forest of
fern and coniferous trees. They grew upon the
earth of the carboniferous limestone. The imagi-
nation of Hugh Miller could only begin to faintly
conceive of the stupendous richness of this vegeta-
tion. It has been reckoned that "122,400 years
were necessary for the accumulation of sixty feet
of coal." God only knows what ages it must have
required to hide away in so quiet a bed that the
most delicately rayed palm leaf is not broken, such
abysmal layers of coal deposite. The beds of coal
in South Wales are reckoned to be 12,000 feet in
WORCESTER TO DUDLEY.
147
thickness. We are reminded of a characteristic
answer of one of the vigorous-witted Beecher fam-
ily, when asked if there were enough coal in the
prairie country of the West to supply the wants of
those woodless regions: "Enough to warm the
world while it lasted, and to burn it up when it
was done."
It is true that nice calculations are
made as to the probable giving out of the coal
wealth of England; but practical miners, I am
told, do not generally agree with the theories that
assign such very brief limits of two hundred, or
even one hundred years, to the coal resources of
England. There are such great and unexpected
variations in the area and thickness of seams, that
there is no absolute judging of the amount or the
direction of the coal deposite in a given locality.
The coal limits are, it is true, externally mapped
and accurately defined, but internally they are not
and cannot be. It is answered that though there
may be coal enough stored away in the bosom of
the earth, yet on account of increased heat, venti-
lation and expense of machinery, it is impracticable
to work it at such immense depths. But there are
now shafts twenty-one hundred feet deep, or nearly
half a mile, up which the coal is easily raised.
This is done by means of engines of enormous
power with wheels of thirty feet in diameter, that
bring up the coal from that depth in a minute of
time, each revolution raising it ninety feet. At
the Merton Colliery near Durham, there was,
during the sinking of the mine, I am told, a sud-
148
OLD ENGLAND.
den obstruction to the works from a great flow of
water. Shaft after shaft was sunk, until nine
powerful engines were in operation, pumping
up the incredible amount of fourteen millions of
gallons of water, or seventy-two thousand tons,
in twenty-four hours, from a depth of 450 feet!
In this way a subterranean lake of water and
quicksand was drained. Here surely was energy.
We argue that so long as coal is to be found, it
can be got at by that Anglo-Saxon hardihood and
ingenuity which already mines for it under the sea,
and under other geological strata. And if the coal
should fail, this is not, I believe, the end of Eng-
land. This race will find out and utilize some
other force of Nature. There are coal substitutes
now discovered, which need but the development
and application of science to make them available
in a hundred practical ways. If a spark of elec-
tricity sends a message from shore to shore of the
Atlantic, what limitless power resides in this agent
alone! While I rejoice that God has given us un-
limited coal resources, I am not disposed to exult
with some in the fact that the period of England's
greatness is drawing to a culmination, simply be-
cause of the probable or supposed failure of her coal
crop. She may have to husband and economize her
coal somewhat more carefully in future, but coal is
no more king than cotton. This is quite the tend-
ency of much of the reasoning at the present time,
which gives no place to higher spiritual forces.
I do not believe that a nation's greatness resides
WORCESTER TO DUDLEY.
149
in her material resources, but in her will, faith,
intelligence, and moral forces. Civilization rests
upon deeper principles than the earth's soil or pro-
ductions. The same race, on the rocks of New
England, where granite and ice are the chief
crops, became powerful without coal. Mr. Glad-
stone himself may get frightened (or may feign to
be) by the prospect of the coal giving out, and
declare that the debt of England will never be
paid if such an event should occur, but he would
be the last man to confess that the English nation
would give out with her coal. Why should we
wish England's power to decline? Is it from a
jealous sense of rivalry? That is a sentiment un-
worthy a great nation. Is it because England is
our enemy and is working us injury? England
has done us wrong, deep wrong, but there are in-
finitely more points of affiliation at this moment
between America and England, than between
America and France, or America and Russia.
America is working more change upon England
than England upon America. The same blood,
faith, ideas, and literature, constitute a unity in
nature and spirit, that no external or accidental
relations can ever create between us and other
foreign nations:—
Το ξυγγενές τοι δεινὸν ἥ θ' ὁμιλία.
I profess no special love of England, and have
felt as deeply as any one the sense of her blind
and selfish injustice toward our country in the
150
OLD ENGLAND.
late war, but I have never lost sight of the prin-
ciple that the two nations were essentially one,
that they should acknowledge this unity, that they
will do so in the final struggle between free and
despotic principles, and that for the sake of hu-
manity they should learn to know and love each
other better than they do. Lord Derby has truly
said, that “no other earthly event would conduce
so much to the future of civilization as the union
of these two countries." I believe this. And I
believe also that both countries have in them
greater sources of peril to their prosperity than the
possible failure of their coal or cotton crops. Eng-
land will perish if she rests on her material re-
sources for her greatness, and so will America.
But to return to the Staffordshire coal region.
Birmingham, the home of Watt, is a busy child
of the Severn coal basin, and is almost within sight
from the walls of Dudley Castle. She stretches
her black hands to Manchester, who shouts over to
Leeds, who sends on to grimy Newcastle the cry
of "Coal! Commerce! and Chartered Rights!"
The chief amount of coal deposite thus far found
in England is, if I mistake not, in the Newcastle
and Durham coal-fields, from the Aln to the Tees.
There is also an immense coal basin in Yorkshire,
in the West Riding, south of Leeds and Bradford,
extending to Nottingham. There is an equally
important coal region in Glamorganshire, in South
Wales. In Cumberland and Lancaster Counties
are likewise vast fields. And in many of the
WORCESTER TO DUDLEY.
151
midland counties coal is found in great and ap-
parently exhaustless quantities. But while enu-
merating the coal riches of England, the poor col-
lier himself, driving his dismal work down under
the ruins of a former world, exposed to per-
petual peril from mephitic vapors and crumbling
walls, dangling upon a slender rope, or crawling
up shafts like interminable chimneys, upon ladders.
that will rot, should not be forgotten. There is
stout manhood under his dirt-crusted brutality.
He says he "wins" the coal. He does indeed win
it. He never descends into the coal-pit but with
the chances immensely augmented that he will
never see another sun. It is computed that fifteen
hundred lives are annually lost in England by acci-
dents in coal mines. The most dreadful of these
enemies is the "fire-damp," whose chief ingredient
is carburetted hydrogen, which, with a certain
mixture of common air, becomes explosive. In
mines where the ventilation is imperfect, a single
act of carelessness will fill miles upon miles of sub-
terranean chambers with a streaming blaze of fire,
sometimes rising to the surface and bursting out of
the shafts with the roar and violence of a volcano.
And the poor miners, it is said, will carry their
pipes, though forbidden, into the long and distant
reaches of the mine- whence this continual danger.
When we sit down before a genial winter fire, let
us think of those bold hearts who have 66 ' won
the coal for us.
""
CHAPTER IX.
LICHFIELD TO MATLOCK.
A MORE tranquil, sleepy, and yet high-feeling
old ecclesiastical town than Lichfield, in the green
and pleasant valley of South Offlow Hundred, can
hardly be found. It is proud of its Cathedral, of
its siege, of its Tory renown, of its memories of
Dr. Johnson, of its relationship to the illustrious
families of Anson and Anglesey. Lichfield is a
genuine example of an unchanged English town
of some six or seven thousand inhabitants, with its
walled "Close," its "Minster Pool," its "Butcher
Row," its "Three Crowns Inn," its "King Ed-
ward's Grammar-School," all as in the former
days.
The Hotel bore evidences of considerable past
splendor. The mahogany furniture, black and
polished, was majestically carved and stately. The
principal staircase had white marble steps, though
they were worn into hollows in the middle. And
there was a long ball-room up-stairs, with old-
fashioned mirrors and a gorgeous chandelier. The
names of the streets, St. John Street, Bird Street,
Frog Street, Gore Street, Wade Street, etc., are
unmodernized. One road out of the town leads to
Tamworth, and to Ashby-de-la-Zouch some eight
LICHFIELD TO MATLOCK.
153
miles distant, the scene of Ivanhoe's achievement.
Drayton Manor, the seat of Sir Robert Peel, "the
member from Tamworth," is seven miles from
Lichfield. Tamworth Castle, now belonging to
the Townshend family, is a very old Norman
structure built by Robert Marmion.
They hailed him Lord Marmion;
They hailed him Lord of Fontenaye,
Of Lutterward, and Scrivelbaye,
Of Tamworth tower and town."
Five miles from Lichfield is venerable Wichnor
Park, which was formerly held by the tenure of
its possessor being obliged to furnish an annual
flitch of bacon to every married pair "who, after
being married a year and a day, should make oath
that they had never quarreled!" This custom has
been revived, and there have not been wanting
honest candidates for this amiable prize. Thus
every thing in and about Lichfield leads to the
past, and makes a pleasing and restful contrast
from the surrounding workshop and coal-bin of
Staffordshire.
In front of the Bishop's Palace, on the north
side of the Cathedral, is a shaded avenue called
"The Dean's Walk," and is said to have been a
favorite resort of Major André. This looks down
upon the lovely pastoral vale of Stow, and the
traditionary spot where the early martyrs were
slain, called "The Field of Dead Bodies," which
gave the name to Lichfield, or Litchfield, as it is
sometimes written, and which signifies field of the
154
OLD ENGLAND.
dead.
The arms of Lichfield is a shield covered
with the representation of piteously hacked limbs,
mixed with axes and knives.
"Lichfield should be a field of good,
For it was watered with holy blude."
In the rural valley of Stow Mr. Day lived, the
author of "Sandford and Merton." With ten
thousand others who have been boys once, I
should like to assist in erecting a monument to
him and Defoe conjointly, in some secluded and
beautiful spot in the middle of green England, to
be given and consecrated to the "Joy of Boys."
Forever blessed be the memory of men who have
done something to make youth "frisch, frei,
frölich, fromm.”
On the little path that leads down into Stow.
Valley, stands an off-shoot of Dr. Johnson's willow-
tree. The original one in which he took a great
interest was blown down about forty years ago.
Passing along " Butcher's Row" toward the mar-
ket-place where is Dr. Johnson's statue, is the spot
where Lord Brooke was killed by a shot fired by a
deaf and dumb man from the battlements of the
Cathedral. The monument of the Doctor fronts
the house where he was born and lived. I found
two big-limbed young countrymen intently gazing
at it, and after a long pause one of them asked the
other,
“Who war the mon?" The other an-
swered, "I'se forgot, but he war some gret mon."
It is a clumsy affair, but perhaps good enough
to answer every purpose. There is a colossal sit-
LICHFIELD TO MATLOCK.
155
ting figure, with plenty of books around, if indeed
the "gret mon" is not sitting on a pile of them.
The relievos of the pedestal represent the good,
brave Englishman in his youth, one of them as a
boy chaired by his schoolfellows; another of him
listening to Dr. Sachervell's preaching, mounted
on his father's shoulders; and another of him
standing bareheaded in the rain at Uttoxeter, to do
penance for youthful disrespect to his father.
""
The house where he lived in his youth, on the
west side of the market-place, is a neat, three-sto-
ried, excellent brick dwelling. Instead of M.
Johnson, which was formerly written upon it, it
has now a sign in large letters, "Clarke — draper.
The next door to it is the "Three Crowns Inn
where Dr. Johnson and Boswell put up, and where
the autocrat of the bar-room told Boswell, who was
disparaging the respectable quietness of Lichfield,
"Sir, we are a city of philosophers, we work with
our heads, and make the boobies of Birmingham
work for us with their hands."
The Grammar-School where Johnson, and Ad-
dison (who was the son of the Dean of Lichfield),
and Garrick went to school, had fallen into decay,
but has been recently repaired, and indeed rebuilt,
preserving its ancient Elizabethan character. The
little shops that one sees going down quiet St. John
Street to visit it, reminded me of Hawthorne's de-
scription of the "Cent store " in the "Scarlet Let-
ter," and of such little magazines of respectable and
uncomplaining poverty as even now may be seen
in some of our oldest New England towns.
156
OLD ENGLAND.
My first visit to the Cathedral was immediately
on arriving in the evening. I walked by the long,
tranquil "Pool" in the heart of the town, which
reflects each object and building around in its
smooth mirror, giving a reposeful look to the whole
place. I turned down the neatly paved and al-
most solitary lane, that led to the Cathedral inclos-
ure, and was delighted with its west front, simple
in form, yet enriched with elaborate lines and
ornament, and carrying the eye upward in its soar-
ing towers and spires.
The good verger's wife let me go in and walk
around as an especial favor, at this late hour. Ev-
ery one who has a taste for such things should see
one of these old cathedrals at this moment, just
when evening is fading into night. The yellow
moon shone in the lofty painted windows on one side,
and the last crimson light of day struck the upper
windows on the opposite side. Parts of the vast ed-
ifice were already lost in darkness, and while some
of the round pillars and foliated capitals stood out full
in light, others were hardly seen, as in the depths
of a forest, and masses of black shadow like giant
hands crossed the pavement. The silent figures
of martyrs, saints, and heroes stretched on their
tombs, lay around. The activities of this life were
over with them forever. It was a place where the
ages had come, and bowed down and confessed
their sins and need of God. Here rich and poor
had knelt together. What were our shadowy
earthly life and its restless ambitions, compared
LICHFIELD TO MATLOCK.
157.
with these holy and eternal associations of "God's
house." In such places, the old Catholic hymn
seems to have a truth in it:
"O! tua palatia
Quanto decet sanctitas!
O! tua sacraria
Quanto decet pietas,
Deus formidabilis!
"Quis profanis pedibus
Audeat accedere?
Quis pollutis vocibus
Hymnos tibi canere?
Hospes, O terribilis!"
The danger is, that the worshiper will be satisfied
with the lower beauty, and the temple will stand
in place of Him to whom it is consecrated. The
desire also to restore the perfect church, even to its
smallest seat and wash-basin, naturally draws along
with it the wish and intention to reinstate in its old
place the ancient ceremonial, the entire Catholic
service; and it were perhaps well on this account
not to continue to call these "Cathedral" churches,
or not to give them any distinction above other
houses of worship, for they are after all but stone
and mortar. They had better be burned down by
a madman, as York Minster came so near being, or
left to tumble into the sea, as Kilnsea Church did,
rather than draw men's thoughts from the true
building and worship of God.
I spoke of the west front of the Cathedral. It
is a pyramidal gable, supported on the sides by two
towers and hexagonal-banded spires, with a large
158
OLD ENGLAND.
decorated window in the centre, and the whole
face lined with rich canopied arcades. The door is
deeply recessed, and almost as sumptuously and
curiously wrought as the entrance of a Moorish
mosque in Spain. Figures of the evangelists stand
around the cavernous portal, in niches under frost-
work tabernacles. Luxuriant iron scrolls run like
vine branches over the doors. The middle spire,
258 feet high, built in the place of one which fell
in the siege, is six-sided, and incomparable for
lightness and elegance. These three magnificent
spires rise from the bosom of the town like three
tall tapering pine-trees, that shoot up to heaven far
above the rest of the low forest by which they are
surrounded, and bear the thoughts up with them
into a higher and purer region. The church is
terminated by a rich hectagonal Lady Chapel,
whose interior, with its central shaft, is still more
delicate and elaborate. The heightened ornament-
ation, the free and flowing carved foliage, the di-
verging net-work of the groined roof, the trefoiled
arches, the clustered pillars, the exquisitely finished
Lady Chapel, belong chiefly to the epoch of the
Decorated style; and happening thus naturally in
the order of our journeying, I would give a glance
at this third description of English architecture,
which followed the Early English, and prevailed
about 100 years from the reign of Edward I. in
1272, to the end of the reign of Edward III. in
1377. It may be called the style of the first three
Edwards.
LICHFIELD TO MATLOCK.
159
The name of this style, "Decorated," suffi-
ciently describes it. It is the former style or styles
covered with a freer, bolder, and more flowing or-
nament, all parts being modified by this graceful
idea. As yet it begins to show but few signs of
decay or weakness. Ornament is not generally
the end, but the means of a richer and heightened
effect. Two characters of lines are seen in the
forms of its windows, doors, arches, mouldings,
etc.; these are the geometric and the flowing lines.
The first might be cut with the playful turning of
a pair of compasses into semicircles, circles, ellipses,
trefoils, quatrefoils, cinquefoils, etc.; the last are
composed of wavy and flowing lines, and especially
of what is called the "ogee," a combination formed
by the meeting of a round and a hollow, a concave
and a convex. The " ogee-arch is one whose
two sides are composed of two contrasted curves.
There is a greater drawing out and more striking
pronunciation of all lines, the hollows being deeper,
the rounds longer. There are very irregular com-
binations, bold clusterings of things great and
small, round and sharp. The flower-work is no
longer a stiff thorn-bush foliage, but vine-like, run-
ning and flame-pointed, wreathing over and smoth-
ering every capital, and flowing along every
groined arch, in tropical profusion. The bare,
plain shaft of the Norman, or Early English,
seems, like Aaron's rod, to have budded. In the
earlier times of this style, an ornament called "dia-
per work" frequently occurs. One may see fine
""
160
OLD ENGLAND.
specimens of it in the side-screen of Lincoln Cathe-
dral, and upon the monument of William de Va-
lence, in Westminster Abbey. It is a four-leaved
flower cut in stone, and inclosed in a little square;
and multitudes of these squares are brought close
together, producing a singularly rich effect. The
lines and tracery of windows are especially elegant,
satisfying the eye with every idea of luxuriant
beauty. The exquisite chapel of Merton College,
Oxford, affords throughout a splendid though
rather diminutive example of this period. The
windows of the Decorated style are large, com-
posed of two, three, or more lights. The east-
ern windows of Lichfield Cathedral are noble in-
stances of the general splendor and delicate tracery
of this style. The smallest corbel or finial is highly
carved, and drops in a bunch of grapes, or a hand-
ful of flowers. Some of the finials and crosses of
Winchester Cathedral belonging to this epoch are
hardly describable, so richly woven over are they
in shooting leaves and blossoms; they might have
stood out neglected in some Italian or Sicilian gar-
den for half a century of summers, and then have
been transplanted with all their tangled wealth
hanging about them into the temple.
The sturdy buttresses of this style are more
adorned than the Early English, with slender
foliated pinnacles and canopied niches. Very
characteristic of this epoch are niches for statues,
with lace-work tabernacles suspended over them.
But this is quite enough.
LICHFIELD TO MATLOCK.
161
The great fault of English cathedrals is want
of height. To use an expressive word, they are
squatty. Contrasted with the French, German, or
Italian edifices of the same periods, this is a strik-
ing deficiency. Give York Minster, or Lincoln
Cathedral, or even these smaller edifices of Lich-
field, Worcester, and Gloucester, the height of
St. Ouen, or St. Stephens at Vienna, or Milan
Cathedral, and they would be greatly ennobled;
for they have enormous length, solidity, and eleva-
tion of tower and spire, and would bear this height-
ening of the roof.
In Lichfield Cathedral is a monument to Lady
Mary Wortley Montague, a small mural slab, its
inscription adverting to her agency in introducing
the system of inoculation into Europe. The fa-
mous monument by Chantrey of the "Sleeping
Children" is touching. Seeing it first by moon-
light, it was like looking at the sweet sleep of child-
ren in their nursery. One thinks what a start
they would have to wake and find themselves in
such a strange solemn place. The mother of the
children here commemorated (the youngest of
whom was burned and the eldest died shortly
after) is still living. One does not feel like
criticizing such a work. Its purity and innocence
would seem to preclude all criticism.
The traveler cannot help taking some notice of
the more general geological features of such a
country as England. They appear in the scenery
and vegetation, and are most striking and varied.
11
162
OLD ENGLAND.
They thrust themselves upon you; they sculpture
and paint themselves before the very eye. Derby-
shire scenery (for we now come into this beautiful
country) is as different from Devonshire scenery
as a lily-white English maiden from a swarthy red
Indian squaw. I stopped at the town of Derby
long enough to see something of it, and to make
some small purchases of carved fluor-spar and mar-
ble. It has a pleasant site on the lovely Derwent
River. It appeared like a prosperous agricultural
town, the centre of a fertile region; it formed a
great contrast to Lichfield in its bustling streets.
Farm-wagons, cattle and sheep, were going to and
from market. But it was doubtless very quiet
compared with a Derby race-day, as Leech repre-
sents it. The race-course in which England royal
and England plebeian, England bearded and Eng-
land smooth-chinned delight, is upon the Notting-
ham road. The Derby silk manufactures are said
to be important, but the buildings themselves do
not show signs of very considerable works. The
most striking feature of Derby is the remarkable
tower of All-Saints Church, running up to a great
height, and elegantly divided into stories, or com-
partments, with buttresses and crocketings, grow-
ing more and more enriched as it climbs to its
battlemented summit, and finishing with delicate
tracery-shields and lofty pinnacles. But the church
itself is low and small; it is like Daniel Webster's
head on Tom Thumb's body. Derby was the
native town of Richardson, the novelist; and here.
LICHFIELD TO MATLOCK.
163
also was the home of that pure spirit, Adelaide
Newton.
Seventeen and a half miles further north is Mat-
lock Bath, in the heart of the picturesque scenery
of Derbyshire. The road lies along the Derwent
valley, in which the peculiar charms of the Derby-
shire landscape soon begin to appear, though of a
softer and more rural type. But at the village of
Ambergate, at the Ambergate and Rowsley Junc-
tion, there bursts upon one the genuine Derbyshire
dale scenery in all its boldness and beauty. Here
the rocks begin rising in sheer walls from the val-
ley; lovely niches, or small territories of bright
green, are shut in by rocky barriers, the river
gliding softly between; and I was reminded of the
scenery in "Saxon Switzerland," but more espe-
cially Franconian Switzerland," frequently no-
ticing vales that were almost the exact counterpart
of the lovely little valley of the Wiesent, which is
the German Tempe. But, clanking into the tun-
nel through High Tor, we are at Matlock Bath.
We arrived at the station just as a monstrous
excursion train came in from the north. I drove
slowly up the road to the hotel in the company
of thousands, literally thousands, who were soon
diffused over the beautiful village and its vicin-
ity, filling the walks, scaling the cliffs, riding the
donkeys, rowing on the river, laughing, singing,
and apparently spending the fine day in hearty en-
joyment.
As the "Old Bath Hotel," famous in Matlock
164
OLD ENGLAND.
fashion and story, was temporarily closed, I went
to the "New Bath Hotel," a much finer situation
at the further end of the village, on the Cromford
road, commanding delightful views of High Tor,
the river, and the cliffs on the opposite side. I
have lying before me the tariff of prices at the
Matlock hotels. It might be well to quote it just
to give an idea of the prices at this favorite Eng-
lish watering-place among the hills.
"Old Bath Hotel," W. Greaves. Bed, 2s.;
board per day, 6s. ; private room, 2s. 6d.; attend-
ance, 1s.; bed and board in public, 7s. per day.
"New Bath Hotel," Ivatts & Jordan. Bed, 2s. ;
breakfast, 1s. 6d. to 2s.; lunch, 1s. to 2s.; dinner,
2s. 6d. to 3s.; tea, 1s. 8d. to 2s. ; supper, 1s. to 2s. ;
attendance, 1s.; private rooms, 2s. 6d., 3s., 3s. 6d.,
4s., or 5s.; board, 5s. 6d. per day; sitting-rooms,
15s. to 30s. per week; bedrooms, 7s. to 14s. per
week; servants' board, 3s. 6d. per day; maid ser-
vants, for attendance per week on one person, 78. ;
on two, 12s.; on three, 15s. ; on four, 20s.
The garden and grounds at the Matlock Hotel
are beautiful. How calm and restful the evenings
spent in them, as I sat under the great lime-tree's
shade! The house fronts upon the river, and looks.
directly upon the gigantic wall of bald cliffs across
the Derwent, with tufts of green or painted foliage
upon their white perpendicular face, from which
two great rocks swelled out like regularly builded
round towers with bastions; while to the left the
deep narrow grassy vale of Matlock extended, with
LICHFIELD TO MATLOCK.
165
its yellow clustering stone houses, terminated by the
sombre "Heights of Abraham," and above them
Mount Masson, and a little beyond, at the very
extremity of the vale, gleamed the towering and
silvery crag of High Tor.
The lime-tree of which I spoke merits the title
of "magnificent." Its branches are supported by
poles, so that it looks like a banyan-tree, and it
covers an immense area with its grove-like shade.
A tepid spring runs under its roots. It is a garden
of itself, and filled the atmosphere with the sweet.
perfume of its blossoms.
I went to see the "Old Bath Hotel" for Lord
Byron's and Mary Chaworth's sake, who used to
meet here during the days of his comparatively
sincere and uncorrupted life. On making some
remark of pity and sympathy for the poet, the
young lady who showed us the assembly-room
spoke out with that English positiveness so refresh-
ing to hear, "I have no pity nor sympathy for
him; he was a decidedly bad man.
High Tor is a noble cliff, the centre and king
of all. It is a mighty mass of limestone more than
four hundred feet high, standing out boldly over
the river, beautifully white in many parts of it,
and draped at its foot with a noble growth of elms
and sycamores; while vines and shrubs wreathe its
front with a tangled tracery; the river runs at
its base, and continues to glide swiftly on under
the shadow of cliffs nearly as high, and of the
same perpendicular character. To sit on the
166
OLD ENGLAND.
grassy river brink when the sun tinges the summits
of these rocks with that last serene light just before
its setting, and at the same time to watch the swift
dark stream beneath, it seems like life flowing idly
away under nobler lights and aims that still linger
pensively above it.
I sat also on the
In the early part of the afternoon we were called
to the window by the merry sound of music more
animated than harmonious, and found that it ac-
companied a long procession of all the boys and
girls of all the Sunday-schools of the neighborhood,
with their banners and decorations. After parad-
ing the streets and lanes, they passed through the
garden of our hotel into a green, sloping, mountain
meadow just behind the house. There, with their
teachers and pastors and pastors' wives, and fathers
and mothers, and friends high and low, they had a
long pleasant afternoon of sports.
grass enjoying it as much as they. The boys would
start all together from a given tree on the side of
the meadow at the bottom of the hill, run up the
hill, around another tree in the distance, and down
to a given point in the centre of the field, making
a course of half a mile or so. It was tough strain-
ing work to get up the steep and rough hill, and I
don't know when I have laughed more heartily than
in watching the manœuvres of the boys at outwitting
and outstripping each other. After turning the tree,
they streamed down like a herd of deer, one slim
bright-cheeked boy leading them all in most gallant
style. He, of course, took the prize. There were
LICHFIELD TO MATLOCK.
167
also foot-races among the girls, and full as much
earnestness and competition were shown by them.
There were leaping-bars, leap-frog, and other games
that brought out skill, strength, and activity. The
trial that created the most interest was climbing a
greased pole. Boy after boy bravely essayed to
pull the streamers on the top of that taper mast.
Some would get up a few feet, some half way, some
nearly to the top, and be obliged to give up in spite
of every encouragement and pelting of sugar-plums
from below. The writhing motions, the red grin-
ning faces, the pantaloons pulled up over the knees,
the bold hot beginnings, and the desperate clutch-
ings at the end, were ludicrous enough, for nothing
in creation is more comical than a boy, as well as
nothing more beautiful in certain moods.
One sun-
faced, sturdy little Hodge nearly did it, but though
within two inches of his object, and straining for
dear life, he had to slide down. A good-looking
larger youth at last succeeded in pulling the rib-
bons, amid loud shouts and cheerings. A wealthy
lady of the parish I understood had provided the
afternoon's amusement for the children. The cler-
gymen present managed all the sports, and adjudi-
cated some of the prizes, which must have been
very acceptable to the poorer children. This was
one instance of many which I have noticed in Eng-
land, of a very cheerful and natural tone of religious
feeling. I am certain that we sometimes war
against nature and grace in shutting up the currents
of play, or what may be called pure enjoyment, in
168
OLD ENGLAND.
our type of piety. A good hearty laugh now and
then that expands the pent breast, and makes the
blood circulate freely, is better than a handful of
"greenbacks." It has gone so far with us that when
we lash ourselves up to really enjoy ourselves, and to
play, it is very sad work. We are soon tired of it.
But the soul can hardly be sound and healthy if
the springs of joy are not sometimes touched. They
may otherwise take inner, tortuous, and evil chan-
nels, as we have seen streams in a limestone coun-
try like Derbyshire, wearing out for themselves
tremendous caverns under the mountains, until they
fall into some horrid chasm and disappear forever.
Following a charming road along the Derwent,
with the gray grit-stone cliffs that descend into and
form the mighty ramparts of Matlock Dale on one
side, we came in sight of "Lea Hurst," the home
of Florence Nightingale, not far from the villages
of Lea and Holloway. It stands on a wooded hill
forming the termination or higher summit of a most.
glorious valley, with crag, mountain, dark forest,
glistening river, and green pasture-land spread be-
fore it. The scenery though beautiful is wild and
free, fitted to inspire fresh thoughts. The house at
a distance appears embosomed in woods and vines,
and stands just on the skirts of a thick park. An
open lawn slopes away down from it. It is an Eliz-
abethan structure of cruciform shape, with quaint
gables and square-headed windows.
One great
bay-window, in particular, overhung by an enor-
mous wealth of ivy, is impressed on my memory.
LICHFIELD TO MATLOCK.
169
It is one of those incomparable English homes, in
the midst of a nature where every thing that this
world can yield of grand without and exquisite
within seems to be combined. Here the Sol-
dier's Friend" was reared. Her family has an-
other fine place in Hampshire called "Embley
Park," but in a more plain and rural county.
She was born in Florence in 1820. Her paternal
name (changed to Nightingale in 1815) is Shore,
an ancient Derbyshire family. Her mother was
the daughter of William Smith of Norwich, a well-
known friend of Slave Emancipation. We learned
in the neighborhood that Florence Nightingale had
begun to do good at home among the sick, poor,
and ignorant. She went when thirty-one to Kai-
serwerth on the Rhine, to learn in that school of
the Protestant "Sisters of Mercy" the method of
training nurses for the sick, and she has written an
account of this institution. She next applied her
energies to renovating the Hospital for Sick Gov-
ernesses in Harley Street, London. She also was
greatly interested in the ragged schools springing
up at that time. Then came the Crimean war, and
the world knows the rest. Over all the gloomy
and magnificent memories of that great city of Con-
stantinople her Christian acts shine. The smell of
fever and corruption is said to have tainted the air
all around the Barrack Hospital at Scutari. But
fever itself seizing upon her own slender frame,
could not drive her from her post. The talent,
strength of nerve, and wonderful tact shown in re-
170
OLD ENGLAND.
organizing that mass of ill-regulated hospital ser-
vice was as remarkable as her personal devotion to
the sick. She made no distinction in creeds in her
choice of nurses, and this subjected her to a mean
attack upon her religious opinions, and from a sin-
gular quarter, a clergyman of the Established
Church. Should the secret chamber in every one's
breast, which no other has a right to enter, be
opened, it would probably be found that Miss
Nightingale's religion was just that which all true
Christians should possess," a deedful faith."
"Life is joy, and love is power;
Death all fetters doth unbind:
Strength and wisdom only flower
When we toil for all our kind.”
CHAPTER X.
MATLOCK TO MANCHESTER.
I CONTINUED on to "Wingfield Manor,” a ruined
castellated house of the powerful Earl of Shrews-
bury, whose wife was the famous "Countess Bess."
These ruins are in the highest degree picturesque,
the more so because they are so utterly neglected,
and so different in this respect from other English
tenderly nursed and "well-preserved ruins." They
stand on an eminence thickly wooded, in the cen-
tre of a circle of green and lovely hills which
Mary Stuart looked out upon when kept here
for nine years captive; though if we should be-
lieve all that the guide-books here and there say,
the unfortunate queen must have lingered in cap-
tivity some half a century in England before her
death. There is some rich carving still left about
the windows and doors of the chapel, overgrown
as it is with weeds and thistles; but trees of nearly
a century's growth shoot up where Mary's apart-
ments once were. Cows and sheep feed around
the inclosure of the walls. The house was de-
stroyed by the Parliamentary army, or, as they
told me, by Cromwell, who, if he did personally all
that he is said to have done, must have been not
only a hundred-armed, but hundred-legged Eng-
lish "Seeva.”
172
OLD ENGLAND.
Our way lay led through the village of Crich,
where there are extensive lead mines
a bleak
place seated on the very apex of the hills, the
old black stone church keeping watch on its lofty
height over a vast panorama. I saw in the dis-
"Hardwick Hall," one of the many do-
mains of the Duke of Devonshire. Coming around
over the desolate tract of Tansley Moor, we re-
turned to the pleasant hotel and old lime-tree at
Matlock Bath.
tance
The little river Wye is said to be a capital trout
stream; I should like to have whipped it a little
by way of trial. It has not the volume and flow
of its noble namesake in Monmouthshire, but it is
a pretty amber-colored stream that stops and plays
with every thing on its way,-
LL
Giving a gentle kiss to every sedge,
He overtaketh on his pilgrimage."
Our way lay along this lovely little river, through
a valley of fertile meadow land with gentle hills on
either side, where the cattle were quietly feeding,
and though the rest of the world might be con-
vulsed by war, here all was peace.
The first sight of Haddon Hall, standing bold and
high across the river, set off by its background of
woods a sudden vision of the past, with nothing
but simple Nature around, and nothing to recall
those changes that have made it an object of pecul-
iar mark was impressive; but the impression
was not deepened by a near acquaintance. Cross-
ing a three-arched bridge, we drove up to the
MATLOCK TO MANCHESTER.
173
lodge, and were shown into the castle by an elfin,
who opened the big oak door of the frowning gate-
way tower with a key almost as long as her bare
arm. This heavy tower of the time of Edward
III., casting a broad shadow, is the most majestic
part of the edifice; and at this portal the scene of
Edwin Landseer's picture is laid. The house is
now the property of the Duke of Rutland. Before
the Manners family possessed it, it was the seat of
the Vernon family; and in the days of Sir George
Vernon, styled "King of the Peak," this place
was in its greatest magnificence. The courtyard
is not large. The chaplain's room is first shown,
as well as the chapel, to illustrate the tight corner
into which religion was pushed and kept locked up
in those times. These apartments, and their very
keeping and situation, go to verify Macaulay's pict-
ure of that rude and unlettered period. Passing
over into the old dining-room, and kitchen with its
huge iron spit, one sees plainly enough around
what centre the whole house revolved. In the
dining-hall there is the rough oak table, raised a
step for the lord and his family; but he seems to
have eaten with his retainers and people, who
only sat "below the salt," with a kind of savage
brotherhood even in those haughty days. When
any one failed of drinking his share he was fastened
up by his hands to an iron staple in the wall, and
cold water was poured down his sleeve. Of course
they would not think of pouring it down his throat.
Haddon Hall is wonderfully preserved in all its
174
OLD ENGLAND.
parts. The faded arras is hanging in the cham-
bers. The little lead-soldered windows swing open
to let in the spicy air from the cedar and fir trees,
as in the old time. From these panneled rooms,
and the great hall sprinkled with carved "boars'
heads and peacocks," and the state bed-chamber,
and the “Peveril Tower," and the terraced garden,
and the yew-trees, and the grotesque gothic orna-
ments of the outer and inner courts, it would not
be difficult to reconstruct a baronial residence of
the 15th or 16th century. The long line of crene-
lated walls and towers, low but solid, form even
now a perfect medieval picture. But though there
are some striking points and views, most things are
stiff, creaking, and dismal; and with the gloomy
forest hanging around and above on a wild winter
night, it must be a rare place for the imagination
of a poet like Keats to play freaks in. Poor Keats!
why should we always think of him as one who
could have written such great things! He was a
true English poet; and his Greece was laid in the
heart of green England, in scenery not unlike
this softly wild, rocky, verdurous, lonely Derby-
shire.
The Bakewell Church, which illustrates Haddon
Hall as St. Mary's Church does Warwick Castle,
is worth visiting on its own account. Some parts
of it have been thought to be of Saxon origin, but
Saxon architecture has, I believe, been pretty
much given up by the learned as something that
belongs, like "many-towered Camelot," to Tenny-
MATLOCK TO MANCHESTER.
175
son's poetry and the legendary age of England. It
is supposed, however, that a church stood here
before the Conquest. There is a very decided
look about the present edifice, of a more modern
church having been built upon an extremely an-
cient one, which was plain and solid, without
ornament. It is a quarry of antiquity for the
ecclesiologist. There is a Runic cross in the
churchyard, as well as at Eyam Church, not far
distant. Many fragments of very curious tomb-
stones, probably Saxon, have been discovered in
digging under the church. But the later monu-
ments in the Vernon and Manners chapel are the
most singular. They are composed of colored life-
size stone or alabaster figures. A mother with
her whole family of kneeling sons and daughters
down to mere babies, in black dresses, and having
an intensely strong family likeness, rise pyramid-
ically upon one immense monument or tablet. The
effigies of John Manners and Dorothy Vernon, his
wife, whose romantic history enlivens the stones.
and shades of Haddon Hall, are upon the opposite
monument. An elaborate alabaster recumbent
statue of Sir Thomas Wendesley, representing him.
in full armor, is interesting as illustrating costume.
Chatsworth is a place so well known, that I
cannot attempt to write much about it. Its situa-
tion in the queenly valley of the Derwent, framed
in on one side with perpendicular hills fading away
in the blue distance, and by an ancient park on
the other, with broad rich meadows, an unlimited
176
OLD ENGLAND.
sweep of soft green turf dotted by cattle and deer,
and a noble river between, giving an opportunity
for picturesque stone bridges, these afford it a
majestic setting, and a superiority in this respect to
all other such residences in England, or indeed out
of England. It is an Italian palace, a modern
Hadrian's villa, set in English scenery. Its great
idea is amplitude and a kind of imperial breadth
and opulence. It looks too rich and magnifi-
cent for comfort, and give me "Wilton House "
or "Warwick Castle" (if such a painful choice
must be made) — to live in in preference. As it is,
a few servants inhabit Chatsworth, look out of its
plate-glass windows, smell its roses, and walk its
grand avenues along the river, — its lord not choos-
ing to live in it but a short time in the year.
The character of the mansion is entirely modern.
This Italian villa style may possibly suit the broad
open peaceful site better than a castellated house,
or an irregular Elizabethan structure.
Of all its works of Art, old and new, I was most
struck with the little picture of a Benedictine Con-
vent, or "Monks at Prayer." Its vigorous light
and shade is worthy of Rembrandt. It is one of
those modern pictures that we feel sure will be
celebrated in future times, when ten thousand more
ambitious paintings and their authors shall have
gone into oblivion.
The sculpture gallery again reminds us of Italy
in England. Canova, in his "Mother of Napo-
leon," Hebe and Endymion, is here in his almost
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177
Grecian perfection of power and beauty. His head
of Napoleon differs from every other that I have
seen. It is a long pointed face, with much more
of Italian craft than is common. It was pleasant
to see the countenance of our own Everett, by
Hiram Powers, among the busts there. Derby-
shire spar and marble are greatly used in the orna-
mentation of the whole building.
In the vast and varied garden the fruit of Sir
Joseph Paxton's skill, though all the rules of
beauty, surprise, and concealment were observed,
there was not a free expression of Nature. Nature
will not be forced by the command of wealth, or
might of art. The artificial rocks had an obsti-
nately exotic look; they seemed to say, "We are
not where our Author placed us, but we are here
to serve the Duke of Devonshire.'
Buxton is fourteen miles from Chatsworth. The
road lies among green vales and hills, well wooded
with ash, fir, and oak, but growing wilder and
drearier as one went north, and especially in ap-
proaching Buxton and passing through the stern
mountain gorge under Chee Tor. Here the gray
limestone rocks rose in the same wall-like escarped
fashion of which we have spoken. We kept along
by our new and lovely little friend the river Wye,
now become a very child in slenderness and freak-
ish babbling wantonness; for we were approaching
its babyhood and cradlehood among the high moor-
lands above Buxton.
This northern Spa among the hills, nearly a
12
178
OLD ENGLAND.
thousand feet above the sea, is a strikingly situated
place, in a deep hollow or bowl of the mountains,
hemmed in by bleak desolate scenery.
Words-
worth in his "Excursion" speaks of "Buxton's
dreary heights." But here in this lonely and dis-
mal region rises a very stately and fashionable little
metropolis. Its great "Crescent Hotel" is one of
the wonders of the land. To look down upon it
from the top of the opposite hill, in the evening,
when fully lighted, it appears like an illuminated
Coliseum cut in two. It was built by the late Duke
of Devonshire at the cost of £120,000, and in fact
comprises several hotels, dwellings, and a multitude
of shops. The bathing and pump establishments
of Buxton are altogether the most luxurious and
superb I have seen. Besides elegant private bath-
rooms, there are immense porcelain swimming
basins of tepid water beautifully crystalline and
transparent, though of a bluish tinge. The water
in the pump-rooms comes out of the mouths of
white porcelain swans.
The winding walks, the gardens, the stables, are
all on the same scale of opulence.
At the “table d'hote" of St. Ann's Hotel (which
is a singular innovation in English hotels), and in
the handsome drawing-room around the card-tables,
one sees all descriptions of decrepitude and disease,
cripples, paralytics, dyspeptics, rheumatics, and
gouty people with their feet in flannels and slippers.
Wealth and luxury must take their special share of
these ills. But there are other water establishments
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179
""
intended especially for the poorer class of invalids.
That which is called the "Buxton Bath Charity'
is supported by the subscription of visitors, a gift of
£10 entitling the donor to have one patient on the
list for life.
The water is a mild saline mineral, not unpleas-
ant to the taste, and without odor. Its base is car-
bonate of lime and magnesia.
At the moment of
its issue from the spring it is highly charged with
nitrogen.
Buxton was a bathing-place of the bath-loving
Romans, and old Roman roads have been found ra-
diating from it as from a centre. Buxton has also
its memories of Mary Queen of Scots, who was fre-
quently here during her English captivity.
The famous name of "Peveril of the Peak,"
which Walter Scott seized upon with the aptitude
of genius and turned it to his own account, is the
ancient "genius loci" of Derbyshire. All that is
historic and legendary in this whole region culmi-
nates in this ubiquitous personality throned among
the hills; for he built the old tower of Haddon
Hall, he ruled at Chatsworth, and he had for his
especial seat the eagle-nest that overhangs the tre-
mendous precipices of the "Devil's Cave." Pev-
eril was a natural son of William the Conqueror.
To this same William Peveril all this territory
of Derbyshire was given, the northern part gradu-
ally rising into lofty heights taking the name of
"the Peak." It is a naked rocky region full of
mineral riches and marvels, with immense unex-
180
OLD ENGLAND.
plored caves, intermittent springs, "shivering"
mountains, and mines of silver, lead, and "Blue
John."
From Buxton to Castleton is twelve miles. Part
of the way we followed the old Roman road that
penetrated into this mining district, especially to the
Odin lead mine, which is still worked. It lies over
sullen and desolate hills, appearing more so perhaps
from the coal-black clouds that hung menacingly
low upon the scene, but which toward noon broke
away, the sun coming out with great heat. Before
arriving at Castleton we passed around the foot of
Mam Tor, or "the shivering mountain," a shaly
crumbling hill 800 feet high, and so called from its
continual self-wrought process of disintegration.
The "Blue John mine," which is the only local-
ity where large masses of this beautiful fluor-spar
are found, lies just here at the foot of Mam Tor.
Its walls have a sparry lustre, and on going a little
way in, there comes a profound gulf which one
looks down into with respectful awe. But none of
these Derbyshire caverns could compare, I thought,
with the cave at Adelsburg near Trieste, where
Milan Cathedral itself is reproduced, with its myr-
iad arches, and clustering columns, and fretted pin-
nacles, and snowy images, in the dark bosom of a
mountain.
Descending by a steep road from this point,
which commands a broad panorama, we came into
a valley, on the southern side of which, cowering in
the shade of a high hill, is the little village of Cas-
MATLOCK TO MANCHESTER.
181
tleton. It is half a mining place and half a curios-
ity-shop, with small stone houses and one old
church, and abounding in boys and old men, ready
to conduct to the "Peak Castle," the "Peak Cav-
ern," "Speedwell Mine," or "Cave Dale."
After the conventional luncheon of the season,
mutton-chops and salad crowned by the cavernous
"Stilton cheese," I took a guide to the veritable
Peveril of the Peak Castle. This guide was half an
idiot, and though perfectly familiar with the way,
left me of course to my own intelligence respecting
all other things. He wanted to impress upon me
that he, "Johnny Here, was always here, and that
Johnny was a good guide."
The climb to these old blackened ruins on the
lofty hill just back of the village, was a steep one,
and the grass dry and slippery. But the site of
the castle is fine. It commands a wide though
desolate view over this upper and rugged portion
of Derbyshire. Of the castle itself, little remains
but a low broken wall running around the edge of
the cliff, two almost totally ruined towers, and a
somewhat better preserved portion of the ponderous
keep, which probably resisted the efforts of those
who would quarry stones from it, for the building
of houses below in the village. It is of oldest Nor-
man work, with small round arched doorways and
windows, and is massive enough to satisfy all the
demands of the imagination. On three sides the
castle overhung profound abysses, and must have
been in its day impregnable. The sheep now ram-
182
OLD ENGLAND.
ble over its empty courtyard and old stones. The
mention of this castle in the "Doomsday Book" is
said to be in these words: "Terra Castelli William
Peverell in Pecke fors."
The visit to Peak Cavern" beneath was some-
what exciting to those of the party who had never
been before so far into the bowels of the earth. It
is indeed a formidable earth-throat. The perpen-
dicular walls of gray rock rise on either side of it
and above it six hundred feet, and it opens with a
black arch forty-two feet in height, one hundred
and twenty in width, and three hundred in depth.
It is such a cave as Pluto's chariot might issue
from. A little stream flows from this sombre vault.
On one side of this chasm, just under its great cor-
nice, stands a hut where a woman is said to have
lived to very old age, never sleeping away from it
but once in her life. In the dim light we saw tall
poles and lines stretched across them, where a num-
ber of men and women were at work making twine.
Taking a guide, and groping into the cave until the
roof sloped down to the inner wall, we went through
a little door which opened into a long passage with
hardly a ray of light, this leading into a large
apartment where we lighted our lamps, and then
passed on through passage after passage, hall after
hall, till we came to the "Bell House," which was
like being under a vast bell, the roof taking a regu-
lar pear-shaped dome form. Soon after this we ar-
rived at the "First Water," which is sometimes an
impassable pond filling up the whole passage, but it
MATLOCK TO MANCHESTER.
183
.
was now so low that we could creep along comfort-
ably by the side of it. Then we scrambled over wet
stones and under low archways, with the solemn
sound of this "Cocytus" murmuring below us in
the depths of the mountain, until we came to a grand
chamber two hundred and ten feet broad, two hun-
dred and twenty long, and one hundred and twenty
high, with heavy arches like those of a stupendous
Norman crypt. Here the old iron-handed Pever-
ils above might have laid their dead in a more aw-
ful and magnificent sepulchre than any that their an-
cestors possessed. And it seemed a pity that Scott
should never have visited this place, for he certainly
would have made something out of this cavern.
He might have hid his Puritan here, and what a
terrible scene might have been wrought out of the
sudden rising of the subterranean river, as is fre-
quently the case, cutting off the escape of those
who were in pursuit. We went on 2250 feet into
the mountain, where the end of the cave is reached
and the river disappears. This cavern is in some
way connected with the "Speedwell mines" a mile
distant, for the débris of that mine is occasionally
brought down in this direction. The whole region
here is hollow and undermined. On returning, the
little daughter of the guide, gliding around like a
spirit, caused a surprise by placing lamps here and
there, imitating the light of day, while we were yet
far in the hill. The real light of day, when we
came out of the darkness, seemed to be something
golden, the beauty of which I had never seen be-
184
OLD ENGLAND.
fore, excepting in a similar emergence from a deep
cavern into the sweet sunshine of heaven.
In the "Cotton Metropolis " I took up my abode
at Queen's Hotel, one of the largest hotels in
Great Britain, though there was the slightest sus-
picion about it of that kind of upholstery splendor,
which one sees less rarely in England, but perhaps
more frequently in America in our great manu-
facturing towns. Dinner served in sumptuous
style, was followed by a course of "Times" news-
Indeed a
"Chronicle," and "Punch."
paper,
traveler in England soon gets as infatuated after his
evening newspaper as an Englishman, and almost
like an Englishman does not know what his own
opinion is until he has read the "Times." One is
drawn to read English newspapers for their good
vigorous English. English newspapers deal in
facts and ideas more than in rhetoric and personali-
ties. They base their articles upon broad princi-
ples of political economy, trade, or morals. Even
a little blotchy penny sheet like the "Telegraph,"
has a daily leader that for pithy English, compre-
hensive and penetrating political views and weighty
logic, would set up a member of Parliament or of
Congress as an accomplished speaker. There is no
doubting the fact that England is a free country
by him who reads English newspapers. Even to
a Republican used to free speech they often sound
surprisingly bold. They may be imperious, harsh,
unjust, wrong, and bitterly controversial, yet they
do speak right out, and as a German writer has
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185
said, “A noisy irritable debating nation does not
prove that liberty is crushed, but a quiet and silent
nation does."
+
A Sunday in England! There is doubtless
great formality and great desecration of the day;
but a day for the worship of the Most High,
a day on which the shuttle ceases, the shop is
closed, the house of God is filled with apparently
devout assemblies, this is above all things char-
acteristic of England, in city or country. Other
nations laugh at England for this, but the recogni-
tion of the Sabbath is a simple and sublime ac-
knowledgment by the nation, of God. God must
be in the life of a nation as of a man to make it
great. The faith of England is a spring of char-
acter and a source of strength, that some philoso-
phers do not always sufficiently take into account
in their ingenious and profound estimates of Eng-
lish traits. It is deeper than all. Race, soil, posi-
tion, history, are nothing to it. It is that invisible
stream of truth, duty, and hope, that runs from the
eternal heart. In a great sweating, working city
like Manchester, the universal and marked regard
of the Sabbath has something touching in it. It
is poetry to worship God in the green lanes where
there is peace and loveliness, and every thing to
draw out the soul to sing praise; but it is affecting
in the presence of want, of squalid poverty, of the
ugly barren features of a huge manufacturing town
in its joyless life and ofttimes awful despair, to see
the myriad hands of toil raised to the Father of all,
186
OLD ENGLAND.
and to hear the sounds of Christian joy and praise.
I recall some words of Macaulay on this point:
"While industry is suspended, while the plough
rests in the furrow, while the exchange is silent,
while no smoke ascends from the factory, a process
is going on quite as important to the wealth of
nations as any that is performed on busier days.
Man, the machine of machines, compared with
which all the contrivances of the Watts and Ark-
wrights are worthless, is repairing and winding up;
so that he returns to his labors on Monday with
clearer intellect, with livelier spirit, and with re-
newed corporeal vigor."
worn.
The streets were thronged with little children
going to and from their various schools. It was a
sultry day, and the operatives cleanly dressed sat
quietly in their door-ways, the men generally in
their shirt-sleeves. They looked to me pale and
It was good to see them resting for a little
time from their bone-wearing and monotonous toil.
The poor children of the manufacturing cities are
the greatest objects of compassion. The multi-
plicity of laborers in England and their consequent
low wages, lead parents to put their children very
early into factories where the hard work and con-
finement are terrible. They have been known to
begin labor at the tender age of five, and I have
seen it stated that boys and girls from eight to
fifteen are obliged to labor in factories and work-
houses eighteen hours a day. But now, at this still
hour, there seeined to be, at least to a looker-on,
something like repose to the weary.
MATLOCK TO MANCHESTER.
187
I took a long walk to hear Canon Hugh Stowell
preach in Christ Church, Salford. The text was
from the Epistle to the Galatians, vi. 15. His
sentences were extremely sententious. The first
two I remember were these: "A man will give
every thing to God but his heart. God will have
nothing from man without his heart." He argued
upon the essential falseness of a baptismal, ritual,
credal, sentimental, or moral piety. Faith was a
new life. It was God dwelling in us as a living
principle of pure emotion, right thought, and be-
nevolent action. To criticize so good and noble a
sermon were hardly fair; but its style ran often
into poetic commonplace, and did not retain the
nervous masculine march with which it began.
And one cannot but long in the English pulpit for
the free elbow, the bold and graceful sweep of the
arm, that is seen in the French pulpit, be it that of
Lacordaire or Cocquerel, and also in the most
effective American preaching and oratory. There
is a trussed look, a gesturing with the hand, instead
of the arm.
In the afternoon I heard an Inde-
pendent minister in a most humble and obscure
brick building, with nothing on the exterior to dis-
tinguish it from an old black cotton warehouse. A
few sheep were gathered in this lowly sheepfold.
The preacher was a thin, pale man, who prayed
fervently for the crowds of those who had not the
bread of life in that swarming city, for the poor,
the sinful, and the tempted. He preached an earn-
est but sad sermon. Yet perhaps he was one of
188
OLD ENGLAND.
the few who in the eye of God saved the city.
whose prayers filled the golden vials before the
throne. I could not help fancying that even the
sight of one stranger rather cheered the little
flock.
Of course I do not mean to speak of a Man-
chester Sabbath as any thing peculiar. If I had
penetrated into the back lanes of Ancoats, and the
less public parts of the city, I should probably have
found the gin palaces in full swing, and profane-
ness and gross vice enough. But to the transient
stranger the day was apparently kept holy, and the
great tired city rested from its labors.
CHAPTER XI.
THE LAKE COUNTRY.
A LIVELY and pretty scene was that miniature
Bowness Bay, on beautiful Lake Windermere, with
its fleet of tiny yachts, their pennants flying, and
its array of gayly cushioned pleasure-boats. A
pleasant-looking boatman touched his hat, and we
were soon out of the crowd of small craft and vora-
cious swans, the rapid-winged boat cutting its way
over the lake, smooth and black as Egyptian mar-
ble, toward the "Ferry Inn," some little way
down on the opposite side. While we were run-
ning over, there were indications of the sultry day
ending in a thunder-storm, and two or three rum-
bles of thunder broke among the hills. The tall
mountains at the head of the lake grew misty, and
the sun shining through the clouds that piled up
swiftly around it, showed like an immense St. An-
drew's cross.
A considerable swell followed the
gusts that began to sweep down the lake, but our
boatman thought it would soon pass over, as it did.
We neared the great craggy wall on the opposite
side, about a mile across, skirting along its base,
until we came to the promontory of Ferry Inn,
marked by its conspicuous clump of sycamores.
190
OLD ENGLAND.
Here we could see nearly the whole reach of the
lake, which is ten miles long. In shape it is not
unlike "Long Lake" in Northern New York, but
how unlike the shaggy sides and setting of that
rude though beautiful Indian water! Everywhere
the hand of taste has smoothed the shores of this
English lake. At every point where there is a
foothold, some noble dwelling is placed, its rolled
lawn or its majestic park coming down to the very
water's edge. But the lakes of the Adirondack
region, in point of size and other features, might
bear some comparison with these English lakes,
especially with the rockier and sterner ones. Per-
haps in future times those rough emeralds of the
mountains, where now nought is heard but the
plaintive cry of the loon, or the plashing of the
wild deer among the lilies, will be built upon, and
become the homes of poets and the resorts of trav-
elers, artists, and health-seekers. But there is
something exquisitely soft in Windermere. It has
a feminine delicacy, and with its light touches of
beauty draws out the fatigue from the weary brain.
It does not want in largeness and grandeur toward
its upper end. As we came around Curwen
Island, on our return, we had a clearer view of the
northern extremity of the lake. Fairfield Moun-
tain stood out distinct and dark against the sky, and
just under it on either side Rydal Head and Nab
Scar, with Wansfell Pike and the Kentmere range
of hills on the right. But toward the south it
faded away in wavy and gentle lines.
'THE LAKE COUNTRY.
191
We landed upon Curwen Island, or Belle Isle,
the largest island in the lake, a choice ring of
springy turf and ancient trees, of about a mile in
circumference. Christopher North has immortal-
ized it, for the most beautiful Nature is dead until
a human soul starts it to life by its living touch and
sympathy. "We see then as we feel," Words-
worth said. There is a circular stone mansion
upon this island more odd than tasteful. Clear it
away and restore it to fresh Nature, and we can-
not conceive of a more dreamy or poetic "Aiden
in a small compass, than this island. Other lit-
tle “aits" of vivid green are strung along to the
south of it; their leaning branches sweep the
water, and upon their shallower sides they are
fringed with a white border of water-lilies.
The next day, though showery, gave glimpses of
the lake from higher ground, in and back of Bow-
ness, taking in the majestic horns of the two Lang-
dale Pikes at the north, and just opposite, the
ridge of Furness Fells, crowned by the indented
peak of Coniston Old Man, with a dim and distant
view of Scawfell Pike, the highest mountain in
England. Just beyond this high wall of table-land
across the lake, lies the long, parallel lake called
Coniston Water, having much the character of
Windermere, though smaller. Between the two
is the minute lake of Esthwaite, only two miles in
length, upon the borders of which Wordsworth
went to school, and from which his life-like descrip-
tion of skating in the "Prelude " is drawn.
192
OLD ENGLAND.
I drove down into Troutbeck Valley, crossing
the bridge that went over Troutbeck stream. It is
strange how in hilly countries the very names grow
beautiful and suggestive. We have seen this in
the Dovedales and Derwentdales of Derbyshire.
In the Lothian and Tweed countries we find such
sweet, melodious names as Melrose, Yarrow, Lam-
mermoor, Gala Water,
"To Auchindenny's hazel shade,
And moss-crowned Woodhouselee."
In the lake region also we find names that it seems
as if poets must have made expressly for the places,
instead of these making the poets. Troutbeck,
Patterdale, Windermere, Hartstope, Furness Fells,
Leatheswater, Grasmere, Silver How, Helvellyn,
Helm Crag, Bleaberry Fell, Glaramara, Ulleswa-
ter in truth, there is no end to them. How
could they have sprung or flowed forth, except
from the real poetry in the heart of the primitive
people; and as this is a kind of faint Wordsworth-
ian idea, so we must be drawing near the home of
the poet !
This Troutbeck Valley into which we have en-
tered is a deep and picturesque hollow, running
under the southeast side of Wansfell Pike (Peak),
up toward the steep of Woundsdale Head, where
there is a path that turns to the left into the Kirk-
stone Pass. The secluded village of Troutbeck
stands some way down this valley, and a mile and
a half above the bridge.
Wordsworth's own home is a drive of a mile and
THE LAKE COUNTRY.
193
a quarter from Ambleside. By a still pleasanter
and somewhat longer walk nearer in under the
heights of Lochrigg Fell,
Wordsworth often took,
that we may be sure
we may go past the
embowered cottage of Dr. Arnold, — Fox How, —
situated just beneath the Fell, and looking directly
up the great hollow bosom of Fairfield Mountain.
How often does Dr. Arnold refer to this mountain
nest! He says in one place in a characteristic
way, "Behind we run up to the top of Lochrigg,
and we have a mountain pasture in a basin, on the
summit of the ridge, the very image of those 'Sal-
thus '
on Citheron, where Edipus was found by
the Corinthian shepherd. The Wordsworths'
friendship, for so I may call it, is certainly one of
the greatest delights of Fox How, and their kind-
ness in arranging every thing in our absence has
been very great."
His delight at getting home from a foreign tour
he expresses in a lively way: "Arrived at Bow-
ness at 8.20; left it at 8.31; passing Rayrigg
gate 8.37. On the Bowness Terrace 8.45. Over
Troutbeck Bridge 8.51. Here is Ecclerigg 8.58.
And here Lowood Inn 9.04. And here Water-
head, and our ducking bench 9.12. The Valley
opens, Ambleside and Rydal Park, and the gallery
on Loughrigg. Rotha Bridge 9.16. And here is
the poor humbled Rotha, and Mr. Brancker's cut,
and the new Millar Bridge 9.21-alas! for the
alders are gone, and succeeded by a stiff wall.
Here is the Rotha in his own beauty, and here is
13
194
OLD ENGLAND.
poor T. Fleming's field, and our own mended gate.
Dearest children, may we meet happily! Entered
Fox How and the beech copse at 9.25, and here
ends journal. Walter first saw us, and gave no-
tice of our approach. We found all our dear chil-
dren well, and Fox How in such beauty, that no
scene in Italy appeared in my eyes comparable to
it."
What names have we gathered as we go along!
As the mountains rise here above the rest of Eng-
land so do the minds that have clustered here.
How much they have done to refresh the plains!
Rydal village stands in the hollow between
Loughrigg Fell and Nab Scar, near the lower end
of Rydal Water; and a little up the side of Nab
Scar, which rises bare and majestic, furrowed with
the marks of torrents and avalanches high
enough, in fact, to take it out and lift it into a
commanding position is the house where Words-
worth lived. Somewhat further on, in the same
ascending road, is Rydal Hall, the seat of the De
Flemings, surrounded by an antique forest so often
mentioned in the poet's verse, and in Wilson's
exquisite prose-poems. Rydal Mount was closed
when I was there, shortly after the death of Mrs.
Wordsworth. I looked at the little yellow plas-
tered house, peeping over its thick girdle of larch-
trees and laburnum bushes. It seems to have been
ingeniously set aside out of the common road,
though not completely isolated. It is a kind of
bird's-nest upon the rugged bosom of the mountain.
THE LAKE COUNTRY.
195
Interlaced around it with care are all species of
thickly growing shrubs and vines. Its front win-
dows have a splendid prospect over the deeply
scooped vale of Rydal Water and Grasmere, and
the mountains beyond. It is a very plain and
almost rough dwelling externally, though with a
peerless site. An American friend who had been
kindly entertained by Wordsworth told me that it
was furnished with every English comfort, but with
no luxuries beyond the presence of books and flow-
ers. It was the abode of a man who in his own
words applied to another, "united plain living with
high thinking." My friend said that the poet, he
could hardly tell why, reminded him of Henry
Clay. I suppose from all accounts he must have
looked as much like an old bald eagle in his milder
meditative mood as any thing else. Hazlitt, less
reverentially, compared his long head and face to
that of an old white horse! He was at that time
in a state of irritation about his American bonds,
and spoke strongly of the moral wrong of repudia-
tion, and expressed his fears lest American nobility
and faith might become swamped in materialism.
The only thing yet done, I believe, about repudi-
ating these Mississippi bonds in which the poet was
fettered, has been to talk about it. But in inde-
pendence and comparative wealth here he lived
with his little family, and that sister whom he so
much loved — the feminine correlative of his own
mind, and more than all the other nine to him.
How many other great men besides Wordsworth,
196
OLD ENGLAND.
Lamb, and Neander, have had such guardian spirits
in their sisters? Perhaps my reader may remem-
ber more.
At the bottom of this same steep lane,
running up out of the village, is the chapel where
Wordsworth was a constant attendant. He had
an Englishman's respect for the services of God's
house. He was, I believe, a truly religious man.
De Quincey has ejected some stains upon his char-
acter, making him appear to be a selfish man. But
De Quincey, though an eloquent genius, saw his
equals and superiors in such an intense light of
feeling, that it served to darken them. The mean-
ness of some of his remarks upon Wordsworth has
been proved by Wordsworth's generous and abso-
lute silence. Wordsworth was a reserved man,
not always the most amiable, and a supreme egotist.
But his egotism was of such a harmless and noble
sort, of so pure and high an ideal, that none could
be hurt by it. His spirit bent ever reverently
before God. He has been accused of pantheism ;
yet a student of his writings will find that the God
breathing through the natural universe was to him
no mere suffused essence, but the Father of all,
never for a moment lost in His own works, but
who inspires them and uses them as a vast organ-
ism to play upon and shine through. Of this ever-
present, ever-speaking God, Wordsworth felt him-
self called to be a minister. Among these hills in
whose sight he was born, he lifted his eyes and
cried,
"How beautiful this dome of sky,
And the vast hills in fluctuation fixed
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197
At Thy command how awful! Shall the soul,
Human and rational, report of Thee
Even less than these? Be mute who will, who can,
My lips that may forget Thee in the crowd,
Cannot forget Thee here where Thou hast built,
For thine own glory in the wilderness!
Me didst Thou constitute a priest of Thine.”
The God of Nature whom he joyfully recognized,
was no beautiful impersonality of the transcendent-
alist, but a being whom he could worship, and
with whom he could walk in "amity sublime.”
The prayer at the end of the "Excursion" is warm
with religious feeling. "The serious song" ends
in the serener hopes and light of heaven. As we
love to quote from him whose words are as melo-
dious as the swellings of a wind-harp, we shall do
so abundantly.
Wordsworth was too great a man not to accept
the inestimable truth of the Christian faith, and its
new and living way to the Divine person and per-
fection. But he was one whose special office it
was to interpret God as manifested in Nature, the
second book. He was to show the fine relations
of Nature to the soul, as a voice speaking to the
soul of its wants, origin, and aim, even as God
talked with Adam in the garden.
"For I have learned
To look on Nature, not as in the hour
Of thoughtless youth; but hearing oftentimes
The still, sad music of humanity."
"For the man,
Who, in this spirit, communes with the forms
Of Nature; who, with understanding heart,
198
OLD ENGLAND.
Doth know and love such objects as excite
No morbid passions, no disquietude,
No vengeance, and no hatred, needs must feel
So deeply, that, unsatisfied with aught
Less pure and exquisite, he cannot choose
But seek for objects of a kindred love
In fellow-natures and a kindred joy.
Accordingly, he by degrees perceives
His feelings of aversion softened down;
A holy tenderness pervade his frame.
"His sanity of reason not impaired,
Say, rather, all his thoughts now flowing clear,
From a clear fountain flowing, he looks round
And seeks for good; and finds the good he seeks;
Until abhorrence and contempt are things
He only knows by name; and if he hear
From other mouths the language which they speak,
He is compassionate; and has no thought,
No feeling, which can overcome his love."
In his philosophy of Nature he had a deeper view,
I verily think, than is generally held, — than is even
so vigorously set forth by our own eloquent Bush-
nell, which regards Nature as but a mechanical
effect or result of certain fixed causes; but Nature
is a more vital and enduring part of God's work
than this. It is a more true and intimate manifes-
tation of God. It is something which will never
cease to be. This Nature in which we are inframed
answers to the subjective frame-work of our own
mind, is necessary to its life, and growth, and edu-
cation, and will be carried with us in its essence in-
to another state. We are ourselves a part of this
Nature. It is something in ourselves, which is the
root of our being to be restored and built upon.
And here, in Nature, Wordsworth anchored his
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199
moral being; and he was the great moral poet of the
age. He found the law of God written in nature,—
in "the fleshly tablets of the heart." As this is an
imperishable law, so the nature in which it is en-
graved is imperishable. And he drew from hence
the great truth upon which he strikes so sweetly
and boldly of the moral equality of the race.
"The primal duties shine aloft
like stars;
The charities that soothe, and heal, and bless,
Are scattered at the feet of man like flowers.
The generous inclination, the just rule,
Kind wishes, and good actions, and free thoughts –
No mystery is here; no special boon
For high and not for low; for proudly graced —
And not for meek of heart. The smoke ascends
To heaven as lightly from the cottage hearth
As from the haughty palace. He, whose soul
Ponders this true equality, may walk
The fields of earth with gratitude and hope."
This led him to respect man wherever he found
him, and to study man. His walks among the poor
of the mountains form in reality the simple theme
of his greatest poem. He brought forth the great-
ness and angelic splendors of the human soul in its
lowliest estate. He was a Christian poet here.
He was never more interested than when studying
how to benefit the poor, to educate them, to im-
prove and invigorate the "Poor Laws," to raise
humanity. He sought his spring of poetry amid
the sorrows, joys, and experiences of the most
humble of his fellow-beings. This also made him
the indomitable poet of freedom. With what pro-
found and yet indignant spirit he exclaimed:
200
OLD ENGLAND.
霉
​1
"If, having walked with Nature threescore years,
And offered, far as frailty would allow,
My heart a daily sacrifice to Truth,
I now affirm of Nature and of Truth,
Whom I have served, that their divinity
Revolts, offended at the ways of men."
Here he was pathetic when he had lifted up some
bruised flower of humanity. The granite rock
which was in his nature, and generally showed
itself impenetrably hard, melted at this touch. He
has been charged with coldness as a poet. He
may have been reserved and unemotional by tem-
perament, but there was in him a deep fount of
tenderness, to which the descent in his own lan-
guage "was by the steps of thought." How feel-
ingly he drew the trials of poor Margaret, and how
exquisitely delicate was his picture of Ellen, whose
"Fond maternal heart had built a nest
In blindness all too near the river's edge."
How he loved childhood!
And he became like
a little child with Nature. He despised nothing in
creation. He laughed and sported with the daffo-
dils. In words as familiar now as any that Shak-
speare wrote he said:
"To me the meanest flower that blows can give
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears."
And he did not care whether others felt or be·
lieved this with him or no, as far as his own senti-
ment was concerned. Here was the old Scawfell
granite. Others would come around to him by
and by. So he sang with bold and joyful strain :-
THE LAKE COUNTRY.
201
"Thou art not beneath the moon
But a thing 'beneath our shoon ';
Let, as old Magellan did,
Others roam about the sea;
Build who will a pyramid;
Praise it is enough for me
If there be but three or four
Who will love my little flower."
And why are these crowds thronging to his valley
and his grave, if they have not come round to him?
What means the rich subjective element which has
been infused into English literature, if his pro-
founder ideas have not begun to prevail? What
means the fine analysis of Tennyson, his dwelling
upon lowly and simple themes, his drawing out of
a deeper soul from inanimate things, if he had not
drunk into the spirit of this great master of true
modern poetry? Wordsworth was the poet of
progress,
"A man of hope and forward-looking mind
Even to the last.'
His idea of Nature and creation led to unlimited
search, and to ever-widening and deepening
thought, because he discerned
"God in the human soul, and God in all things."
Rydal Water is a miniature affair, not more than
half a mile long, but its mountain guardians of
Loughrigg Fell and Nab Scar make it lose its
sense of smallness; and it is not too small for
many little gems
"Of islands that together lie,
As quietly as spots of sky
Amongst the evening clouds."
202
OLD ENGLAND.
A short way on from Rydal Mere, and strung to it
by a silver streamlet, is the heart of all the lakes,
Grasmere. As the road creeping around under Nab
Scar passes the middle part of the lake, it runs near
the "Wishing Gate" sung by Wordsworth in
those tripping verses with such solemn ending.
Here one looks down upon one of the most lovely
and softly peaceful scenes on earth, and yet with a
certain sober grandeur about it quite impossible to
describe. Why was it named Grasmere? Be-
cause it could not have been named any thing else.
There is a grassy margin around the whole shore
of the lake, spreading out into dark green mead-
ows at its upper end where the village stands,
and climbing up almost to the summits of the bold
cliffs that curl their edges over this vale. Just op-
posite rise the steep, overhanging heights of Silver
How, and the eye running along its wall follows it
up into the shadowy recesses of the lonely glen of
Easedale. At the head of the lake beyond the vil-
lage, towers the noble cliff called Helm Crag, not
unlike a Roman soldier's nodding crest, if that were
indeed the origin of its name. Back of it are the
higher mountains that lie around Thirlemere Lake,
and I do not remember whether one can catch here
a glimpse of the shoulder of Helvellyn above Seat
Sandal on the far right.
The waveless expanse of Grasmere, with its one
little island, spreads out before one, tranquilly re-
flecting all this beauty.
A little further on we came to Town End, and
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203
saw the humble roof, somewhat out of the village,
beneath which Wordsworth made his first home.
Here he brought his young bride, and gathered
his soul-friends-Southey, Coleridge, Scott, Lamb,
Lloyd, Wilson—about him. De Quincey also
lived here after him. And not far from this his
first home, the scene of his first works and studies,
standing at the very head of the lake, is the small,
square-towered, rude stone church, in the grave-
yard of which he sleeps.
Within the church there is a marble bas-relief
of his farmer-like yet thoughtful face, and a just
and elaborate inscription placed over the pew
which he frequently occupied. I will not stop to
transcribe it.
"Green is the churchyard, beautiful and green,
Ridge rising gently by the side of ridge;
A heaving surface, almost wholly free
From interruption of sepulchral stones,
And mantled o'er with aboriginal turf
And everlasting flowers. These dalesmen trust
The lingering gleam of their departing lives
To oral records and the silent heart."
Beneath his ridge of green, with a simple black
slate-stone at its head, inscribed simply with the
name of William Wordsworth, among the dales-
men and humble people with whom he daily
walked, sleeps the poet. His loved sister, and his
only daughter Dora, and her husband the scholar
Edward Quillinan, are laid by his side. Between
these mounds and the church is the monument of
poor Hartley Coleridge, covered with a cross-crown
204
OLD ENGLAND.
and thorns, with the inscription
and passion, good Lord, deliver us!
By thy cross
A clear little stream sings past the very edge of
these grassy mounds, and slides into the soft and
quiet lake which is but a few steps distant. The
great mountains stand watching around. The
shadows of the clouds pass silently over the spot.
The stars shine upon it.
“As in the eye of Nature he has lived,
So in the eye of Nature let him die."
CHAPTER XII.
THE LAKE COUNTRY (CONTINUED.)
I STOPPED awhile at the "Swan" to take my last
near look of Grasmere, and then went slowly up
the ascending road to Dunmail Raise, which was a
favorite walk of Wordsworth's. For some way it
goes almost in the shadow of Helm Crag, whose
crest presents odd combinations of rocks, out of
which any one has as much right as the poet to
form grotesque images. Of a mass of tall hob-
nobbing rocks that stand black and clear against
the sky, Wordsworth's fancy painted this little Al-
brecht-Dürer picture :-
"The Astrologer, sage Sidrophel,
Where at his desk and book he sits,
Puzzling on high his curious wits;
He whose domain is held in commor
With no one but the Ancient Woman,
Cowering beside her rifted cell,
As if intent on magic spell;
Dread pair, that spite of wind and weather,
Still sit upon Helm Crag together."
And the whole group of rocks and mountains
around was gathered up in a picture in these
lines :
"The rock like something starting from a sleep,
Took up the lady's voice and laughed again;
206
OLD ENGLAND.
That Ancient Woman seated on Helm Crag
Was ready with her cavern: Hammer Scar,
And the tall steep of Silver How sent forth
A noise of laughter, southern Loughrigg heard,
And Fairfield answered with a mountain tone:
Helvellyn far into the clear blue sky
Carried the lady's voice; old Skiddaw blew
His speaking-trumpet; back out of the clouds
Of Glaramara southward came the voice;
And Kirkstone tossed it from his misty head.”
Further to the south of these hills lies the Ober-
land Alp region of this whole district, the moun-
tainous group standing about desolate and savage
Wast Water, and which is said to be very wild
and grand. Here are the two Scawfell mountains,
one of them the highest peak of England. This is
a granite tract; the rest of these mountains are
generally of schistose slate, forming what has been
compared to a slate dome, rising to its greatest
height in Skiddaw and Helvellyn, and surrounded
by a rim of old red sandstone, limestone, and coal,
the latter being found in great quantities near the
sea, in the neighborhood of Cockermouth and
Workington. The summit of the Pass at Dunmail
Raise is six miles and a half from Ambleside, and
here a new picture is revealed which may be said
to belong to the Helvellyn circle. That mountain,
with its long furrowed southern sweep, predomi-
nates over the scene, and at this moment veils its
head in the clouds. At its base sleeps the narrow
lake of Thirlemere, or Leatheswater, so narrow as
to be bridged over in one place, a cold and shad-
owy sheet of water, overhung at its lower end with
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207
perpendicular rocks, especially one called Raven
Crag. Yet when the sun flashed out again, even
Thirlemere smiled back like a sister to her big
mountain brother as the scowl passed away from
his forehead. Some two miles on in the descent is
the miniature chapel of Wytheburn, and from Nag's
Head Inn on the other side of the road directly at
the foot of Helvellyn, the ascent of that mountain
is usually made, though this is a steeper path than
from the Patterdale side. Looking up here at the
broad and rugged slope of the mountain, my youth-
ful reader will not forget the story of young
Charles Gough, who fell from Striding Edge preci-
pice, and his faithful little terrier that kept three
months' watch over his dead body.
Helvellyn rises gradually from a wide-grasping
base in great steps or terraces, and is so singularly
formed and placed, that it is one of the most diffi-
cnlt of all the great mountains-to be seen in its en-
tire shape. Being centrally situated, the view
from its summit is the finest in the region, extend-
ing on the north to the highlands of Scotland.
The whole character of the mountain justifies Hart-
ley Coleridge's epithet of "drear Helvellyn."
The road to Keswick led past the cloven gate
of the narrow and romantic Vale of St. John, the
scene of Scott's "Bridal of Triermain." It runs
along under Naddle Fell, and near its head towers
the singular architectural rock, that
"Seemed some primeval giant's hand
The castle's massive walls had planned."
208
OLD ENGLAND.
From the hill of Castleriggs we gained a fine
afternoon view of the broad resplendent vale of
Keswick, with its two lakes and river, the tumult-
uous sea of the Derwentwater and Buttermere
mountains on the south side robed in purple shad-
ows and golden lights, and Skiddaw with its two
peaks in lone majesty on the north. For large and
beautiful scenery perhaps this is the finest part of
the Lake region. At least Southey and Coleridge
thought so. It is not a solitary inner mountain
shrine, like Wordsworth's home, where his self-sus-
tained genius could dwell apart; but it is a free and
open spot, at the same time cheerful and grand.
This is the circle of Skiddaw, a noble mountain.
rising easily out of the plain in gentle undulating
lines, and yet from the fact that it stands alone,
and shows its whole bulk, it is a finer mountain
than Helvellyn, which is larger.
The afternoon was so beautiful, that although
the sun was setting, I determined to see the length
of lovely Derwentwater, and come home by the
light of the stars. The lake is but half a mile from
Keswick, by a broad walk that forms the public
promenade of the town. The opposite mountains
lying between Derwentwater and Buttermere and
Crummock Lakes, of which Causey Pike, Greisdale
Pike, and far-off Wythop Fells, are the highest
summits, form a broken tumultuous group, a forest
of mountains, peak beyond peak, and at the mo-
ment were richly tinted and softened by the sunset
lights, that grew every moment mistier and dream-
THE LAKE COUNTRY.
209
ier and deeper in their purples and violets. It
does not require the highest mountains like the
Alps to awaken feelings of pure pleasure and sub-
limity. All mountain regions have more or less of
this power. Our American hills will make their
own poets; and have already served to refresh and
purify thousands of minds. God doubtless meant
them for this as well as for lower uses. Coming
out of such a "valley of the shadow of death" as
that of the Aar into the sweet vales of Imhof and
Meyringen, one gets glimpses of truth that no other
Nature can teach. The soul covets great emotions.
These the mountains give. They brace the mind
to grand purposes. And such delicate atmospheric
phenomena, such a blue in the sky, such marvelous
tints upon the rocks, such ethereal purity if one
goes into the heart of the glaciers, these are next
to impressions of things spiritual.
""
But I am getting away from a fine English lake,
if it be not a Swiss one. I called it "lovely
Derwentwater; it deserves a stronger epithet than
that; for although the mountains about it are not
high, yet they are so steep, so broken, forming such
shadowy bays, and piling up so boldly toward the
eastern Borrowdale end, that the scenery really
merits the title of grand. Each lake has its own
character. Taking away the associations, I was
more impressed with the mingled grandeur and
loveliness of Derwentwater than with the beauty
of any of the other lakes.
I set forth on the placid water under the guid-
14
210
OLD ENGLAND.
ance of a veteran oarsman named William Pear-
son, whose tongue ran like that of an old man,
and sensibly too. Talking confidentially of some
Americans he had taken out but a short time be-
fore on the lake, he said he never saw people with
so much “bounce." Good! but we come fairly
by it, friend Pearson of the white locks!
This western end of the lake appears mountain-
locked, and one does not see here the whole extent
of the water. We rowed directly over to Vicar's
Isle, a wooded island of six acres, containing a
gentleman's residence hidden among the trees.
Passing this we struck out into the middle of the
lake, going by Lord's Island, and St. Herbert's
Isle, where was once a little chapel dedicated to
Saints Herbert and Cuthbert, who had such love
for each other, that
"Though here the hermit numbered his last day,
Far from St. Cuthbert his beloved friend,
Those holy men both died in the same hour."
The margin of the lake is luxuriantly wooded,
and on the northern shore there is a strip of
meadow-land. Rich vegetation clothes the steep
slopes of the mountains. How still the water over
which we glided! Now and then a silver-sided
trout would leap above the surface as if to catch
the last lingering light. We pushed in among the
long weeds off the Inn of Lodore when the twilight
was almost gone, and walked fast up to the mouth
of the ravine where the "Falls of Lodore" ought
to be. Owing to the excessively dry season they
THE LAKE COUNTRY.
211
were rather a tinkling trumpery affair, and did not
come up to the roaring and pouring part of the
ode. But a very respectable precipice rose back
of the gorge, and the rocks were heaped around
in wild confusion. After taking a look at the end
of the lake, (not very distant, for we went near-
ly its whole length and made out some of the
Borrowdale mountains that close around it,) we
turned our faces toward Keswick. The row back
was by the starlight. A faint tinge of light lin-
gered long upon the western slope of Skiddaw in
front of us, which here appeared like a rounding
range or crown of mountains, rather than a single
mountain. Over the highest peak of Skiddaw glit-
tered one large bright star! The mountain shadows.
lay dark on the edges of the glassy mirror. But in
the centre there was a silver expanse, and through
this the boat left a path like a string of pearls, and
even the old boatman, who looked upon the lake as
his farm and fish-pond, was subdued by the calm-
ness of the scene. On landing he showed us a
large battered boat that he said Mr. Southey used
to use for picnics on St. Herbert's Island. He also
had pointed out to us a commanding rock, or
promontory, which Southey always showed to his
friends and visitors as a place where he should like
to build a house.
The home comes before the grave. "Greta
Hall," standing aside from the principal street of
Keswick on a grassy mound, at the foot of which
runs the "carolling" Greta, and having on the
212
OLD ENGLAND.
other side nothing between it and Skiddaw, is now
the property of an English bachelor of literary and
scientific tastes, who, it is said, holds the memory
of its former occupant in enthusiastic veneration.
While the place is in fine order, it has been pre-
served almost in the exact condition in which
Southey left it. It is a plain tall white house, with
vines running over the lower part of it. It has an
air of comfort without being at all fine. There is
a sloping grass-plot in front bordered with thick
shrubs and trees, and the gardener pointed out to
us the spot where Southey watched for his daughter
coming home through the hawthorn walk. One
gets a fine view here across the plain of the moun-
tains on the other side of Derwentwater. The
gardener told me (these were his very words) that
"Mr. Southey when he walked always looked up
into the element." He said, "Poor man, before
he died, he was better pleased with rolling marbles
than any thing else; and he could not tell one book
from another, though he handled them through
custom." I went into the room which was South-
ey's library, that once consisted of more than
7000 volumes; it is now occupied by a scientific
collection. I also saw the room where the poet
died, a small apartment looking out upon some
gloomy fir-trees; and was then shown Coleridge's
part of the house. His wife and Mrs. Southey it is
well known were sisters. I afterward went down
to the bank of the Greta, a babbling and cheerful
stream, and looked up at Skiddaw, which begins to
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213
rise from this point in a huge mass directly above.
The poet had made a true selection of a home. Yet
Southey drew more from his library within, than
from Greta or Skiddaw without. He did not, like
Wordsworth, repose on the bosom of Nature, and
want nothing else for nourishment. He depended
upon his books; and even his poetry was but a
kind of glow around the edges of his vast historical
lore.
But what poetry he did write was noble and
pure. Would that his pure unadulterated English
were more imitated by the writers of the day. He
did not falsify his art, nor strain after a clap-trap
effect. He was the scholar of that great trium-
virate of which Wordsworth was the poet, and
Coleridge the philosopher. I cannot leave this spot
without saying a word about Coleridge. This was
the home of some of his most creative days. It is
the small fashion now among a certain class to dis-
parage Coleridge, to lessen his philosophical name,
and to follow De Quincey in his charges. These
charges are simply absurd. An American scholar
of unquestioned integrity told me that in a con-
versation not many years since with Schelling, the
philosopher referred with approbation to those very
passages in the "Literaria Biographia" that De
Quincey said were plagiarized, and evidently with
no idea that they were taken from him. He spoke
of Coleridge as the greatest English philosophical
mind. Coleridge had no need to take from Schell-
ing or any one else. They had both, it is true,
drunk from the same fount of Kantian philosophy;
214
OLD ENGLAND.
and their samenesses of expression probably arose in
the following way: Coleridge's literary habits were
careless; in his youth when in Germany he had
made notes from Schelling's lectures, laid them
aside and forgotten them; when renewing the same
studies he referred to his German notes, probably
supposed they were his own, and freely used them ;
but he seems to have had a suspicion that they
were not all his own, and he therefore says in
so many words, that what things were not his he
would wish to lay no claim to and take no credit
for, or something to that effect. It is a shame to
charge so great and generous a soul as Coleridge
with the petty sin of pilfering. As to his opium-
eating, brought on by using opium under the advice
of a physician, it has been distinctly denied by his
own family that he died in this habit. He had
become, after an affecting conflict, a penitent and
reformed man. His last days were those of a
humble, trusting Christian. His mind was taken
up with spiritual contemplations. His end was
beautifully peaceful and childlike. It will yet be
acknowledged how much England and Christianity
owe Coleridge. He taught the reasonableness of
Christianity. He showed that it met with the
highest reason in man. He opposed the devas-
tating current of the sensational school with a
deeper current. He was almost the only English-
man who sought for or apprehended the true and
universal, in philosophy as in faith; and whatever
England possesses of philosophy which is more pro-
THE LAKE COUNTRY.
215
found than the utilitarian system now upheld by an
ability and persistency worthy of a better cause, is
due to Coleridge. The Reids, Stewarts, and Ham-
iltons, could not compare with him in originality and
depth of insight, if their mechanical skill in system-
making was greater.
Let the young men of America who wish to try
their minds in such high and difficult studies, in-
stead of going to Comte, Cousin, and the French
school, or even to the profounder school of Ger-
many, begin to study Coleridge, who, with the ex-
ception of Lord Bacon, was the deepest and richest
English philosophical mind. He will aid them to
believe, and lead them to a truer and deeper faith
instead of shipwrecking their faith. Why in truth
do we need to go outside of this little England of
our fathers for any thing, when it comprehends
such minds as Lord Bacon, Shakspeare, Milton,
and Coleridge!
I made a pilgrimage to the burial-place of Cole-
ridge at Highgate, so long renowned as a rural
suburb of London, a kind of northern Richmond
Hill. In front of Dr. Gilman's house is a row of
elm-trees under which Coleridge used to walk,
"and think of eternity." The old man who showed
me about the place said: "Mr. Coleridge used to
walk as if he was always studyin' and explainin' to
himself, which gave him a kind
The poet was actually buried
o'curous look."
beneath the old
church which is now removed. The vault is in-
scribed with the initials S. T. C. and the date.
216
OLD ENGLAND.
1834. His monument, however, erected by Dr.
Gilman, is upon the inside wall of the new church,
a fine edifice standing at some little distance from
the site of the old, and from whose back windows
is perhaps the most magnificent prospect of London
that can be found, with St. Paul's in the centre.
The inscription I give in full as the testimony of
one who knew him, and who is an unchallenged
witness:
"Sacred to the memory of
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE,
Poet, Philosopher, Theologian.
This truly great and good man resided for
the last nineteen years of his life
in this hamlet:
He quitted 'the body of this death
July 25th, 1834,
in the sixty-second year of his age.
Of his profound learning and discursive genius
his literary works are an imperishable record.
To his private worth,
his social and Christian virtues,
JAMES AND ANN GILMAN,
the friends with whom he lived
during the above period, dedicate this tablet.
Under the pressure of a long
and most painful disease,
his disposition was unalterably sweet and angelic.
He was an ever-enduring, ever-loving friend:
the gentlest and kindest teacher:
the most engaging home-companion."
We add the well-known epitaph written by Cole-
ridge himself a month or two before his death:
"Stop, Christian passer-by!
Stop, child of God!
Beneath this sod
And read with gentle heart.
A poet lies, or that which once seemed he :
Oh lift in thought a prayer for S. T. C.,
THE LAKE COUNTRY.
217
That he, who many a year with toil of breath
Found death in life, may here find life in death !
Mercy for praise to be forgiven for fame
He asked, and hoped, through Christ. Do thou the same."
We now come back to Greta Hall. Walking
down a side road, past what was once the real front
or lawn of Southey's house, and crossing the bridge
over the Greta, I came to Crosthwaite Church. It
is more of an edifice than the church of Grasmere,
and yet it has something of the same rude sim-
plicity. These words of Wordsworth, which might
also describe many an English rural church, would
give a true idea of it:
"Not framed to nice proportions was the pile,
But large and massy, for duration built;
With pillars crowded and the roof upheld
By naked rafters intricately crossed,
Like leafless under-boughs in some thick grove,
All withered by the depth of shade above.
Admonitory texts inscribed the walls,
Each in its ornamental scroll inclosed;
Each also crowned with winged heads - a pair
Of rudely painted cherubim. The floor
Of nave and aisle in unpretending guise
Was occupied by oaken benches ranged
In seemly rows; the chancel only showed
Some inoffensive marks of earthly state
And vain distinction. A capacious pew
Of sculptured oak stood here, with drapery lined;
And marble monuments were here displayed
Upon the walls; and on the floor beneath
Sepulchral stones appeared with emblems graven,
And foot-worn epitaphs, and some with small
And shining effigies of brass inlaid."
Set this on a solitary spot, with the circle of
mountains around, and you have the place where
the scholar and poet Southey has his last rest.
218
OLD ENGLAND.
Within the church there is a monument to him,
with a white marble reclining figure, finely done,
though there is an uneasy posture of the head.
Wordsworth, who knew him best, wrote the lines
inscribed upon the monument:
"Ye vales and hills whose beauties hither drew
The Poet's steps, and fixed them here, on you
His eyes have closed! And ye loved books, no more
Shall Southey feed upon your precious lore;
To works that ne'er shall forfeit their renown,
Adding immortal labors of his own;
Whether he traced historic truth with zeal,
For the State's guidance, the Church's weal,
Or Fancy, disciplined by studious art,
Informed his pen, or Wisdom of the heart,
Or Judgment, sanctioned in the patriot's mind,
By reverence for the rights of all mankind;
Wide were his aims, yet in no human breast
Could private feelings find a holier nest.
His Joys, his Griefs, have vanished like a cloud
From Skiddaw's top; but he to Heaven was vowed
Through a long life and pure; and Christian Faith
Calmed in his soul the fear of Change and Death."
In the churchyard, with a slab of black slate-
stone at its head, like that at Wordsworth's grave,
is the grave of Southey, with this inscription :
"Here lies the body of Robert Southey, LL. D.,
Poet Laureate. Born August 12, 1774; Died
March 21, 1843. For forty years a resident in this
parish. Also of Edith, his wife. Born May 20,
1774; Died Nov. 16, 1837.”
It was no fancy at all, but as I stood there a
slight cloud of mist was just detaching itself from
the top of Skiddaw, as in the figure of Words-
worth.
CHAPTER XIII.
TWEEDMOUTH TO HAWORTH.
We have now come across England to Berwick
on the river Tweed, and shall go down to London
on the eastern side, though an Englishman
would call coming up from London to Scotland
"going down."
Berwick-upon-Tweed is a venerable sea-stained
town, with a long and massive stone pier looking
out on the German Ocean. It is surrounded by a
wall that has stood the brunt of many a hard con-
test between two stubborn and still unmixed na-
tions in the Border wars. This is the famous
Teviot-dale and Chevy-Chace region.
We here enter Northumberland, (Northumbrian
land,) the scene of innumerable legends, in every
vale that runs inland, and upon every sandy hil-
Íock that stands on the sea-shore; the home of the
Percy, whose name starts armed men from the
earth.
The railway from Berwick to Alnwick, thirty
miles, is in sight of the sea nearly all the way. It
passes by Belford, and by Bamborough Castle,
near which places, off the coast, are the Farn
Islands, where Grace Darling did those achieve-
220
OLD ENGLAND.
1
ments that make bearded men silent when they
think of them.
This was the same Bamborough of the old "Bat-
tle of Otterbourne " ballad:
"Yf thou hast hanged all Bambarowe shyre,
Thou hast done me grete envye;
For the trespasse thou hast me done,
The tane of us schall dye."
Alnwick, a little to the west of the North British
Railway, and reached by a short junction line of
three miles, is a clean and stately town of seven or
eight thousand inhabitants. It has the peculiar air
of a "family town," not precisely the dependency,
but the historical background, the natural "belong-
ing" of an illustrious race. It is overshadowed by
one mighty name from which it derives its own
light and importance. The flashily painted omni-
bus from the Railway station rattles through the
narrow and sullen old "Bondgate," said to have
been built by "Hotspur" himself.
Alnwick Castle did not disappoint me, though I
had always thought of it as the “Ilium" of Eng-
land's historic story. It is a vast accumulation of
masonry grouped around tall central towers. It
has sixteen of these towers, and its whole mass
spreads over five acres. Round and angular bas-
tions of different heights give it a noble irregularity
of outline, but it is bare of that beautiful "shawl-
ing" of ivy and green that covers the old bones
of other English castles. It seems to say:
"I am
strong and young still. I want no covering for my
TWEEDMOUTH TO HAWORTH.
221
It
age. I can defend myself against all storms."
is stone, stone, stone, everywhere, with not a green
thing within and without. At least this is my re-
membrance of it. Over the barbican, as you enter,
stands an armed figure in stone, in the act of hurl-
ing a rock on the head of any who dare approach ;
and around the battlements are the effigics of other
warriors in animated fighting attitudes. Such a
stout, world-defying old pile is it, that a man, if he
has never done so before or after, feels himself a
hero while under the shadow of its lofty walls.
I was only permitted to see its three outer courts,
not the interior apartments. Some visitor a few
years since wrote in a disparaging strain of the
Duke's building operations at Alnwick, and since
then strangers have not been freely admitted.
This was a disappointment, but I gained a good
impression nevertheless of the stronghold of the
Percies, and of the "great Northumberland."
Going through the low-arched gateway, that
seemed to echo still with the ring of steel-clad
men and horses, one comes upon a noble view of
the main body of the castle, rising in rectangular
towers partly modern and partly antique. Here is
a large outer court, where a small army might as-
semble. In the second court, you see the immense
preparations for the modern kitchen department
not yet finished. You are shown the place in the
walls called the "Bloody Gap" through which the
Scots forced their way under King Malcolm, who
was slain at a short distance from the wall.
222
OLD ENGLAND.
In the smaller inner court, surrounded by dark,
high, gloomy towers, the stern heart of this
strength, near the Saxon gate, is the prison where
William the Lion was confined. Here the porter
cracked a harmless and venerable joke. "King
Malcolm," said he, "was killed at the Bloody Gap
a tryin' to ruin the Duke o' Northoomberlan'; and
this her same Malcolm's gran'daughter, mind you,
sir, was glad to get a Duke o' Northoom berlan' for
a hoosband." How the worthy seneschal of the
Percies giggled and shook at this mouldy bit of
family lore in the gloom of that dusky dungeon!
Architectural works of great magnitude are still
going on within and without the castle, and the
courtyards are encumbered with blocks of stone.
The whole enormous mass of buildings hangs
over the bright little stream of the Alne, beyond
which the view is broken and wooded. Half a mile
up the river amid the shadows of aged trees, is the
romantic Warkworth Hermitage, a chapel and two
chambers hewn in the side of a cliff:
"There scooped within the solid rock
Three sacred vaults he shows."
The first part of the ride from Alnwick to New-
castle, (sixty-three and a half miles,) passes through
the beautiful region of the Wansbeck River and
the Blyth. The deep gorges, the clear streams
dancing to the sea, and the green undulating hills,
with here and there a clump of red-roofed farm-
houses, with their prim hay-ricks, formed another
singular contrast to the barren and smutchy coal
TWEEDMOUTH TO HAWORTH.
223
region of Newcastle-upon-Tyne. This city may be
compared to a big pitch-pot· -the black Tyne an-
swering for the simmering liquid decoction, and the
ships, houses, carts, and men, for the bubbles. The
railway stretches directly over the river and city to
the height of 120 feet. Dimly seen through the
clouds of smoky vapor, rises the grim tower of
Robert, son of William the Conqueror, with the
crimson flag of England floating from its battle-
ments. The bridges, houses, and sails of the ship-
ping are also black. Every thing is hung in vest-
ments of sable, though it is reported by those who
have been able to see them that there are fine
streets and magnificent buildings, and all the signs
of flourishing opulence in this dark-browed capital
of coal.
On the way to Durham, which is fourteen and a
half miles from Newcastle, we passed by "Wash-
ington," a place with three chimneys, and the re-
mains of an old broken steam-boiler.
Durham is perhaps the most picturesquely situ-
ated town in England. It is placed upon a rocky
hill that rises abruptly from the banks of the Wear,
its sides covered with thick foliage, and on its high-
est summit stands the Cathedral, with its three
square towers. The old monks built like emper-
ors. They crowned every city, and wrote upon
the very heavens, as it were, the insignia of their
heaven-delegated power. The house or castle of
the king had to take a lower place. When Rich-
ard Cœur de Lion left for the Holy Land, he put
224
OLD ENGLAND.
the charge of his realm in the hands of the Bishop
of Durham, where it was probably before. As I
entered the Cathedral, one of the week-day morn-
ing services was progressing. According to my
impression, as I have before hinted, the finest
church music in Europe is to be heard in the Eng-
lish Cathedral service. The music at St. Peter's,
or in Catholic churches, does not equal it for purity,
fervor, and the exquisite beauty of the chorals of
boys' voices. Whether this constant repetition of
the Prayer-book, week in and week out, before a
few ladies, children, and amateurs of music, bene-
fits the common people, and raises the standard of
religion and benevolence, is another question. The
manner in which the prayers are raced through,
and the processions hurried in and out, and the
vestments slipped on and off, shows that it becomes
wearisome to the most devout.
The pillars of the nave are massive, and orna-
mented with circular and zigzag lines, after the
most fantastic description of the Norman architect-
ure; and the church itself is Norman. It dates
from the end of the 11th century. Its great fault
is the lowness of the nave; but it has some singu-
lar architectural peculiarities and beauties. Among
these is what is called the "Galilee," on the west
end overhanging the river. It is a structure that
mingles the Norman and Early English styles, with
ponderous chevron mouldings and arches resting
upon slender pillars. It came very near being
swept away by that classic barbarian bigot of the
TWEEDMOUTH TO HAWORTH.
225
last century, Mr. Wyatt, who wanted to make a
carriage-drive around this end of the church. Here
is the monument of the "venerable Bede," in
which all of his bones that were not scattered as
relics through the world were deposited. Manu-
scripts in his handwriting are to be seen in the li-
brary. It is told of him in the old chronicles, that
in his later days, when he was blind, he was led by
the fraud of his guide to a great heap of stones, and
was told that a large assembly of men and women
were awaiting him to hear him preach the word of
God. He, thinking it to be true, commenced a
homily, and when he came to the end, the stones
by divine power, like a great multitude of people,
said "Amen," or, as the Latin version is, "Deo
gracias." It were better to make the stones cry out
by preaching like living men, than to petrify living
men into stones! Let then the preacher have the
venerable Bede in mind, and resolve, by God's
help, to make men's stony hearts say "Amen" to
his words.
But the peculiar genius of this cathedral was St.
Cuthbert, whose shrine did an immense "sheep
shearing” business in the early centuries; especially
as the Saint was reported to lie in an incorruptible
state, "entire, flexible, and succulent." In 1827
the coffin of St. Cuthbert was opened and the tricks
of the monks exposed. Balls were found in the
eyes, gold wire for the hair, and swathings over the
bones.
On the outside of the northern door is a great
15
226
OLD ENGLAND.
grotesque brass head with staring hollow eyes and
a ring in its mouth, and it is said that in the olden
time, whenever a criminal fleeing from justice
could seize upon this ring he was safe. The floor
beneath the western tower was sanctuary ground.
This is the account given in a work on the antiqui-
ties of the church. "The culprit upon knocking
at the ring affixed to the north door was admitted
without delay, and after confessing his crime, with
every minute circumstance connected with it, the
whole of which was committed to writing in the
presence of witnesses, a bell on the Galilee tower
ringing all the while to give notice to the town that
some one had taken refuge in the church, there
was put upon him a black gown with a yellow cross
upon its left shoulder, as the badge of St. Cuthbert,
whose girth or peace he had claimed. When
thirty-seven days had elapsed, if no pardon could
be obtained, the malefactor, after certain ceremo-
nies before the shrine, solemnly abjured his native
land forever, and was straightway, by the agency
of the intervening parish constables, conveyed to
the coast, bearing in his hand a white wooden cross,
and was sent out of the kingdom by the first ship
which sailed after his arrival." There was a time
when rough free England was absolutely ruled by
the Church. The Church's temporal as well as
spiritual power was above that of king or civil
judge, even as claimed in the bull of Pope Urban ;
and this lasted till Henry VIII. demolished it, and
proclaimed himself head of the English Church,
the one being about as just a claim as the other.
TWEEDMOUTH TO HAWORTH.
227
The Bishopric of Durham is still worth some-
thing. The recent Bishop is reported to have left
a property of $1,000,000.
Durham Castle, now turned into a peaceful theo-
logical seminary, contains nothing remarkable.
Yorkshire is the Empire State of England. In
size, agricultural richness, manufactures, popula-
tion, noble estates, rural beauty, and historical an-
tiquities, it is the queen of English counties. It is
more than six hundred square miles larger than
Lincolnshire and Devonshire combined, which are
the next largest counties. One section of it alone,
West Riding, contains about a million and a half
of people, one twelfth of the population of Eng-
land. Yorkshiremen are tall and well-fed. They
love horses, drive keen bargains, and are more like
"Sam Slick's" Yankees, even in their dialect, than
these are to their originals. If the ample kitchen
fire-place and the old hearty English manners in
hall and cottage remain anywhere unchanged in
this "fast" age, they may be found in Yorkshire.
From Durham to York it is sixty-seven miles.
The number of gentlemen's residences and noble-
men's parks in this part of England is incredible.
One naturally asks where is there any land to be
obtained by smaller proprietors and farmers? One
cannot wonder that the word "locate," as
locate a lot of land," should be considered an
Americanism, there being no such unappropriated
bit of earth left in England. But the wealth of
such great landowners flows over their land, and
66 to
228
OLD ENGLAND.
makes it indescribably green, smooth, and beautiful.
How different now the scene from that described
by an old historian, giving an account of the effects
of William the Conqueror's rage against the rebel-
lious, or rather, as was really the case, patriotic
Saxons. "He wasted the land between York and
Durham, so that for three score miles there was left
in manner no habitation for the people, by reason
whereof it laid waste and desert for nine or ten
yeares. The goodlie cities, with the towers and
steeples set up on a statelie height, and reaching as
it were into the air; the beautiful fields and past-
ures watered with the course of sweet and pleasant
rivers; if a stranger should then have beheld, and
also knowne what they were before, he would have
lamented." No wonder the stern warrior gasped
out on his death-bed: "Laden with many and
grievous sins, O Christ, I tremble; and being
ready to be taken by Thy will into the terrible
presence of God, I am ignorant what I should do,
for I have been brought up in feats of arms even
from a child. I am greatly polluted with the effect
of much blood. A royal diadem that never any
of my predecessors did bear I have gotten; and
although manly greediness on my triumph doth
rejoice, yet inwardly a careful fear pricketh and
biteth me when I consider that in all these cruel
rashness hath raged.'
York, where one Roman Emperor was born and
another buried, has sunk from an imperial city next
to London, to a place of third or fourth rate impor-
TWEEDMOUTH TO HAWORTH.
229
tance. It mixes drugs and blows glass bubbles
where it once ruled a kingdom. On its gates the
great "king-maker's" head was set, crowned with
a paper cap by the fierce Queen Margaret. But
the youngest reader need not be told that York
Minster is the grandest building in Great Britain,
and among the finest in the world. From the top
of its central tower one can see thirty miles. Its
west front is a most splendid instance of the Deco-
rated style, and as "La Sainte Chapelle" is the
"rose" of France, so its little chapter-house is the
"rose" of England. Its seven great windows,
and especially what are called "The Five Sisters
of York" with painted glass of the 13th century,
glow as if studded with gems. Charlotte Brontë
often looked on these jewelled windows, and walked
under these arches, and heard this great organ.
From York I went to the famous English "Spaw,"
consisting of two villages about a mile apart, called
"High" and "Low Harrowgate." They are situ-
ated in the middle of the county, on the highest
table-land in England, and are resorted to by
dyspeptics and artists. Harrowgate is the "Avon
Springs" of England. The sulphurous waters are
of considerable strength and efficacy, and these
combined with the pure air often effect cures in
cases well-nigh desperate. I stopped at the "Gran-
by Hotel" in High Harrowgate, termed in the
guide-book "the truly aristocratic hotel of the
Spa." It stands on the edge of a broad breezy
common, over which young ladies in flats are con-
230
OLD ENGLAND.
tinually walking or impelling reluctant donkeys.
Old ladies in satins, and ancient gentlemen with
the florid manners and costume of the era of
George IV., play everlasting games of whist in the
crimson-curtained parlor.
The walk between the two villages is through
quiet fields, with now and then an old-fashioned
"stile." In the vicinity of Harrowgate are some
of the most picturesque ruins in England, and
around it like a rim stretch the Craven and Ham-
bleton Hills. But the coal-colored skies were
gloomy and showery, though in a scientific book
it was stated that "the amount of precipitation is
less than that of the neighborhood." The old
English word for "glory" was
was "clerenesse," and
we wonder not that the clear shining of the sun in
this region of perpetual mist should be thought
glorious.
While at Harrowgate I made an excursion to
"Fountains Abbey," fourteen miles distant by the
Ripon road. How one speeds along over the smooth
turnpikes in a stiff two-wheeled English wagon!
We hardly yet know the luxury of such riding in
America, excepting on a few of our best roads out
of the large cities. Twenty or thirty miles are
something of a distance to drive, but it is reeled
off so easily, that neither the driver nor the horses
seem to think any thing of it.
in England because both the
They are fast drivers
horses and roads are
admirable. At Ripon I strolled into the old church,
and saw the lugubrious sight of the charnel-house
TWEEDMOUTH TO HAWORTH.
231
literally crammed with human bones, piled up with
the nicety and geometric regularity of a ware-
house.
It was a pleasant sight to stand on the old stone
bridge over the bright Ure, and watch the river
rippling underneath as clear as amber, as clear as
when St. Wilfred drank it.
Three miles from Ripon is Studley Royal, be-
longing to Earl de Grey, in whose grounds are the
ruins of Fountains Abbey. It is difficult to say
which is the finest, Fountains, Bolton, or Tintern
Abbey; perhaps the last; but there is nothing in
the world more lovely than one of these English
Abbeys, fallen to decay yet still tall, strong, and
majestic in what remains; draped with vines and
ivy, silent and unused, and standing in the midst
of the most luxuriant Nature.
Fountains Abbey is indeed "a tale of the times
of old." The lofty beautiful arches, the extent and
solidity of the whole gray pile, and the perfect re-
pose of the narrow vale, completely shut in by
rocks and trees, and hushed to listen to the mur-
murs of its own little brook, which seems to whis-
per,
"Men may come and men may go,
But I flow on forever,"
this just meets that mood of mind (certainly not
the highest or best), in which, wounded and
wearied by the world, one in old times and some-
times in these days, would gladly turn Contem-
plator, instead of Actor in worldly scenes.
232
OLD ENGLAND.
In this dell, Robin Hood had his famous encoun-
ter with the "curtall fryer," in which he appears
to have had the worst of it.
"From ten o'clock that very day,
Till four i' th' afternoon;
Then Robin Hood came to his knees
Of the fryer to beg a boone;"
and it ended in this compromise:-
"If thou wilt forsake fair Fountaine's dale
And Fountaine's Abbey free,
Every Sunday throwout the yeare
A noble shall be thy fee."
Standing a little to the west of the abbey, is the
oldest yew-tree in England, with the exception
perhaps of the one in Iffley churchyard. It is
called the "Abbot's Yew." It was known to be
aged when the abbey was built, and still so tough
and vigorous is it, that two younger trees have
forced themselves up through the parent trunk.
Sombre and stirless it stands, not revealing what it
has seen.
From Harrowgate I drove over the moors to
"Bolton Priory." It is hardly fair to have two
such abbeys come close together, but it cannot be
helped; still as I have resisted the temptation of a
description in the one case, so I will in the other.
Bolton Priory is now the possession of the Duke
of Devonshire. May he have capacity to enjoy all
he possesses! To own such a spot as Bolton Pri-
ory were enough for one man. I do not envy its
owner, but one almost thinks when he sees it, that
he should never desire to leave it for a day. Here is
TWEEDMOUTH TO HAWORTH.
233
gray-
every thing one could wish, and trout and "
ling" in the river. The vale in which the abbey
stands is itself a noble one. The wide, bright
meadows, the clear rushing Wharfe, and the tall
cliffs that hang over the river, and grow narrower
and more broken at the upper end of the valley to-
ward Barden Fell, make it the central spot in Eng-
land for sweet native loveliness. The first instance.
of Turner's mountain drawing, it is said, was from
these shores of the Wharfe, which was his favorite.
Yorkshire river that he never could "revisit with-
out tears, or speak of without a faltering voice."
The only tender spot in his rude heart, the only
spring which appeared to open into something rarer
and nobler in him, was this exquisite perception,
this pure and delicate love of Beauty, which sought
its object not in the strange or grand, but in the
quiet haunt and inmost shrine of Nature.
66
Keighly (pronounced Keatley ") has been
chiefly made known to us from its proximity to
Haworth, Charlotte Brontë's home. When did
we ever hear or think of it before? Yet it is one
of those important and swarming manufacturing
places that make the power and wealth of Eng-
land; and, as I arrived on pay-day afternoon, the
streets were thronged with thousands of factory-
people, bearing the hard and independent stamp of
West Riding weavers, described so vigorously in
"Shirley." In the dull and up-hill ride of four
miles to Haworth, shut in most of the way by high
stone walls, instead of the usual green hedges, I
234
OLD ENGLAND.
could not but think of those two feeble sisters,
struggling along afoot over this dreary road, in the
thunder-storm, on their way to Keighly to take the
London train, for the purpose of proving to their
publisher their actual and separate identity. We
passed several great stone mills that might have
been very well used for fortresses.
Haworth was pointed out with its gray tower,
near the summit of a very high hill, and at its back
swept away north the rolling, dismal moorlands,
without the sign of a human habitation. A month
later, and these moors would be gorgeous with
heather-blossoms.
After passing a few straggling houses, we began
to ascend that long, steep, paved street of Haworth,
now become so well known. What a straining,
scrambling pull of it! At the top was the "Black
Bull Inn." Its little parlor was well enough, but
its sleeping apartments were frowsy and dirty, for
probably few people overnight' there, as the Ger- ·
mans say.
6
Just at the left of the inn, within a step or so,
through a tall iron gate, was the populous cemetery
of the church.
The church itself is a plain stone building, less
interesting, architecturally, than English village
churches usually are. The tower is evidently of
very ancient date, with a modern body pinned upon
it. All was hard, weather-worn stone, with noth-
ing green or smiling; there was not a tuft of grass
about the churchyard.
TWEEDMOUTH TO HAWORTH.
*235
I could not help glancing at the "Parsonage,"
looking over the edge of the tabled graveyard ;
but I hastened into the church, and was seated in
the Squire's pew near the pulpit, hung with faded
green baize.
For an English village choir's artistic perform-
ances, I refer my readers to the "Sketch-Book.”
Mr. Nicholls preached from John v. 1. He is a
dark-complexioned man, rather thin, with black
hair and beard. It was a short, practical sermon,
and the tones of his voice, especially in the service,
were grave and pleasant, and, as I conceived, with
a touch of sadness. The plaintive "litany" seemed
never more appropriate. It was a gusty day of
rain and shine, but its general complexion was mel-
ancholy.
The old pews within were so dull and brown, the
old tombs outside were so still and sad, and the
roar and dashing of the storm at times was so dis-
mal, that the sins, conflicts, and sorrows of life
would have been the sermon preached to one's
heart, had the preacher charmed never so sweetly.
I saw the pew, and the corner of it, where Char-
lotte used to sit; and the new white marble tablet
on the wall, erected to her memory, and that of her
mother, four sisters, and brother. Its Scriptural
motto was from 1 Cor. xv. 56, 57. The victory
was soon gained after all, for the authoress of
"Jane Eyre" and "Shirley" was only thirty-
nine when she died. I was also shown the register
of her marriage, and her autograph in the church
236
OLD ENGLAND.
records.
And here she was married, and her
stern old father was not even present to give her
away.
Without intending or seeking it, I was invited,
as a stranger, to call upon Mr. Brontë, for a few
moments during the intermission.
I went through a high-walled yard at the back
of the house, around to the front, through a small
flower-garden, (rather run to waste now,) and was
shown by "Martha" into Mr. Brontë's study.
I do not think it would be violating good taste to
speak of an interview so simple, and that had noth-
ing confidential in its character.
Mr. Brontë met me with real kindness of man-
ner, but with something of the stateliness of the
old school. His hair, worn short, was white as
driven snow; his ample cambric cravat completely
covered his chin; and his black dress was of the
most scrupulous neatness. He has been called
handsome, but that he never could have been. He
has strong, rugged, even harsh features, with a high,
wrinkled forehead, and swarthy complexion; and
his eyes are partially closed, for he is almost blind.
He said he was induced to invite me to his house,
though he saw very little company, because he
learned I was an American, and he thought much
of America.
Our conversation was chiefly upon religious top-
ics, and he wished to be informed about the great
spiritual movements which from time to time pass
over America. He thought that revivals in
TWEEDMOUTH TO HAWORTH.
237
England and Ireland were accompanied by too
much animal excitement; yet he believed in
their reality. He spoke of Roman Catholicism,
and said that he had seen enough of it, as he was
an Irishman. He thought we ought to guard
against its machinations on the other side of the
water. Roman Catholics could not be consistent
Republicans; and we must not trust too carelessly
to the principle that Truth would prevail in an
open field. The Catholics made much of that, and
took advantage of it. He spoke of education in
England that it was all the fashion just now;
but I could not help thinking that the conservative,
granite-minded old "Helstone" looked upon a
great deal of it as sentimental and superficial. He
struck me as being naturally a very social man,
with a mind fond of discussion, and feeding eagerly
on new ideas, in spite of his reserve. My call was
necessarily quite a short one. I then went into
the opposite parlor, where his daughters used to sit
and write. There was Charlotte's portrait, with
those large dark eyes, square impending brow, and
sad, unsmiling mouth. Branwell Brontë's medal-
lion likeness hung opposite; and Thackeray's por-
trait, "looking past her," as she said, was on the
front wall. Her books still lay on the table. There
was a Bible of Emily's, and a much-worn copy
of
Mrs. Gaskell's "Mary Barton," presented by the
authoress to Mrs. Nicholls. This room had rather
a pleasant look; but its furnishing was simple to
severity, and its only ornament was a little bunch
238
OLD ENGLAND.
of broom-grass on the table. Martha then showed
me into the kitchen for a moment. This had been
Tabby's kingdom. Every thing was exquisitely
neat, and the copper pans shone like gold. It was
a snug, warm, crooning place; and it was not diffi-
cult to see the picture, on a dark winter eve, when
the storms howled over the moor and rattled
against the windows, of those bright-fancied chil-
dren crouching together around the fire, telling their
strange stories, and living in a world created by
themselves. Here Emily Brontë studied German,
with her book propped up before her, while she
kneaded dough. Now all are gone; and the old
father, shutting up many things in his own impen-
etrable mind, was still living on alone, thinking
more perhaps of meeting his children again in a
sinless and sorrowless world, than of all their fame.
in this.
It
In the afternoon I heard Mr. Brontë preach
from Job iii. 17: "There the wicked cease from
troubling, and there the weary be ai rest.
was the simple extemporaneous talk of an aged
pastor to his people, spoken without effort, in short,
easy sentences, and was drawn, it appeared to
me, right out of that old graveyard, among whose
stones his feet had walked, and his imagination had
lived so long. In parts it was pathetic, especially
where he alluded to the loss of children. He
branched off upon the sorrows, convulsions, and
troubles then in the world, and he seemed to long
for wings like a dove to fly away from this change-
TWEEDMOUTH TO HAWORTH.
239
ful scene, and be at rest. The old church clock,
as if echoing the venerable preacher's remarks, had
written upon it, "Time how short eternity how
long!"
On the whole, my Haworth visit was a serious
and sobering one. I thought of what Charlotte
Brontë said, that "it always made her unhappy to
go away from Haworth, for it took her so long to
become happy after she got home." Yet that
stone house a century old, those bleak moors, that
very melancholy crowded graveyard, may have
done something to make Charlotte Brontë what
she was. They fenced her in, and made her in-
ventive. Her fiery Irish imagination was concen-
trated here into a vital energetic current, that did
not waste itself in endless poetic mazy streams, but
cut for itself a deep, practical, and creative channel.
As a pearl-oyster will, after a time, coat a gravel-
stone introduced into it with its own rich and pure
enamel, so the few rough and homely objects that
her mind was familiar with, became clad with the
lustrous and glorious beauty of her own thought
and imagination. The less she saw, the more ac-
curately she drew, and the more profoundly she
analyzed. Her bodily eye grew microscopic, but
her spiritual vision was enlarged, and saw into the
elements of things, and the hidden springs of ac-
tion. Hence a shy, secluded little woman de-
scribes Nature as if she had always been accus-
tomed to live in the midst of the most lovely and
opulent scenery, and moves our mind with some-
240
OLD ENGLAND.
thing of the mighty power of Shakspeare, when
she lays bare the abysses and spiritual forces of
moral character. Even in her most vivid and
realistic writings there is this intense subjective-
ness.
The best criticism ever made upon her novels, it
seems to me, was this that her characters did not
converse like human beings, but that their conver-
sation was in fact their thoughts; it was thinking
aloud.
I afterward saw Madame Heger's school in
Brussels, where Charlotte and her sister resided for
a time. Even that seemed to be a dull, shut-in
spot, as it were down in a pit. Intellectually*
speaking, she was a vine always to be kept pruned
close by the husbandman, that she might bring
forth more fruit.
CHAPTER XIV.
HOME OF THE PILGRIMS.
TWELVE miles to the south of Doncaster, on the
great Northern line of railway, and just at the
junction of Yorkshire, Nottinghamshire, and Lin-
colnshire, in the county of Nottingham, but border-
ing upon the fenny districts of Lincolnshire, whose
monotonous scenery reminds one of Holland, lies
the village of Scrooby. Surely it is of more in-
terest to us than all the Pictish forts and Roman
walls that the "Laird of Monkbarns " ever dreamed
of. I was dropped out of the rail carriage, which
hardly stopped, upon a wide plain at a miniature
station-house, with some suspicions of a church and
small village across the flat rushy fields in the dis-
tance. This was indeed the humble village (though
now beginning to be better known) which I had
been searching for; and which nobody of whom I
inquired in Doncaster, or on the line of the railway,
seemed to know any thing about, or even that such
a place existed. I made its discovery by the help
of a good map. The station-master said that he
came to Scrooby in 1851, and then it numbered
three hundred inhabitants; and since that time
there had been but twelve deaths.
16
242
OLD ENGLAND.
My search for the manor-house where Brewster
and Bradford established the first church of the
Pilgrims, was, for a time, entirely fruitless. I in-
quired of a genuine "Hodge" working in the
fields; but his round red face showed no glimmer
of light on a matter so far removed from beans
and barley. I next encountered a good Wesleyan
minister, trudging his morning circuit of pastoral
visitation, but could gain nothing from him, though
a chatty, communicative man. At the venerable
stone church of Scrooby, very rude and plain in
architecture, but by no means devoid of picturesque-
ness, I was equally unsuccessful. The verger of
the church, who is generally the learned man of the
village, was absent; and his daughter knew nothing
outside the church and churchyard.
I strolled along the grassy country road that ran
through the place till I met a white-haired old
countryman, who proved to be the most intelligent
soul in the neighborhood. He put his cane to his
chin, shut and opened his eyes, and at last told me
in broad Yorkshire, that he thought the place I was
looking for must be what they called "the bishop's
house," where Squire Dickinson lived. Set at last
upon the right track, I walked across two swampy
meadows that bordered the Idle River, perti-
nently named till I came to a solitary farm-
house with a red-tiled roof. Some five or six
slender poplar-trees stood at the back of it, and a
ditch of water at one end, where there had been
evidently an ancient moat"a moated grange."
HOME OF THE PILGRIMS.
243
It was a desolate spot, and was rendered more so
just then by the coming up of a thunder-storm,
whose "avant courier," the wind, made the slender
poplars and osiers bend and twist. Squire John
Dickinson, the present inhabitant of the house,
which is owned by Richard Monckton Milnes, the
poet, gave me a hearty farmer's welcome. I think
he said there had been one other American there
before; at any rate he had an inkling that he was
squatted on soil of some peculiar interest to Amer-
icans. He introduced me to his wife and daughters,
healthy and rosy-cheeked English women, and made
me sit down to a hospitable luncheon. He enter-
tained me with a discourse upon the great amount
of hard work to be done in farming among these
bogs, and wished he had never undertaken it, but
had gone to America or Australia. The house he
said was rickety enough, but he contrived to make
it do. It was, he thought, principally made of
what was once a part of the stable of the Manor
House. The palace itself has now entirely dis-
appeared; "but," said my host, "dig anywhere
around here and you will find the ruins of the
old palace." Dickinson said that he himself was
reared in Austerfield, a few miles off in Yorkshire ;
and that a branch of the Bradford family still lived
there. After luncheon I was shown Cardinal
Wolsey's mulberry-tree, or what remained of it;
and in one of the barns, some elaborately carved
wood-work and ornamental beams, covered with
dirt and cobwebs, were pointed out, which undoubt-
edly belonged to the archiepiscopal palace.
244
OLD ENGLAND.
This was all that remained of the house where
Elder Brewster once lived, and gathered his hum-
ble friends about him, in a simple form of worship.
Bradford, in his “Life of Brewster," says: "They
ordinarily met at his house on the Lord's day, which
was a manor of the Bishop's, and with great love
he entertained them when they came, making pro-
vision for them to his great charge, and continued
so to do whilst they could stay in England." And
Leland, in 1541, says: "In the meane townlet of
Scrooby I marked two things, the parish church not
big but very well builded, the second was a great
manor place, standing with a moat and longing to
the Archbishop of York; builded in two courts,
whereof the first is very ample, and all builded of
timber saving the front of the house, that is of
brick, to the which ascenditur per gradus lapideos."
This manor was assigned to the Archbishop of
York in the “Doomsday Book." Cardinal Wolsey,
when he held that office, passed some time at this
palace. While he lived there, Henry VIII. slept
a night in the house. It came into Archbishop
Sandys's hands in 1576. He gave it by lease to his
son, Samuel Sandys, under whom Brewster held
the manor. Brewster, as is now well known, was
the Post-Superintendent of Scrooby, an important
position in those days, lying as the village did, and
does now, upon the great northern line of travel
from London to Yorkshire, Northumberland, and
Scotland.
A Cambridge scholar, and clerk of Secretary
HOME OF THE PILGRIMS.
245
Davison, Brewster had seen much of courts and
mingled in public scenes. While engaged upon an
important embassy to Holland, he had undoubtedly
often met and conversed with that remarkable and
far-sighted man, William the Silent. Bradford, a
man of good family in the neighboring town of
Austerfield, became interested in Brewster's relig-
ious views when but eighteen years of age, and at
once joined Brewster's little company of independ-
ent worshipers, who were composed chiefly of Lin-
colnshire farmers and ditchers; and here on every
Lord's day they met to worship until they left in a
body for Holland. As the judicial books of the
neighborhood still show, many members of this
congregation refused to obey, at the cost of fine
and imprisonment, the oppressive ecclesiastical laws
of Elizabeth and James I., and of a somewhat later
time. They were evidently no fanatics. The
three simple points upon which Brewster and his
co-religionists founded their right of separation from
the Established Church at that time were these:
1. The determination not to support and attend
upon many prescribed ecclesiastical forms, not per-
haps wicked in themselves, but inwoven with ordi-
nances and opinions that they esteemed Popish.
2. The claim to the right of individual interpreta-
tion of the Scriptures. 3. The assertion of the
right to exclude immoral persons from their church
communion. These points of difference compelled
them to be separatists, not only driving them to a
separation from the Church of England, but from
246
OLD ENGLAND.
their native soil, and finally compelled them to
become "strangers and pilgrims" on a totally new
and foreign shore. The calm and enlightened
character of Brewster himself forbids us supposing
that he would have undertaken any thing unrea-
sonable, wild, or visionary. He and his coadjutors
were not disorderly persons, and did not go law-
lessly to work. They constituted themselves into
a church, "to walk in all his ways made known
or to be made known unto them, according to
their best endeavors, whatever it should cost them."
These last were no empty words, spoken as they
were in times of persecution, when the government
of the land, stimulated by the State Church, was
sternly determined to crush out the life of dissent
from the kingdom. The church thus established
was the model of all our New England churches to
this day, and was organized it is supposed about
the year 1602. In 1606 Brewster was chosen an
elder, and Clifton the pastor. John Robinson of
Newark, Norwich County, then makes his appear-
ance as teacher and preacher of this humble church.
This little church removed with much difficulty,
loss, and peril, during the pastorate of Richard
Clifton, as one religious body to Holland, though
in two divisions. They went first to Amster-
dam; and afterward a portion drew off with John
Robinson and settled in Leyden; and it was
this portion of the Scrooby and Brewster, Leyden
and Robinson church, which formed the integral
part of the one hundred souls who returned to
HOME OF THE PILGRIMS.
247
England in the Speedwell, and who finally em-
barked in the Mayflower from Plymouth. The
remainder of the people, and many other English
refugees for conscience' sake, crossed over soon
after by other vessels to America. But these were,
by eminence, the "Pilgrim Fathers;" the separa-
tists from the non-conformists; the purest siftings
of the wheat; the "Puritans of the Puritans."
They were, it is true, mostly unknown Lincoln-
shire ditchers, and plain Nottinghamshire farmers,
with now and then a yeoman, and a man of family
and education. They were, however, sound, hon-
est, thoughtful Englishmen. They were diligent
readers of the Bible, and were really superior in
their moral convictions, and their spiritual eleva-
tion, to the rest of Englishmen at that time. As
Governor Bradford wrote of them, "but they knew
they were pilgrims, and looked not so much on
those things, but lift up their eyes to the heavens,
their dearest country, and quieted their spirits.'
They formed neither the highest nor the lowest
class in the land, but that class of independent agri-
culturists, of "free socage tenants," who were the
root of English freedom, and the English civil con-
stitution. They had besides a small but pure leaven
of consecrated learning in their body. Who, in-
deed, would ask but for one such capacious mind
as that of John Robinson, whom God had made
great, wise, and prophetic, to be the founder of a
free and mighty people! "He was," says a con-
temporary, speaking of the Puritans, "the most
""
248
OLD ENGLAND.
:
learned, polished, and modest spirit, that ever that
sect enjoyed." The great words which he spake at
the time of parting with his flock at Delft Haven
are an inestimable legacy to us for all time: " We
are now ere long to part asunder, and the Lord
knoweth whether ever he should live to see our
faces again. But whether the Lord had appointed
it or not, he charged us before God and his blessed
angels, to follow him no further than he followed
Christ and if God should reveal any thing to us
by any other instrument of his, to be as ready to
receive it as ever we were to receive any truth of
his ministry; for he was very confident the Lord
had more light and truth yet to break out of his
holy Word. He took occasion also to bewail the
state and condition of the reformed churches, who
were come to a period in religion, and would go no
further than the instruments of their reformation.
As for example the Lutherans, they could not be
drawn to go beyond what Luther saw; for what-
ever part of God's will he had further imparted to
Calvin, they will rather die than embrace it. And
so also, saith he, you see the Calvinists, they stick
where he left them, a misery much to be lamented;
for though they were precious shining lights in
their times, yet God had not revealed his whole.
will to them; and were they now willing, saith he,
they would be as ready to embrace further light as
that they had received.' While thus a man of
far-sighted penetration and progress, he was firm
upon the great truths of our Christian faith.
He
HOME OF THE PILGRIMS.
249
had the spirit of Christ, and united courage with
mildness. His "New Essays on Things Moral and
Divine" contain passages which, for smoothness and
vigor of style, compare well with the writings of
Hooker, or Hall, or any of his contemporaries.
"Faith," he says, "as a welcome passenger must
be well carried and convoyed through a sea of
temptations, in a vessel of good conscience, that it
suffer not shipwreck; directed by the chart of
God's Word and promises rightly understood, that
it run not a wrong course; and having ever in
readiness the anchor of hope against a stress; and
continually gathering into the outspread sails of a
heart enlarged by prayer and meditation, the sweet
and prosperous gusts of God's Holy Spirit to drive
it to the desired haven." In the same essay he
says: "Lastly, touching love; as it is the affection
of union, so it makes after a sort the loving and
loved, one; such being the force thereof, as that he
that loveth suffereth a kind of conversion into that
which he loveth, and by frequent meditation of it
uniteth it with his understanding and affection.
how happy is the man, who by the sweet feeling of
the love of God shed abroad in his heart, is there-
by, as by the most strong cords of Heaven, drawn
with all the heart to love God who hath loved him,
and so becomes one with him, and rests upon him
for all good." These are passages taken at ran-
dom. It is strange that his writings are not more
read by American Christians.
O
It is said of Bradford, a worthy disciple of Rob-
250
OLD ENGLAND.
inson in largeness of soul and mental culture, that
he mastered the Latin and Greek and studied
Hebrew, because "he would see with his own eyes
the ancient oracles of God in their native beauty."
Brewster himself was a man of no mean acquire-
ments. His library, which was the principal part
of the estate he left, consisted of two hundred and
seventy-five volumes, sixty-four of them being on
the learned languages. Other Cambridge scholars
followed them shortly after, among whom was that
wise and gentle spirit, John Cotton, the founder or
father of Boston.
Such were the men who were gathered together
in that small despised religious communion, and
who came to the New World as a united Christ-
ian church, impelled by a purely spiritual motive,
without any admixture among the original "Pil-
grim Fathers" of the commercial idea; to plant
almost unconsciously, and as the natural results of
their religious views, the principles of a free repub-
lican state. Let us never doubt that the pure im-
pulse which bore them to America, will preserve
their principles through all time to come.
Puritanism always goes, as Macaulay has splen-
didly demonstrated, before the establishment of a
just, free, and Christian government; it must ever
be, "first pure, then peaceable.
I do not believe that Puritanism comprehends
the whole truth; for Puritanism is itself partial,
though as far as it goes it is sound and true.
a world-church can never be founded on the prin-
But
HOME OF THE PILGRIMS.
251
ciple of separation, but only of unity; and it must
have more than purity, it must have faith, hope,
and charity. Puritanism makes a good beginning,
the only good beginning; yet it must rise to a
higher, and larger, and diviner idea of truth, before
it shall become the Church or the State universal.
But to look at this lonely and decayed manor-
house, standing in the midst of these flat and deso-
late marshes, and at this most obscure village of
the land, this Nazareth of England, slumbering in
rustic ignorance and stupid apathy, and to think
of what has come out of this place, of what vast
influences and activities have issued from this quiet
and almost listless scene, one has strange feelings.
The storied "Alba Longa," from which Rome
sprang, is an interesting spot, but the newly dis-
covered spiritual birthplace of America may excite
deeper emotions.
CHAPTER XV.
LINCOLN TO ELY.
I HAVE said that Lincolnshire was Dutch in its
scenery; the resemblance is greatly heightened
by the numberless windmills, some of them old,
ragged, and picturesque. Broad canals shimmer-
ing in the red light of sunset, straight as a bee-line,
and stretching as far as the eye could reach, cut
through this flat, fat, fenny soil, which has been
nearly all reclaimed and brought to a high state
of kitchen-garden cultivation, though at vast cost.
When will the "Pontine Marshes " be as thorough-
ly drained, and fit for something else than the habi-
tation of wild hogs and buffaloes? This whole Fen
district is computed to comprehend the immense
tract of four hundred thousand acres.
Lincoln rises abruptly from the plain. Its sum-
mit is crowned by the Cathedral, which presides
over a vast extent of flat country; and so com-
manding is its position and its height, that it can
be seen, it is said, from Buxton hills in Derby-
shire.
It is a tough walk in warm weather up "Steep-
hill Street," but the Cathedral amply repays the
effort. It is certainly in grandeur next to York
LINCOLN TO ELY.
253
Minster, of all the English Cathedrals, and as a
whole impressed me more. There is more of
rugged strength and majesty in its front, while the
east end is incomparable for its elegance and flow-
ing grace. Its central tower rises to the height
of two hundred and sixty-eight feet. In ascending
the tower, I arrived at the bell-room just as great
"Tom of Lincoln " was striking. The still air
was in an instant racked with a mighty uproar, and
the solid tower trembled under every humming
thunder-stroke. The view from the summit is one
of the most peculiar in England; the ancient city
clustering on the slopes of the hill, and then a
level plain not strewn very thickly with towns and
villages, but rather like a grassy Hungarian steppe
stretching far and wide to the hills on one side and
the sea on the other. The Cathedral is built in the
form of a double cross; its best parts belong to the
most elaborate and mature period of the "Early
English" or "Pointed" style. Within and with-
out it is rich in carving of the boldest character.
One can see in under the leaves. The " Presby-
tery or Lady Chapel" is full of this exquisite
carved work, and is sometimes called the "Angel
Choir," from the figures of thirty angels in the
spandrels of the triforium arches, carved as if they
were flying on high, and playing upon every kind
of temple instrument, such as the harp, trumpet,
cittern, cymbal. The two great marigold windows
in the principal transept, each twenty-two feet in
diameter, and filled with deep-colored painted glass,
""
66
254
OLD ENGLAND.
give a rich tone to this central portion of the build-
ing, supported upon its four heavy piers or clus-
tered pillars. The fault of the edifice is the com-
mon fault of the lowness of the nave, which gives
too weak and steep a pitch to the roof. But it is
absurd to criticize these Gothic structures; they
have no rules like mountains, and take such forms
as they please; they delight in the strangest con-
trasts and most violent irregularities; their unity
is not in their uniformity of structure, but in their
heaven-ascending aim, to which all tends. The
"Chapter House" of the Cathedral is an entirely
distinct appendage upon the northern side, in the
form of a decagon, and is flanked by bold flying
buttresses, as if tied to the ground by them like a
wide-spreading tent. Its interior, supported by a
single-reeded pillar of Purbeck marble, is not un-
like a great military tent.
I was shut up by accident for half an hour in
this "Chapter House," so that I had more time to
study it. It abounds in those grotesque carvings
that are so suggestive but mysterious. The small
queer faces on the capitals of pillars and termina-
tions of mouldings, look down upon you as if they
were alive: sometimes it is the face of a monk and
sometimes of a nun, and the monk does not always
look pious but roguish; now it is a beautiful coun-
tenance with wonderful serenity and purity of ex-
pression, then it is a face in torment with the
mouth horribly stretched, and the parched tongue
lolling out; here is a winged angel, and there a
LINCOLN TO ELY.
255
squat demon; animal heads, beaks, snouts, claws,
images of the sensual passions and bestialities of
the mind, mix with the symbols of purer and
higher things.
In going from Lincoln to Nottingham, thirty-five
miles, we passed Newark, in whose castle King
John died, worn out by his vices and military mis-
fortunes.
The scenery of the Trent valley was very pretty
and peaceful, with the stacks of grain standing in
the fields, and the cattle feeding in great numbers
on the smooth meadows, or cooling themselves in
the stream.
I asked a farmer who sat by me, without mean-
ing any disrespect, "What little stream is that?”
"Wha, that's the Trent!" he answered with a
stiff expression, as much as to say, "Your ques-
tion, sir, is an insult to one of the most respectable
rivers in the kingdom."
The eastern side of England, which is not as a
general thing much visited by American travelers,
is hardly less rich and beautiful than the western
side, and is equally strewn with historical monu-
ments. The climate, however, is said to be some-
what less genial. It is nearer the coasts of Hol-
land, and was once more open to the spiritual
winds and influences of the great German Ref
ormation; and this last idea increases upon us as
we approach Cambridge.
At Nottingham we are within fifteen miles of
Derby, where I was a few weeks since. This is
256
OLD ENGLAND.
the town and county of Robin Hood, Henry Kirke
White, and Lord Byron, an odd juxtaposition of
names; yet there can be little doubt that the fact
of Robin Hood's still living and popular ballads
being known and sung in Nottingham, had its in-
fluence to make Henry Kirke White a poet, and he
was not without his influence upon the mind of
young Byron.
The house where Henry Kirke White was born
is in what is called the "Old Shambles." The
lower part of it is now used as a butcher's shop, as
it was, I believe, originally. There is a staring
daub of a picture upon it nearly as large as the
house, representing the youthful poet sitting among
shrubs and trees. The room where he was born
forms part of another larger room, which is now
used as a dining-room for a small tavern.
It is a
low-walled and decayed apartment, paved with
crumbling cement. What, I was told, was Henry
Kirke White's study, is a closet three feet by five!
Two bits of red and yellow glass have been stuck
in the little window to give it a shade more of im-
portance. His inspiration was not caught here,
but out under the trees of Clifton, and along the
peaceful banks of the Trent. I walked through
the Nottingham market-place, truly a magnificent
square, up to the deserted terrace of the old castle,
upon which stand the empty, cracked, and tottering
walls of a palace that was burned in a Chartist
riot. On this rock many kings have lived; great
events have revolved around it; it was the strong-
LINCOLN TO ELY.
257
hold of the Danes, when they held the northeastern
counties of England, and here their gloomy "raven
banner" once waved. Nottinghamshire and Lan-
cashire mark indeed the circle of the main Danish
conquests in England, and they are full of Danish
names. Our old friend, "Peveril of the Peak,"
had a castle also on this eminence; Richard Cœur
de Lion, after having crushed his brother's rebel-
lion, held his first council here; Owen Glendower
was shut up here; Richard III. made it his favor-
ite den; Charles I. proclaimed the civil war by
raising a standard on a turret of this castle, and
here he was afterward confined as a prisoner. It
is truly a lordly rock, and commands a wide and
delightful prospect. "The silver Trent" flows
through the valley at its foot, and just on the
other side of the stream lies Henry Kirke White's
favorite haunt, the beautiful village of Wilford,
with lovely Clifton Grove. The view from this
point extends even to the hills of Derbyshire.
Nottingham stands on the edge of the ancient
"Merry Sherwood" Forest, and the royal marks
going back as far as King John's reign, are some-
times found upon the trees of this region when
they are felled. There are some parts of the an-
cient forest still left intact, whose sylvan beauty,
solitude, and majesty, it is said, would find no better
description at this day, than the one which is given
in the opening chapter of Ivanhoe. On my way
back I fell in with an agreeable and chatty old
gentleman who invited me into his summer-house,
17
258
OLD ENGLAND.
and showed me a chamber cut in the rock, where
the ancient archers concealed themselves and their
fires in the winter time. He said he had seen
Lord Byron, who used to visit Nottingham when
his "Hours of Idleness" was being published in
that town. He well remembered seeing him riding
on a gray horse, dressed in a scarlet hunting-coat
and jockey cap.
Nottingham is a large busy city, numbering per-
haps 130,000 inhabitants. It has advanced lately
with great rapidity, and has immense factories of
cotton-yarn, stockings, and lace. The first cotton-
mill in the world was erected here by Sir Richard
Arkwright.
I took the cars for Hucknall Torkard, seven
miles to the northwest of Nottingham. It is a dull
dirty village ; and here, in one of the poorest and ap-
parently most forlorn of all English rural churches,
Lord Byron is buried, out of sight, it would appear,
and out of mind, of all England.
The church is a small stone building, with the
plaster peeling off the tower; the porch over the
door is made of rough and unpainted beams. The
interior is also mean, with a row of rude pillars in
the middle, altogether reminding me of Haworth
Church. At the upper end a small white marble
tablet bears the well-known inscription:-
"In the vault beneath,
Where many of his ancestors and his mother are buried,
Lie the remains of
GEORGE GORDON NOEL BYRON,
Lord Baron of Rochdale
LINCOLN TO ELY.
259
In the County of Lancaster,
The author of Childe Harold's Pilgrimage.
He was born in London on the
22d January, 1788;
He died at Missolonghi, in Modern Greece, on the
19th of April, 1824,
Engaged in the glorious attempt to restore that
Country to her ancient freedom and renown.”
The family shield, with its motto, "Crede Byron,”
is engraved on the tablet.
Here the poet's mother and daughter are also
buried, but with nothing erected to their memory,
if we except two worn and dirty pasteboard sheets,
which some stranger had caused to be made and
hung up there. The pen-and-ink words commem-
orating Byron's daughter are these :
"The Right Honorable
AUGUSTA ADA,
wife of
William, Earl of Lovelace,
and only daughter of
George Gordon Noel,
Lord Byron.
Born 10 Dec., 1815;
Died 27 Nov., 1852.”
The inscription to the poet's mother declares her
to have been a lineal descendant of James I. of
Scotland.
On a yellow faded marble scroll, in a recess
formed by the end window, is an ancient monu-
ment to others of the Byron family, some of them
being illustrious, so the inscription runs, for " great
piety and goodness.'
""
A simple but bitter remark of the poet to one
260
OLD ENGLAND.
of his friends, has always seemed to me a key of
many of his deepest faults of character. He said,
""
"I never was governed when I was young.
There was certainly much of latent sweetness in
his nature. Reading his "Childe Harold” by the
mountain grave of that pure spirit, Alexander
Vinet, at Clarens, and looking down on the placid
Lake of Geneva, where the poet invoked that
แ
Undying Love who here ascends a throne,
To which the steps are mountains,"
I felt that his verse was no desecration of that
sublime scenery. I do not, however, blame Eng-
land for being slow to readopt the memory of an
outcast son, who dishonored the two great lights
of her glory, her Virtue and her Home. "But,"
as Richter says, "have not giants in all nations
warred against God?"
Newstead Abbey is about three miles from
Hucknall Church, and is too familiar a pilgrimage
for me to tread over. I had some difficulty in
getting to it, being compelled to walk a goodly
distance in a hot sun, and then through the assist-
ance of a little lame boy who was the only person
I could interest in my behalf, was enabled to hear
of some sort of wheeled conveyance, and to have
the promise of being taken up in an express-wagon
"in aboot arf an oor." This was indeed good
news, for in my tired and heated state even a
donkey-cart would have been hailed with joy.
The half hour had grown into an hour or more,
when a good fellow driving an ample ❝ spring-cart
66
LINCOLN TO ELY.
261
wheeled up. I tumbled into its capacious depths,
and as we jogged on I thought of Mrs. Poyser's
ambitious speech, "If you can catch Adam Bede
for a husband, Hetty, you'll ride in your own
spring-cart some day." I had attained that sublime
position, and was in high spirits, when we met
the Lord of Newstead Abbey, the late Colonel
Wildman, driving out his family, with whom my
coachman exchanged bows as if they were old ac-
quaintances.
Let us now pay a brief visit to the Abbey of
Peterborough, built originally in the fens where
English piety in ancient times found its last refuge.
Its inclosure of garden, graveyard, cloisters, and
schools, is a most venerable spot. The nave of the
Cathedral is Norman Gothic, with three tiers of
bow-headed arches forming the sides and the clere-
story. The length is four hundred and seventy-
nine feet. The masses of shadow, and the bold
mingling of different kinds of arches and of their
intersecting lines, make the interior effect singu-
larly impressive. Its wealth of sepulchral brasses
is still remarkable, though greatly despoiled in the
civil wars.
These brasses, once called "latteen,"
laid in Purbeck marble, were really the first stereo-
types. The exterior needs a lofty tower and spire,
but the defect is almost compensated by the beauty
of the west front, with its three deep-recessed
pointed doors, like a great organ-front. The south
gateway of the court leading into the Bishop's Pal-
ace is a gem of the "Early English" style; its
262
OLD ENGLAND.
graceful groined roof and its turrets adorned with
sculptures of saints and kings, struck me as being a
sort of ecclesiastical or Gothic "arch of Titus," as
indeed well corresponding to the old Roman arch
in size and beauty.
Peterborough was the native place of Dr. Paley.
Though a city, it is one without a mayor or corpo-
ration.
I was attracted around by the way of Ely, to see
the Cathedral there, instead of taking the Hunting-
don route more directly to Cambridge. This was
quite a loss, for Oliver Cromwell was born in Hunt-
ingdon. Hinchinbroke House, the property of his
family, now belongs to the Earl of Sandwich.
But Ely Cathedral was not to be lost. It is
frozen history as well as "frozen music." I value
these old structures because such wealth of English
history is embodied in them; their human inter-
est after all is greater than their artistic. Ely is
said to be derived from "willow," or a kind of
willow or ozier island, upon which the abbey and
town were built in the midst of the marshes.
Among these impenetrable marshes Hereward the
Saxon retreated; and here, too, we have that bit
of genuine antique poetry which from its simplicity
must have described a true scene; and we catch a
glimpse of that pleasing and soothing picture amid
those rude and bloody days, of King Canute and
his knights resting for a moment upon their toiling
oars to hear the vesper-song of the monks :
LINCOLN TO ELY.
263
"Merrily sung the monks within Ely
When Canute the king rowed thereby;
'Row me, knights, the shore along,
And listen we to these monks' song.'
The foundation of the Cathedral was laid in 1083,
and it was finished in 1534. In printed lists of its
bishops, as in those of other English cathedral
churches, I have noticed that they are given in
their chronological succession, right on, the bishops
of the Reformed Church being linked upon the
Roman Catholic bishops. The bishopric of Ely
was partially carved out of the bishopric of Lincoln,
and comprises Cambridge in its jurisdiction. It
has therefore had all the riches, influence, taste
and learning of the University to bear upon the
restoration of its noble old Cathedral; and of all
the old churches of England this one exhibits indi-
cations of the greatest modern care and thought
bestowed upon it. It glows with new stained-glass
windows, splendid marbles, exquisite sculptures, and
bronze-work. Its western tower, 266 feet in
height, turreted spires, central octagon tower, fly-
ing buttresses, unequalled length of 517 feet, and
its vast irregular bulk soaring above the insignifi-
cant little town at its foot, make it a most com-
manding object seen from the flat plain.
What is called the octagon, which has taken the
place of the central tower that had fallen, is quite
an original feature of the church. Eight arches
rising from eight ponderous piers form a windowed
tower, or lantern, which lets in a flood of light
upon the otherwise gloomy interior. Above the
264
OLD ENGLAND.
key-stone of each arch is the carved figure of a
saint. The new brasses of the choir are wonder-
fully elaborate. The bronze scroll and vine-work
of the gates and lamps, for grace and oriental luxu-
riance of fancy, for their arabesque and flower de-
signs, might fitly have belonged to King Solomon's
Temple of old. The modern wood-work of the
choir compares also well with the ancient wood-
work carving. Gold stars on azure ground, and
all vivid coloring and gilding, are freely used. The
new Reredos," or altar-screen, is one marvelous
crystallization of sculptures. The ancient Purbeck
marble pillars have been scraped and re-polished,
and form a fine contrast to the white marbles on
which they are set.
66
If indeed one wishes to see what modern enthu-
siasm, art, and lavish wealth can do for the restora-
tion and adorning of one of these old temples, he
must go to Ely Cathedral. But he will hear the
worthy verger, as usual, hurl anathemas against
Cromwell; and if he go into the "Lady Chapel "
and see every head of every statue (and their name
is legion) systematically knocked off, he will feel a
pious indignation too against the doer of it; but he
will assoil the soul of Cromwell, as being engaged
in bigger business of destruction than this.
CHAPTER XVI.
THE UNIVERSITIES.
THE Universities of Oxford and Cambridge are
wonderfully well matched in point of historical in-
terest, size, and picturesque beauty of buildings and
situation. Oxford, as a city, has some superior ad-
vantages over Cambridge, and its one magnificent
High Street is unrivaled. But there are particular
points in Cambridge more striking than any thing
in Oxford. Nothing in Oxford is so majestic as
King's College Chapel in Cambridge, nor so lovely
as the grounds behind Trinity College; and I was
struck with the positive resemblances between Ox-
ford and Cambridge. Both are situated on slightly
rising ground, with broad green meadows and a flat,
fenny country stretching around them. The wind-
ing and muddy Cam, holding the city in its arm,
might be easily taken for the fond but still more
capricious Isis, though both of them are insignificant
streams; and Jesus' College Green and Midsummer
Common at Cambridge, correspond to Christ Church
Meadows and those bordering the Cherwell at Ox-
ford. At a little distance, the profile of Cambridge
is almost precisely like that of Oxford, while glori-
ous King's College Chapel makes up all deficiencies
266
OLD ENGLAND.
in the architectural features and outline of Cam-
bridge.
Starting from Bull Inn, we will not linger long
in the streets, though we might be tempted to
do so by the luxurious book-shops, but will make
straight for the gateway of Trinity College. This
gateway is itself a venerable and imposing struct-
ure, although a mass of houses clustered about it
destroys its unity with the rest of the college build-
ings. Between its two heavy battlemented towers
is a statue of Edward III. and his coat-of-arms;
and over the gate Sir Isaac Newton had his ob-
servatory.
This gateway introduces into a noble court, called
the Great Court, with a carved stone fountain or
canopied well in the centre, and buildings of irregu-
lar sizes and different ages inclosing it. The chapel
which forms the northern side of this court dates
back to 1564. In the ante-chapel, or vestibule,
stands the statue of Sir Isaac Newton, by Roubilliac,
bearing the inscription, "Qui genus humanum in-
genio superavit!" It is spirited, but, like all the
works of this artist, unnaturally attenuated. The
head is compact rather than large, and the forehead
square rather than high. The face has an expres-
sion of abstract contemplation, and is looking up, as
if the mind were just fastening upon the beautiful
law of light which is suggested by the hand hold-
ing a prism. By the door of the screen entering
into the chapel proper, are the sitting statues of Sir
Francis Bacon and Dr. Isaac Barrow, two more
THE UNIVERSITIES.
267
giants of this college. The former represents the
philosopher in a sitting posture, wearing his high-
crowned hat, and leaning thoughtfully upon his
hand. Isaac Barrow, who sits beside him, though
a wonderfully learned man, was sometimes what
old English authors called a "painful preacher."
On one occasion, after preaching three full hours,
the organ set up to play, and fairly blew him down;
and being afterward asked if he were not fatigued
by so great an intellectual effort, he replied, that
“ indeed he did feel slightly fatigued with standing
up that time."
There is also in this vestibule the effigy of a
ruder Trinity Anak still, Dr. Porson. At evening
prayers in this chapel I could fully agree with the
remark of Mr. Bristed, who was a student of Trin-
ity, that a company of smooth-faced youths in white
surplices have a certain "innocent look," as if they
were a choir of Fra Angélico's angels.
The hall of Trinity College, which separates the
Great Court from the Inner or Neville Court,
(courts in Cambridge, quads in Oxford,) is the
glory of the college. Its interior is upward of one
hundred feet in length, oak-wainscoted, with deep
beam-work ceiling, now black with age, and an
enormous fireplace, which in winter still blazes
with its old hospitable glow. At the upper end
where the professors and fellows sit, hang the por-
traits of Bacon and Newton. I had the honor of
dining in this most glorious of banqueting-halls, at
the invitation of a fellow of the college. Before
268
OLD ENGLAND.
meals, the ancient Latin grace, somewhat abbre-
viated, is pronounced.
On the side of the hall, and in the same build-
ing, is the college kitchen. A glance at the scien-
tific operations of this purely physical department
of the University, at the gigantic spits and pans, the
vast turtle-shells and pantry-moulds, the hills of
potted meats, pickles, and preserves, the cavernous
fireplaces, huge cranes and brawny scullions, the
blaze, the stir, the hissing activity, would convince
one that England dines her scholars bravely every
day those of them, at least, who can pay for it.
In the centre of the same range of buildings is
the Combination Room, an elegantly furnished par-
lor, ornamented with portraits, where the fellows
of the college retire after dinner to discuss their
dessert and university politics. Upon the side-
board I noticed a large and elaborate wedding-cake,
recently sent in by a fellow to his quondam bach-
elor friends, this being the immemorial penalty of
his having given up their fellowship, and the selfish
luxuries of his former bachelor condition for a much
better fellowship.
We pass through the hall into Neville Court,
three sides of which are cloistered, and in the east-
ern end of which stands the fine library building,
built through the exertions of Dr. Barrow, who
was determined that nothing in Oxford should sur-
pass his own darling college. The library room is
nearly two hundred feet long, with tesselated mar-
ble floor, and with the busts of the great men of
THE UNIVERSITIES.
269
Trinity ranged around the walls. The wood-carv-
ings of Grinling Gibbons that adorn this room, of
flowers, fruit, wheat, grasshoppers, birds, are of
singular beauty, and make the hard oak fairly blos
som and live. This library contains the most com-
plete collection of the various editions of Shaks-
peare's Works which exists. Thorwaldsen's statue
of Byron, who was a student of this college, stands
at the south end of the room. It represents him in
the bloom of youth, attired as a pilgrim, with pencil
in hand and a broken Grecian column at his feet.
Take any group of people, old men and children,
middle-aged men and beautiful maidens, and how-
ever much of power, loveliness, and poetry there
may be in the group, yet let a young man in the
first glory of his strength and beauty pass by, and
he has the homage of all hearts - he is king of all.
But add to this genius, like a visible crown on his
open brow and clustering locks, as Byron is here
represented, and he is irresistible. The poet is set
before us as we all wish he might have been, and
perhaps could have been, but was not. It is the
ideal poet of the "Childe Harold "— he who led cap-
tive at his will the old and young, the good and bad,
the high and low, of the last generation of men.
It is surely a cause of sincere thankfulness that the
day of Byron has passed away, especially among
the young in our colleges; and that the day of a
far nobler, purer, and profounder poet, Tennyson,
has risen like a day-spring from on high.
One is here shown the cast of Newton's face,
270
OLD ENGLAND.
taken after death; also his own telescope, and many
of his mathematical instruments, extremely rude
and simple, showing that it is not the perfection of
the instrument or the tool that makes the great as-
tronomer or discoverer, but the force of the brain
and the spiritual eye that lie behind it. Trinity
has some five hundred scholars and about sixty fel-
lows; and it is not too much to say that, with its
ancient names and associates, its modern corps of
instruction, and the number of its students, it is
the first and most illustrious single college in the
world.
As to the numbers in the entire Cambridge Uni-
versity, I have seen this statement recently made,
and believe it to be correct: There are 517 ma-
triculants, and the whole number of residents is
2038, of whom 1226 are in the colleges, and 812
are lodgers.
The west end of Trinity borders on the Cam,
and we will now take a look at a few of the colleges
lying along upon the river bank.
The next neighbor to Trinity on the north, and
the next in point of size and importance in the Uni-
versity, is St. John's College. It has four courts,
one opening into the other. It also is jealously
surrounded by its high walls, and its entrance is by
a ponderous old tower, having a statue of St. John
the Evangelist over the gateway. Through a cov-
ered bridge, not unlike "the Bridge of Sighs,"
one passes over the stream to a group of modern
majestic castellated buildings of yellow stone be-
THE UNIVERSITIES.
271
longing to this college. The grounds, walks, and
thick groves connected with this building form
an elegant academic shade, and tempt to a life
of exclusive study and scholarly accumulation, of
growing fat in learning, without perhaps growing
muscular in the effort to use it. The plan of fel-
lowships, which is the peculiar feature of the Eng-
lish University, and which often is continued in by
a scholar for a whole life, is a remnant of monkish
days, of the celibacy of the clergy, and must inev-
itably lead to this life of literary epicureanism. It
has, however, its advantages. A fellow of Oxford
told a friend of mine that while thirty-nine good
men were spoiled by it, the fortieth man was a grand
production perhaps the topmost perfection of sci-
ence and civilization. There is some truth in this.
Ample time is given, and every other outward aid,
for the slow and symmetric development of a noble
intellect. The genial sun shines on it for years,
and its roots strike down into the rich soil of ancient
learning, of the mould of ages, till its top reaches
heaven. But we in America could ill afford to
spoil so many good trees in order to make one tall
mast. We prefer our own system of college edu-
ation, which brings up more minds to an evenly
high level of mental cultivation, practical scholar-
ship, and general usefulness. Our collegiate sys-
tem might perhaps combine something of this Eng-
lish system of fellowships in the modified system
of scholarships, extending somewhat beyond the
term of the college course, and which is already
272
OLD ENGLAND.
the tendency in our colleges. The system of Eng-
lish fellowships, it is said, produces the pure love
of study; the desire of human applause dies out;
the popular ends or rewards of scholarship are de-
spised and the love of learning for itself alone be-
comes the great incentive. A university man will
often bring out, with immense labor and learning,
an anonymous edition of a difficult Latin author, or
an elegant translation of a Greek dramatist. He
shuns public notice. He sticks to his incognito, or
goes on noiselessly heaping up lore and producing
learned works, that in any other country would
make him a distinguished name.
We give an extract from a curious account of
the manners of scholars at St. John's in the reign
of Edward VI., commending it to the attention of
our American young gentlemen, who sometimes
complain of the hardships of college life: "There
be dyverse ther, which ryse dayly betwixt foure
and fyve of the clocke in the mornynge, and from
fyve untill sixe of the clocke use commen prayer,
with an exhortation of God's worde, in a common
chappell, and from sixe unto ten of the clocke use
eyther private study or commune lectures.
tenne of the clocke they go to dynner, where they
be content with a penye pyece of biefe among
foure, havynge a few porage made of the brothe
of the same biefe wythe salte and otemel, and noth-
eng else.
else. After dynner, they go eyther teachynge
or learnynge untill fyve of the clocke in the even-
ynge, when they have a supper not much better
At
THE UNIVERSITIES.
273
than the diner; immedyately after the whyche,
they go eyther to reasonynge in problemes, or into
some other studye, untill it be nine or tenne of the
clocke, and there beynge without fyre are fayne to
walke or runne up and downe halfe an houre to
gette a heate on thire feete when they go to bed."
Among the eminent men of St. John's College
are Ben Jonson, Stillingfleet, and Sir Robert Cecil.
This was also Henry Kirke White's college; and
a monument has been erected to his memory in
the Church of all Saints by an American. A far
greater poet, William Wordsworth, was educated
here, and it was a college vacation trip to Switz-
erland that was the occasion of the poems called
"Descriptive Sketches," which were his first pub-
lication.
On the other side of Trinity, to the south, is
Trinity Hall, a small college, and almost exclusive-
ly devoted to law studies. Its buildings are not
remarkable. Frederick Denison Maurice and his
brother-in-law, John Sterling, came here from
Trinity College. Maurice was then a Dissenter,
and for that reason could not take advantage of the
fellowship which was offered him.
Directly to the west of Trinity Hall is Gonville
and Caius College, called in Cambridge parlance
Keys." The southern court has three gates
66
of Humility, Virtue, and Honor. The edifices are
of the Italian style, and their appearance is quiet
and scholastic. Jeremy Taylor -the golden-
mouthed preacher, whose imagination was Oriental
18
274
OLD ENGLAND.
even under the foggy skies of England - studied
in this college.
Next to the north of Trinity Hall is beautiful
Clare Hall. In the civil war this college suffered
greatly, and especially its chapel. The following
is an item from the report of the Parliamentary
commission: "We destroyed in the presence of
Mr. Gunny, fellow, 3 cherubims, the 12 apostles,
a cross, and 6 of the fathers, and ordered the steps
to be levelled." The long river-front of this col-
lege is exceedingly elegant, being built in the Ital-
ian style of the 17th century. Seating one's self
upon the river-bank, under the great willow-tree at
the southern angle of this hall, one may watch the
young men darting by in their narrow
"shells,"
and disappearing like noiseless phantoms under
the shadowy arches of the old bridge, Beautiful,
dreamy college life! how swiftly it glides into and
under the dark shadows of the actual, and its free
joyousness vanishes!
King's College, founded by Henry VII., from
whom it takes its name, comes next in order. Its
wealthy founder, who, like his son, loved architect-
ural pomp, had great designs in regard to this insti-
tution, which were cut off by his death, but the
massive unfinished gateway of the old building
stands as a regal specimen of what the whole plan
would have been had it been carried out. Henry
VIII., however, perfected some of his father's de-
signs on a scale of true magnificence. King's Col-
lege Chapel, the glory of Cambridge and England,
THE UNIVERSITIES.
275
is in the Perpendicular style of English Gothic.
It is three hundred and sixteen feet long, eighty-
four feet broad, its sides ninety feet, and its tower
one hundred and forty-six feet high. Its lofty inte-
rior stone roof in the fan-tracery form of groined
ceiling, has the appearance of being composed of
immense white scallop-shells, with heavy corbels
of rich flowers and bunches of grapes suspended at
their points of junction. The ornamental emblem
of the Tudor rose and portcullis is carved in every
conceivable spot and nook. Twenty-four stately
and richly painted windows, divided into the strong
vertical lines of the Perpendicular style, and crossed
at right angles by lighter transoms and more deli-
cate circular mouldings, with the great east and
west, windows flashing in the most vivid and superb
colors, make it a gorgeous vision of light and glory.
One could wish that the clumsy wooden screen in
the centre of the chapel were away, so that he
might at a glance see the whole length and breadth
and height of this truly august room. It has been
sometimes compared to the Sistine Chapel at
Rome; but with all the advantages of Michael
Angelo's adorning hand in the wonderful frescoes
of the chapel, that is but a dull and cavernous
apartment, something belonging to this earth, com-
pared with the soaring majesty and ethereal splen-
dors of this gem of Gothic architecture. This is
an instance of the last pure English Gothic.
Queen's College, the next south upon the river, is
distinguished as the residence of Erasmus during his
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OLD ENGLAND.
1
second visit to England from 1510 to 1516. He
suffered much persecution and obloquy in his at-
tempt to introduce the study of Greek into Cam-
bridge, which study was, curiously enough, still
more obstinately opposed at Oxford. Erasmus
speaks of the educational condition of Cambridge
in his day thus: "About thirty years ago noth-
ing was taught in the University of Cambridge
except Alexander, (the middle-age Latin poem of
Walter de Castellio) the Parva Logicalia, as they
called them, (a scholastic treatise written by Petrus
Hispanus,) and three old dictates of Aristotle, and
questions of Scotus. In process of time there was
an accession of good learning: a knowledge of
mathematics was introduced; then came in a new
or at least a regenerate Aristotle; the knowledge
of the Greek literature was added, with so many au-
thors whose very names were not formerly known.'
We do indeed owe the revival of sound learning in
England, as well as on the Continent, to the Ref-
ormation. This college has two courts. There is
a fine terrace-walk on the opposite bank of the
river shaded by noble elms.
Turning now from the river-side, and continuing
our stroll along Trumpington Street, we come to
St. Peter's College, the oldest foundation in Cam-
bridge, having been established in 1257. We
sometimes speak of old Yale and old Harvard, but
when we look upon a college which dates back to
the time of the Crusades, when much of Europe
as well as Asia was still lying in heathen darkness,
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277
we feel that our American colleges are but wild
young children of the forest and of yesterday. St.
Peter's was originally, as most of the older colleges
were, an ecclesiastical "hostel," half-convent, half-
hospital; its buildings are modernized and are not
noteworthy.
The celebrated Puritan general,
Colonel Hutchinson, was educated here.
On the same street, and nearly opposite St.
Peter's, is Pembroke College, a most interesting
and venerable pile, with a quaint gable front. Its
buildings are small, and it is said, for some greatly
needed city improvement, will probably be soon
torn down; on hearing which, I thought, would
that some genius like Aladdin's, or some angel who
bore through the air the chapel of the "Lady of
Loretto," might bear these old buildings bodily to
our land and set them down on the Yale grounds, so
that we might exchange their picturesque antiquity
for the present college buildings, which, though
endeared to us by many associations, are like a row
of respectable brick factories.
Edmund Spenser and William Pitt belonged to
Pembroke; and Gray, the poet, driven from St.
Peter's by the pranks and persecutions of his
fellow-students, spent the remainder of his uni-
versity life here. Some of the cruel, practical
jokes inflicted upon a timid and delicate nature
sound like the modern days of "hazing freshmen."
Among his other fancies and fears, Gray was known
to be especially afraid of fire, and kept always
coiled up in his room a rope-ladder, in case of
278
OLD ENGLAND.
emergency. By a preconcerted signal, on a dark
winter night, a tremendous cry of fire was raised
in the court below, which caused the young poet
to leap out of bed and to hastily descend his rope-
ladder into a mighty tub of ice-cold water, set for
that purpose.
St. Katharine's Hall is also situated on Trump-
ington Street, immediately to the south of King's
College. It is distinguished for the great number
of eminent theologians who have been educated
within its walls, among whom was Thomas Sher-
lock. It is a small college and its buildings are
plain. Corpus Christi, just opposite, has a towered
and battlemented frontage, and its buildings are of
imposing Tudor architecture.
Following up Trumpington and Trinity Streets
to the north, we come into Bridge Street, which is
continued along in Magdalene Street, upon which
is Magdalene College, standing also partly on the
river, which curves in here. Its library contains
the valuable antique collection of black letter vol-
umes of Samuel Pepys. Charles Kingsley was a
student of Magdalene. It is called a plain college;
but what would be called plain in the Old World
would be elaborately ornamental with us.
Coming back to Bridge Street, and turning to
the west into Jesus' Lane, we arrive at Jesus' Col-
lege, a most delightful and retired spot, the very
home and haunt of the Muses. The old saying
is, "Pray at King's, eat at Trinity, and study at
Jesus." Springing out of an ancient nunnery, it
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279
still retains its antique cloisters and its grave and
almost austere ecclesiastical character. The gar-
den and grounds are of dark and rich luxuriance,
and will compare with any in Oxford. It has been
a college about five hundred years, having been
founded four years after the discovery of America.
The number of students is now small, averaging
some sixty. Archbishop Cranmer was a scholar
of this foundation. Coleridge's room is in the
oldest and dingiest portion of the edifice, looking
out upon the secluded garden. But the outside of
these college rooms gives little idea of the comfort
and oftentimes luxury of their interior; and when
the rough oak "sporting-door," as it is called,
opens upon apartments which unite the privacy
of ancient monkish seclusion with the elegant ease
of the modern refined and wealthy man of letters,
the visitor, if he come from the New World, with
its simpler ideas of college life and manners, is
filled with astonishment. Returning to Bridge
Street, at the corner of Jesus' Lane and Bridge
Street, we come upon Sidney Sussex College, with
its formal high-stepped gable-ends, founded in 1596
by the aunt of Sir Philip Sidney. The buildings
are of the later Elizabethan style, with red brick
copings. The master's garden connected with this
college is a pleasant and shut-in spot, with an
abundance of old trees, and is almost as shadowy
and solitary as the heart of a forest. These gar-
dens and parks are a prime feature of the English
University. They are kept in exquisite trim, and
280
OLD ENGLAND.
are rich with beds of bright, rare flowers, and beau-
tiful with their smooth-shorn lawns, filled with that
soft, mossy-velvet turf that "living green
so peculiar to misty England. What could be a
more grateful resort for the weary student than to
be able to spend a few moments in one of these
still and noble gardens; and what is more purify-
ing and vivifying to the mind itself than this daily
contact with the most beautiful things and sights of
Nature? It is grievous to think that our Ameri-
can colleges were not able to reserve for themselves
broader grounds for the free cultivation of Nature
about them; that, instead of being placed in the
centre of bustling towns, they could not have been
more entirely secluded or shut in from the noisy
outside world by a screen of shady trees and quiet
meadows, and thus been wholly consecrated to the
purposes of study and spiritual improvement.
Sidney Sussex and Immanuel Colleges were
called by Archbishop Laud "the nurseries of Puri-
tanism." The college-book of Sidney Sussex con-
tains this record: Oliverus Cromwell Hunting-
doniensis admissus ad commeatum sociorum Aprilis
vicesimo sexto, tutore mag. Richardo Howlet
[1616]." He had just completed his seventeenth
Cromwell's father dying the next year, and
year.
leaving but a small estate, the young "Protector"
was obliged to leave college for more practical pur-
suits. "But some Latin," Bishop Burnet said,
"stuck to him." An oriel window, looking upon
Bridge Street, is pointed out as marking his room ;
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281
The
and in the master's lodge is a likeness of Cromwell
in his later years, said to be the best extant.
gray hair is parted in the middle of the forehead,
and hangs down long upon the shoulders, like that
of Milton. The forehead is high and swelling,
with a deep line sunk between the eyes. The
eyes are gray. The complexion is florid and mot-
tled, and all the features rugged and large. Heavy,
corrugated furrows of decision and resolute will are
plowed about the mouth, and the lips are shut like
a vice. Otherwise, the face has a calm and be-
nevolent look, not unlike that of Benjamin Frank-
lin. Indeed — although in an aesthetic point of
view the comparison might not be considered a
flattering one by the distinguished clergyman
the face struck me as bearing a rough likeness to
the leading minister of New Haven. In Sidney
Sussex, Cromwell's College, and in two or three
other colleges of Cambridge University, we find
the head-sources of English Puritanism, which, in
its best form, was no wild and unenlightened en-
thusiasm, but the product of thoughtful and edu-
cated mind. We shall come soon upon the name
of Milton. John Robinson, our national father,
and the Moses of our national exodus, as well as
Elder Brewster, John Cotton, and many others of
the principal Puritan leaders and divines, were
educated at Cambridge. Sir Henry Vane, the
younger, whom Macintosh regarded as not inferior
to Bacon in depth of intellect, and to whom Milton
addressed the sonnet, who was chosen Governor
282
OLD ENGLAND.
of Massachusetts, and who infused much of his
own thoughtful and profound spirit into Puritan
institutions at home and in America, was a student.
of Magdalene College, Oxford.
A little further on to the south of Sidney Sus-
sex, upon St. Andrew's Street, is Christ's College.
The front and gate are old; the other buildings
are after a design by Inigo Jones. In the garden
stands the famous mulberry-tree said to have been
planted by Milton. It is still vigorous, though
carefully propped up and mounded around, and its
aged trunk is sheathed with lead. The martyr
Latimer, John Howe, the prince of theological
writers, and Archdeacon Paley, belonged to this
college; but its most brilliant name is that of John
Milton. He entered in 1624; took the degree of
Bachelor of Arts in 1628, and that of Master of
Arts in 1632. This is the entry in the college rec-
ord: "Johannes Milton Londinensis, filius Johan-
nis, institutus fuit in literarum elementis sub magis
tro Hill gymnasii Paulini præfecto, admissus est pen-
sionarius minor, Feb. 12, 1624, sub Mro. Chappell,
solvitque pro ingr. 0. 10s. Od." Milton has indig-
nantly defended himself against the slander of his
political enemies, that he left college in disgrace,
and calls it "a commodious lie." In answer to the
scornful question as to "what were his ways while
at the University," he says: "Those morning
haunts are what they should be at home, not sleep-
ing, or concocting the surfeits of an irregular feast,
but up and stirring-in winter, often ere the sound
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283
of
any bell awoke men to labor or to devotion; in
summer, as oft with the bird that first rouses, or not
much tardier, to read good authors, or cause them
to be read, till the attention be weary, or memory
have its full fraught; then with useful and gener-
ous labors preserving the body's health and hardi-
ness to render lightsome, clear, and not lumpish
obedience to the mind, to the cause of religion and
our country's liberty, in sound bodies to stand and
cover their stations.' There are similar words of
Milton which ought to be engraved on the heart of
every young man and scholar: "He who would
not be frustrated of his hope to write well hereafter
in laudable things, ought of himself to be a true
poem, that is, a composition and pattern of the best
and honorablest things; not presuming to sing the
high praises of heroic men and famous cities, unless
he has himself the experiences and the practice of
all that is praiseworthy." When we reflect that
Milton came within a hair's breadth of laying his
own gray head on the block, and in fact invited
death with unbending will for truth's sake, we may
see in him that "true poem " of a heroic life. It
is noticeable that Cambridge has produced all the
great poets; Oxford, with her yearnings and striv-
ings, none. Milton were glory enough; but Spen-
ser, Gray, Byron, Coleridge, Wordsworth, Tenny-
son (a Lincolnshire man), may be thrown in. It
might be said of Cambridge, as Dr. Johnson said
of Pembroke College, "We are a nest of singing
birds here." Milton, from the extreme elegance
284
OLD ENGLAND.
of his person and his mind, rather than from any
effeminateness of character, was called while in the
University, "the lady of Christ's College." The
young poet could not have been inspired by out-
ward Nature in his own room; for the miniature
dormer-windows are too high to look out of at all.
It is a small attic chamber, with very steep narrow
stairs leading up to it. The name of "Milton "
(so it is said to be, though hard to make out) is
cut in the old oaken door.
Upon the same street, further to the south, is
Emmanuel College, "a seminary," as it has been
called, "for Puritan divines." Its founder, Sir
Walter Mildmay, was the leader of the Puritan
party in Queen Elizabeth's day; and during the im-
mediately succeeding reigns the college flourished
beyond any other. It sent forth a great number
of preachers, who gave a mighty impulse to the
spiritual and political struggles of those days.
Would it be too much to trace our own religious
and political liberties back to this and its sister col-
leges? This college is intimately and peculiarly
American in its names and associations. John
Robinson, Samuel Stone and Thomas Hooker the
founders of Connecticut, together with Thomas
Shepard, and Henry Dunster the second president
of Harvard College, were graduates of Emmanuel.
This college has a long and more modern Ionic
front upon the street, though some of its buildings
are old, and of the Tudor Gothic style. Ralph
Cudworth was a student of Emmanuel.
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285
Following St. Andrew's Street down into Re-
gent Street, we come upon the extensive grounds
and classic edifices of Downing College, the young-
est of the university brood, founded in 1800 by Sir
George Downing, the descendant of a distinguished
Puritan statesman of the same name. Downing
College has some peculiarities in the terms of its
admissions and fellowships.
We have now walked around all the colleges;
and even from this glance we can, I think, see that
these venerable piles, these names of living power,
these portraits of great Englishmen adorning the
public halls where the students gather morning and
evening, these historic scenes and walks and shades,
are in themselves strong inspiring forces to awaken
the best ambition of young minds. Why could we
not now begin to have in our own colleges more of
this sensible appeal to the past, more of the influ-
ence of the commemorative arts, to stimulate the
forming educated mind of the country and draw it
toward lofty aims and ideas?
I was so fortunate, or perhaps unfortunate, as to
be in Oxford during "Commemoration" week.
Its heat, bustle, and confusion remind one vividly
of "Commencement " season at Yale or Harvard.
The town was so full that I was obliged to find
lodgings in Woodstock, eight miles distant. Every
vehicle had also been forestalled, though at last an
antique chariot was dragged to light, whose bowl-
like body, with its perked-up lofty ends, the one
precisely like the other, made it resemble a Roman
286
OLD ENGLAND.
galley, such as might have been used in the sea-
fight at Actium. Nevertheless, a comfortable voy-
age was made to the "Bear Inn," Woodstock. In
good season the next morning, of a bright hot July
day, I returned to Oxford. Across the flat mead-
ows and through the shimmering summer air the
elegant spires and domes of Oxford appeared; and
on passing "Martyr's Memorial," the general
movement and stir of the great day was already
visible in the wide half-rural street. The shovel-
crowned Oxford caps and billowy black silk gowns
of the collegians, were rapidly sailing to and fro;
multitudes of ladies were astir to secure good
places; and the more ponderous bodies of univer-
sity dignitaries were beginning to slowly collect
their forces. The point of interest was the build-
ing called the "Theatre," on Broad Street, and a
crowd of visitors had gathered at the closed iron
gate that opened into the yard in front of the
"schools." Here stood the proctors, or in Oxford
parlance, “pokers," keeping guard with their long
sticks. Rolls of thunderous noise came from the
impatient students assembled within the building.
By the courtesy of a doctor of divinity, in scarlet
robe, with sleeves of black velvet, I at length
gained admission. There the scene was peculiar.
The room is a lofty circular area, and the under-
graduates were clustered like a great swarm of
bees, tier above tier, in the upper galleries. There
was a circle of ladies in the lower gallery; but it
must have been a considerable trial of the nerves
THE UNIVERSITIES.
287
for them to remain there. Surely, it was a won-
derfully noisy time, for English lungs are powerful.
There is very fair wit sometimes struck out by the
students on Commemoration Day; but I must say
that I did not hear any, perhaps from the fact that
it was so difficult to hear any thing at all. For one
just from the New World from the woods as it
were feeling a proper sense of awe in regard to
all things connected with a university founded by
Alfred the Great, it was rather odd to be suddenly
ushered into such a babel and roar of nonsense,
proceeding from the throats of the express flower of
British youth.
As the begowned regents, doctors, and officials
of high and low degree began to assemble and take
their seats on a lower circle of the proscenium,
there was now a general groan for some one, called
out by name, and then a tremendous hurra for
another, but the groans predominated. Brays of
donkeys, crowings of cocks, laughings of hyenas,
and all the uncommon sounds that a crowd of col-
lege boys, totally unrestrained and stimulated by
rivalry, can make, gave the only variety to the
steady Bull-of-Bashan roar kept up by all. Wit,
sharp and saucy, would have been a relief; but, as
I say, I did not hear it. The capital hit at Tenny-
son, some years ago, made by a collegian, is quite
familiar perhaps to my readers, but will bear re-
peating. The poet is said to be as negligent in his
personal appearance and dress as poets commonly
are.
That morning as he came into the "Thea-
288
OLD ENGLAND.
tre" and took his seat among the distinguished
guests, he was particularly unkempt and uncared
for in the outer man. A cool, drawling voice was
heard from the highest student gallery, saying:
"Did your mother call you early, Mr. Tennyson?"
The pensive author of "May Queen" might have
been excused for laughing heartily.
At length the High Chancellor rose a fine-
looking, dignified man- and putting on his cap,
pronounced the usual opening Latin address. For
a few moments he was allowed to proceed quietly,
and I thought that the famous Oxford saturnalia
was ended, and that the regular exercises of the
day had begun. But no! A voice from the stu-
dent tiers began to mimic the tone of the speaker;
then as any personal eulogistic allusion occurred,
some one would squeak out, "Put it on strong!"
Then there would be a general clamor, and several
times in the course of the twenty minutes' address,
the Vice-Chancellor was compelled to stop, trying
to look composed, but, as it appeared to me, feeling
considerably chafed. A Latin essay was then read,
interrupted at every sentence by "We 've heard
that before," and "The rest to be understood,” etc.
The speaker struggled gallantly through, like a
stanch craft in a hurricane. Any tendency to
the Ciceronian was instantly greeted with sarcastic
shrieks, and rotund Latin sentences, with plenty of
qualificatives and superlatives, helped out the ora-
tor's sentences in the same tone in which they were
delivered, only "a little more so." So also fared
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289
""
the addresses of the Professor of Civil Law and the
Public Orator. But the pieces of the undergradu-
ates were much less interrupted. They were,
however, hurried through in low, monotonous
voices, and at railroad speed, as if the speaker
either feared the "boys-terous comment or de-
spised the part he was performing. The Newde-
gate or Prize Poem- the same for which Reginald
Heber wrote his "Palestine was well deliv-
ered, and had a happily chosen theme, touching
successfully now and then the chord of British pat-
riotism, and calling forth great applause. There
was also a Carmen Latinum, by a student of Balliol
College. After the exercises, which were rather
bluntly concluded, were ended, I had time to look
about the "Theatre." It was designed by Sir
Christopher Wren, and was the gift of Archbishop
Sheldon, whose plan in its foundation was to remove
the secular ceremonies of the University from sa-
cred buildings a hint for our colleges. Here
are celebrated "all the public acts of the Univer-
sity, the Comitia and Enconia, and Lord Crewe's
annual commemoration of founders and benefac-
tors"—the great day at Oxford. This building
forms one of that constellation of grand old edifices,
made by the schools, the Bodleian Library, the
Radcliffe Library, and Christ Church, which are
the common heart and centre of the University.
The stone of which the Oxford College buildings
are built is unfortunately a very soft stone, and the
present ragged, scarred, and peeled condition of
19
290
OLD ENGLAND.
those beautiful structures can hardly be imagined.
Some of them are completely honey-combed. In
many instances they are rebuilding, or rather mak-
ing over the edifice stone for stone, in exactly the
old style and pattern.
The ivy-mantled walls, green archery lawns,
shadowy walks, brown sombre buildings, and ven-
erable quadrangles of New College, William of
Wykeham's College, especially delighted me.
This is fed by the tributary of Winchester school,
itself a titular college.
Old Exeter is undergoing a thorough transforma-
tion, and looks astonished at her own youthful
magnificence. Her new chapel rivals the ancient
glories of the place, especially in its stone and
wood carvings, in which delicate passion-flowers,
cut in oak, wreathe in with vine-leaves and lilies.
Froude the historian studied at Exeter, and there
caught the new impulse for historical studies which
Dr. Arnold introduced from Germany. The beau-
tiful soaring spire of St. Mary's Church, a majestic
wedge, so strong and yet so light, and the square
and pinnacled tower of Magdalen College, upon
which the Latin anthem is sung every New-Year's
morn, form the striking landmarks of Oxford, seen
far over the flat meadows.
One is tempted to lay irreverent hand upon the
smooth-worn monster brass nose of the gate of
Brasenose College. It is said, however, that the
name of the college has nothing to do with "Brass,"
but was derived from "Brasin-hous," the ancient
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291
name of "Brew-house." Bishop Heber was a stu-
dent of this college.
Most appropriately has this college honored the
memory of another of her noblest sons, Frederick
W. Robertson, with a memorial window in the
chapel, surmounted by the inscription on a scroll
“Te Deum laudat prophetarum laudabilis nume-
rus." By his splendid powers that burned out
with their own energy so quickly, and by his
thoughts that seem to enter into the very shekinah
of spiritual Truth, he has lighted the dark and
struggling way of thousands. The true life which
he lived, the great "fight of faith" which he waged,
reflect back a purer glory on his college, than if he
had fallen (as he sometimes wished to do) in the
trenches before Sebastopol, or had won the fame of
the first scholar on earth. In these walls he con-
secrated his early manhood to Christ; and it was
all his life his constant thought and prayer how he
might aid young men, especially educated young
men, in their conflicts and doubts to come to the
same Master, and find in him a higher light than
that of learning-"to begin in youth to say with
David, O God, thou art my God, early will I seek
thee."
Oriel, Dr. Arnold's college, is the most battered
and worn-looking of all the University buildings,
which, taken together, form a kind of monumental
history of England, exhibiting all its great historic
epochs. The sombre influence even of Spain may
be clearly traced in their architecture.
292
OLD ENGLAND.
Queen's College, where the "boar's head" is
served up on Christmas in memory of the legend
of the student's escape by thrusting a volume of
Aristotle down a wild boar's throat, has so fine a
front on High Street that its modern style may be
pardoned. Henry V. was once a scholar of this
college.
But there is nothing in Oxford which, taken as
a whole, quite equals Christ's College, at the termi-
nation of High Street, for the number of members
upon its foundation, its great names, its "quads,"
and its famous " Hall," one hundred and fifteen
feet by forty. This college, built by Cardinal
Wolsey on the scale of his own magnificence, is
par eminence the noblemen's college. These tufted
gentlemen occupy at meal-time a raised platform
by themselves something which our republican
taste could hardly brook, and which I have seen
criticized in English papers. To spend a sum-
mer's afternoon sauntering along the broad walk
of Christ's College, looking out upon the great
smooth meadows and shining Cherwell on one side,
and beautiful Merton College, with its masses of
splendid trees and gardens on the other, with now
and then the deep tones of the big bell in "Tom
Tower" filling the air with solemn sound, Oxford
would seem to be a place in which to forget the
present, to lose the future, and to walk and muse
life away in the dim cloisters of the past. Before
leaving Christ's College it were well to remember
that that great and holy man, William Tyndale,
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293
was educated at Oxford, and was a poor obscure
canon of Christ's College while yet in its infancy.
Here he conceived the plan of printing an English
translation of the Bible, and in conversation with
his fellow-priests who derided the idea, he said:
"If God spare me, before many years I will cause
a boy that driveth a plow to know more of the
Scriptures than you do." And this leads me to
speak of a still nobler spot in Oxford, in comparison
with which these academic buildings, with their
thickly clustering associations of wisdom and learn-
ing sink into insignificance - I mean "The Mar-
tyrs' Memorial," erected over the spot where the
three chief martyrs of the Reformation, Cranmer,
Ridley, and Latimer, suffered. This beautiful
monument marks, as it were, the spiritual centre
of England. It is such spots as these the
Martyrs' Tree" at Brentwood, the place where
Hooper was burned at Gloucester, and Smithfield
Market—which make England holy ground. He
who can read the account of those martyrdoms,
especially in the fresh language of Froude, and not
have his faith quickened and his heart filled with
high emotion, has no English blood in his veins or
Christian feeling in his soul. Through the death-
less constancy of these men, we in America enjoy
a pure faith and read a free Bible. They but testi-
fied to, they sealed with their blood, the faith which
already lived and burned in the hearts of the com-
mon people of England. They were upheld by
the encouraging words and prayers of the common
66
294
OLD ENGLAND.
people as they went to the stake. They fought
the battle of spiritual liberty for the English people,
and for us who now live, and for all men.
My first impression of Oxford still remains, that
it is the palace of the scholar-his paradise of
literary rest, his final reward—rather than a place
to make vigorous scholars and workingmen. Yet
somehow or other England's great men have been
educated here, and I have been struck by a remark
in the "London Quarterly," drawing a comparison
between a young man brought up at foreign uni-
versities and an English educated youth: "At the
moment they have left their respective places of
education, the young Englishman has little to show
for his time and money, while the foreign young
man is full of information and accomplishment.
But in ten or twelve years the tables are turned.
The foreign university man is still a lad in mind,
and a babbler on the surface of every subject.'
The Englishman has gone into the business of life
with a mind so trained that he grasps at will the
necessary knowledge of the subject before him.”
There must be something in English education,
with its everlasting drill in Latin and Greek com-
position, and its hard metaphysics and logic, which,
after all, develops and toughens the mental facul-
ties. It may be narrower in range than the Ameri-
can course of study, but it nevertheless "educates,"
draws out the intellectual powers, and gives them
manly grip and force. It teaches men to think
closely and write well. But it is said that in an
·
THE UNIVERSITIES.
295
there
Oxford education there is a want of definite aim and
earnest principle. Beside Greek literature and
English metaphysics, and now perhaps, since Dr.
Arnold's time, the study of history, in the whole
range of liberal studies which makes a man skillful
in the business of life especially the departments
of physical science and modern languages
is still a confessed deficiency at Oxford. Aristotle
still rules. The physical sciences and modern
languages have obtained no real recognition or
solid respectable foothold at Oxford; and the same,
with some modification, might be said of Cam-
bridge. Many old-fashioned ideas prevent a more,
enlarged and practical course of study. The study
of divinity, for example, which is above all others
a branch fitted for maturer years and for a profes-
sional course, is pursued by academical students
with no particular religious aim or preparation of
spirit, and only to a superficial extent at best. Yet
custom compels the reading of so much of Church
history and theology, in which there is, after all,
very little personal interest evoked. It is a system
of getting themselves up for examinations, in which
all the ingenuity and efforts of young men are con-
centrated to pass a critical goal, and to make the
show, if they have not the reality, of thorough
scholarship. The real hard study at Oxford, we
have the impression, is mostly done by the young
men who are striving for scholarships and univer-
sity prizes. These are tempting baits. They confer
even literary and political distinction; and some
296
OLD ENGLAND.
of them amount to a substantial life-income, say
from £200 to £400, so that it is a university
saying that "a high degree man supports himself
and his mother and sisters." To obtain these
prizes there must be excessive hard study. Men
are trained for these mental contests with the pain-
ful care and minute attention of physical athletes.
They are reduced to a state of pure intellectual
working activity, and then "crammed" with the
express juices of the rarest scholarship. As the
"lecture" is the vital principle of the German
university system, and the "recitation" of the
American, so, although there are professional lec-
tures and recitations, "private tutorage" is the
chief characteristic of the English university meth-
od of study. This of course adds greatly to the
expenses of student life, but has its advantages. It
might perhaps be introduced to a certain extent
into our American college system, thus aiding the
support of worthy scholars, and smoothing real
difficulties in the path of the learner himself. For
a young student to have the continual assistance
of a highly scholarly mind, of a "junior wrangler
for instance, fresh and victorious from the arduous
conflict, would be an immense aid in stimulating.
and directing his energies, although in many cases
it may produce, as it does, intellectual weakness
and enervation. But those who do not aim at
high degrees in the English university, may escape
with comparatively little labor. There is not that
uniform and steady purpose brought to bear upon
""
THE UNIVERSITIES.
297
the whole body of students that the American sys-
tem of daily recitation and "marking" for stand
produces. While the tone of scholarship among
the best scholars is far higher than with us, the
general standard both for entering and continuing
in the University is, according to the late "Parlia-
mentary Commissioners' Report," very imperfect.
This Report says, among other things: "The
standard of the matriculation examination varies at
different colleges. At Christ Church a candidate
is expected to construe a passage (which he has
read before) of Virgil and another of Homer, to
write a bit of Latin prose, to answer some simple
grammatical questions, and show some acquaint-
ance with arithmetic." In 1862 one third failed
even to pass this simple test. This hardly coincides
with Mr. Bristed's estimate of the standard of
scholarship at the English schools. He says,
Eton boy of nineteen is two years in advance of a
Yale or Harvard valedictorian in all classical knowl-
edge, and in all classical elegances immeasurably
ahead of him." But Mr. Bristed, though he has
written an admirable book, has, we know, a sort
of chronic prejudice against American scholarship
and American colleges. Some one has classified
the students of Oxford into 1, the reading men;
2, the idle slow men; 3, the good kind of fellows;
4, the idle fast or do-nothing men; 5, the regular
fast men. Nevertheless, we can but acknowledge
the superior thoroughness of English scholarship,
its richer culture, and more permanent and sub-
"An
298
OLD ENGLAND.
stantial depth. What it does do it does well
Those who are scholars are genuine ones. They
are inspired with a true love of sound learning
which never leaves them.
The moral tone of the English university is not
so high as that of our American colleges. Infi-
nitely more money is spent in proportion to the
number of students for horses, sporting, wine-
suppers, and fast living. This is partly accounted
for by the fact that as a general thing only the
wealthiest class of young men can be educated at
the two great universities, (for it would be useless
to deny what they themselves glory in, that they
are the highest expressions of the aristocratic prin-
ciple in English society,) and partly from the
simpler tone of New England and American life.
Drinking and other vices have a lamentably free
admission into these centres of Old-World civiliza-
tion, where London itself is distant but half an
hour's ride on the railroad. It were surely to be
hoped that the young men of our American col-
leges will strive to compete with those of Oxford
and Cambridge and of the German Universities,
not in their deplorable rowdyism and their ability
to drink eighty schoppen' of beer apiece, but in
their true English manliness and muscle, and their
high German ideals of brotherhood and broad in-
dependent culture.
There is one admirable feature that we might
learn from the English university — its delightfully
genial and social spirit. This is nourished by the
THE UNIVERSITIES.
299
intimate family life of each particular college, hav-
ing its own common table, home customs, and
traditions. This sentiment of profound college
esprit de corps never wears away, and results in
friendships of the most tender, noble, and lasting
kind. The Englishman's capacity for friendship,
with all his crustaceous pride of temper, is, I have
sometimes thought, greater than an American's;
and why greater? Not from any greater depth of
soul, but because the boy is kept fresh in him by
the constant cultivation of early associations, and
especially by the sympathies and memories of col-
lege days. There is far more poetry in English col-
lege-life than in ours. It is not so matter-of-fact.
The continual association with what is venerable in
the past and beautiful in Art and Nature, educates
the heart as well as the intellect, and the whole
man is rounded into nobler proportions. The
"humanistic" element in education, as Mr. Glad-
stone calls it, is more thoroughly cultivated than
with us. There certainly should be in every en-
lightened land those profound and tranquil springs
of learning, removed aside from the pathway of
traffic and the disturbing influences of a selfish,
superficial, and money-making world; where the
most noble and generous susceptibilities of the na-
ture are developed; where youth may have its
intellectual and spiritual ideals raised above the
standards and successes of ordinary practical life.
Thẹn, when youth comes down into the world's
agitated current, it will ride upon it strongly and
300
OLD ENGLAND.
safely, for it has an inward strength that is superior
to the world.
I need not spend time in speaking of the out-
ward organization and government of the English
university. Being almost entirely aristocratic, or
more properly, oligarchical, it does not possess the
organic unity of an American or even German
university. It is a collection of different inde-
pendent colleges, each absolute in its own domin-
ions, having its own laws, existing by its own funds,
and extremely jealous of the least infringement of
its rights by the general government. Originally
an ecclesiastical school attached to some religious
house, each college still retains something of its
exclusive monkish spirit, which stands in the way
of very great unity of governmental discipline, and
perhaps of rapid general improvement.
The full title of Cambridge College is, "The
Chancellor, Masters, and Scholars of the Univer-
"" 1
sity of Cambridge. These form the general
government, concentrated in the higher assembly,
which is thus composed: "All persons who are
masters of arts or doctors in one or other of the
three faculties, viz., divinity, civil law, or physic,
having their names upon the college boards, hold-
ing any university office, or being resident in the
town of Cambridge, have votes in this assembly."
Besides this general senate, there is a more special
council chosen yearly, called "The Caput," which
approves of every proposal before it is submitted to
1 Le Keux's Memorials of Cambridge.
THE UNIVERSITIES.
301
the senate. "The Caput consists of the vice-
chancellor, a doctor in each of the faculties, two
masters of arts, and other subordinate members,
nominated by the vice-chancellor." The meeting
of the senate is held about once a fortnight, the
quorum being forty members at its first session,
and twenty-four at its second. If a motion pass
the two houses of the senate (called regents and
non-regents) it becomes a law. Each degree which
is conferred undergoes the scrutiny of the senate.
The strictly executive authority consists of a Chan-
cellor, who is the representative head of the uni-
versity, and who has authority for a mile around
the town, excepting in cases of mayhem and fel-
ony; a high steward, who has power to try cases
of felony; a vice-chancellor, elected annually by
the senate, who does the Chancellor's duty in his
absence, and who is to all intents and purposes the
acting head of the university, taking the place of
our president; a commissary; public orator; as-
sessor; two proctors; and other minor administra-
tive officers. There are two courts of law to try
all cases (excepting those of mayhem and felony)
having relation to any member of the university;
which courts are conducted upon the common prin-
ciples and forms of civil law. The two members
of Parliament from Cambridge are chosen by the
senate. The professors' salaries are drawn from
varied sources and from very ancient and quaint
foundations; some of them come directly from the
revenue of the English government.
302
OLD ENGLAND.
66
Perhaps the grand distinguishing feature of the
English college, which, above all others, makes it
differ from the German and American college, is
what has been already alluded to, its system of
Fellowships." The college exists, above all, for
the benefit of its "Fellows," who enjoy its literary
and social advantages to the utmost. From this
body, continually replenished by the best scholars
of the University, the lecturers, professors, and offi-
cers are drawn. They are in fact the permanent
nucleus, "the pillar and ground" of the university
organization. They represent and control it. The
students seem to come in as a secondary and neces-
sary class, or as forming the material out of which
"Fellows" are made and supported.
This system, monastic in its origin, and monastic,
until very recently, in its condition of celibacy, has
its evil as well as its good, even as it relates to the
"Fellows" themselves. It brings together, it is
true, a body of highly cultivated men, who are
constantly increasing their mental cultivation and
heaping up erudition. But the tendency is for them
to become refined and critical, instead of broad-
minded and practical scholars, penetrated with the
spirit of the age, and having living sympathy with
living men. They are tempted to work for the
reputation of their college, instead of the highest
good of the multitude of young minds who come
under their shaping influence. They do not also,
it is averred, actually produce as much in the way
of original scholarship as might be expected from
THE UNIVERSITIES.
303
such splendid opportunities. Besides, the system
which sets a premium upon learning, and which
makes the noblest studies the means and measure
of pecuniary reward, cannot be considered as
founded upon the broadest idea of education. The
German idea is in the main superior to this. These
Fellowships, since they may be held for a certain
time without residence at the University, are, I
have seen it stated, sought for with great avidity by
those who expect to become lawyers, physicians,
and clergymen, and who do not intend to connect
their lives permanently with the University; in
this way they are afforded support and a certain
standing, as it were, in the transition period before
they are well able to stand by their own strength
and efforts. The temptation in such a case would
seem to be, to retain as long as possible that sup-
port and stimulus, whether of a moral or pecuniary
nature, which is so much needed at the very outset
of a professional life.
Therefore, while we honor and reverence these
glorious old universities, the parents of our own
colleges, the nurses of English learning and letters,
we would not copy them too closely, nor would we
hastily pronounce upon the inferiority of our own
systems of education for our own peculiar wants
and civilization. While the German university is
somewhat too advanced, learned, and professional
for our present needs, the English university is in
some respects too exclusively national, stiff, and
impractical for our imitation. We can learn much
304
OLD ENGLAND.
from both; and so long as we have before us such
living representatives of English university educa-
tion as Gladstone, Goldwin Smith, Trench, Stan-
ley, Froude, Kingsley, Ruskin, Lord Derby, Ten-
nyson, we must feel that there is something in it.
whose depth we have not comprehended, and which
draws from sources of life and power that are un-
seen.
CHAPTER XVII.
LONDON TO FOLKESTONE.
THE Archbishop of Canterbury, in a playful
mood, is said to have sent a message to Miss
Marsh, the authoress of "The Life of Headley
Vicars," asking her "when and by whom she had
taken orders?" I wished to see this noble Chris-
tian woman, and the barn where she preached to
the poor. Seven or eight miles to the south of
London, leaving Sydenham and the Crystal Palace
a little to the west, is Beckenham, a common coun-
try English village, pretty enough as that part of
Surrey County is, but in no way remarkable.
Walking past the inn, and the butcher's shop, and
the baker's, and the blacksmith's, I did indeed at
last come to the barn standing in the meadows,
where Miss Marsh collects her motley audience of
delvers and ditchers. Her own residence is at the
other end of the village, in a pleasant mansion-set
back a little from the road, with many fine old
trees and a smooth lawn about it. Before I saw
Miss Marsh I visited the village church, where
there is a monument recently erected to the mem-
ory of Captain Vicars. It is neatly designed, with
the ornament of a carved sword, sash-knot and
20
306
OLD ENGLAND.
6
scroll. This is one expression in the epitaph:
"He fell in battle, and slept in Jesus' on the
night of the 22d of March, 1855, and was buried
before Sebastopol."
Miss Marsh, as she entered the parlor with a
quiet step and a pleasant greeting, impressed me
with her dignity and winning feminine kindliness.
In personal appearance she is commanding and
handsome, and she dresses with exceeding good
taste. She does not neglect this means of personal
influence with the poor and humble. I can well
conceive how the rough "navvies" might be quite
carried away with her; for there is nothing in her
looks or conversation that bespeaks the straight-
laced religionist, but rather the noble and accom-
plished Christian lady.
I do not feel at liberty to trespass further in de-
scribing the frank courtesy which took me immedi-
ately into the family circle, nor the very pleasant
hour I spent, especially in conversation with her
father Dr. Marsh, whose venerable face might be
truly called "a perpetual benediction." The
widow of the hero of " Victory Won" was making
a visit in Beckenham at the same time, and she
was put under my escort back to London. She
told me that Miss Marsh was a true friend, and
that "when she once became interested in one's
welfare, she never left that person till the good she
strove for was accomplished." It was easy enough
to see where her power lay. It is in her perfect.
trust her great-souled confidence in God and
LONDON TO FOLKESTONE.
307
man.
She believes that sympathy shown to any
human being will meet some return, and will afford
some standing-place, some opportunity of good.
To a masculine will she unites a true woman's
heart, and both are consecrated to the work of edu-
cating and raising up the forsaken classes of society.
She leads this "forlorn hope" with a cheerful
courage that should inspire imitation. She is the
Florence Nightingale to the religious wants of poor
soldiers and seamen. She showed me the method
in which she kept the accounts, or acted as Savings
Bank, for hundreds of these people. These two
noble women were the ensamples of our own
American and Christian Commission ladies during
the war, and they are only worthy of more honor,
not that they have done more, but because they
were first in the work.
I am now going to take my reader a little fur-
ther down into the county of Hampshire, or Hants.
With a letter of introduction quite unexpectedly
put in my hands to the "Rector of Eversley,"
which offered a temptation I could not resist, I
sought out on the map of the county the point
called Eversley. To get at it one leaves the
railroad at the Winchfield Station, on the South-
western Railway. Here I hired a carriage and
drove some twelve miles over the sandy moor-
lands, skirting around the village of Hartley Wint-
ney. The last part of the way was through a wil-
derness of blooming heather. It was one sea of
purple flowers as far as the eye could reach, and
308
OLD ENGLAND.
the ride through it was exhilarating. It was, if I
mistake not, the common "ling" with bell-shaped
blossoms, quite fragrant, and the delight of the
honey-bee. In the midst of this purple waste,
down in a little hollow, was the "Rector of Evers-
ley's "house; and near by, almost in the garden,
was his church; and they formed the only village
that I could see.
Charles Kingsley's home was the very picture of
a rural parsonage, or poet's dwelling, away from
noise and men. The garden and lawn were orna-
mental without being stiff, and the windows and
walls were smothered in luxuriant vines and roses.
All the apartments and bow-windows stood open,
and there seemed to be a free communication with
out-door Nature. The birds might sing through
and in the house. Unfortunately the master of
this pleasant house was away. I was hospitably
entertained in Mr. Kingsley's own study, which was
indeed next to seeing himself. I could not help.
glancing around the room might I say "den"?
Some stalwart old folios of the "Fathers " looked
like the rough bark out of which the honey of
Hypatia" and other books of exquisite flavor
and spiritual richness had been drawn. There
appeared to be a good collection of historical works,
and the whole, as far as I could read at a glance,
formed an interesting and rare library —just the
one that awakened the appetite to look and search
further. An oak fragment of one of the ships of
the Spanish Armada hung over the fireplace.
66
LONDON TO FOLKESTONE.
309
but
Pipes were not wanting and walking-sticks
enough of this raiding upon a man's private domin-
ions in his absence!
Kingsley is still what may be called a young
man, as are indeed many of those living authors
such as Ruskin and Matthew Arnold, who have
breathed new freedom and power into English lit-
erature. He was born at Holne Vicarage on the
borders of Dartmoor in Devonshire, and was at
one time a pupil of Derwent Coleridge. The spirit
of freedom has long lived in his family. The
Kingsleys of Cheshire were noted for their fidelity
to the Parliament in the civil wars, and one branch
of the family emigrated to America, from whom
the late Professor Kingsley, of Yale College, was a
descendant. A relative of Froude the historian,
he has perhaps thereby been brought in contact
with the new and independent ideas of English
History, of which he forms as it were the prophet
or poet. And whatever may be thought by some
of his theological short-comings, as the ardent
champion of his friend Maurice, he has vigorously
striven to carry Christianity into practical life, and
to infuse its higher spirit into the very framework
of society. He has advocated a religion which
has warm blood in it, and can feel, think, run,
and work. He considers religion, in the words
of an old English divine, as "the seed of a deified
nature." Let us hope that he may never be faith-
less to his principles, as some of his latest utter-
ances awaken the fear of his being. He must
310
OLD ENGLAND.
deny himself in an unscrupulous and bad sense to
become a defender of injustice, or of power against
the poor. If he do this, notwithstanding a great
enthusiasm for him, he may go to the shades where,
alas! many dead heroes have gone before him.
This is indeed a small threat as far as myself is
concerned, but, if I mistake not, it will also be the
united judgment of an American public opinion
which has heretofore passionately honored and
loved Kingsley, and the entire loss of whose favor,
which has been called an English author's verdict
of posterity, no man living, be he ever so great,
can well afford to suffer.
I went into the plain, old-fashioned church where
Mr. Kingsley then ministered to his humble congre-
gation. A young relative of his told me that his
congregation was chiefly composed of laboring peo-
ple, "clod-hoppers," as he called them. "But," he
added, “he manages to interest them wonderfully."
He said that young officers from the camp of Al-
dershott, a few miles distant, were in the habit of
riding over to hear Mr. Kingsley. They probably
recognized the true fighter in him
dier-priest.
""
the true " sol-
To turn to another topic. The people of Europe
may be divided into two classes, those who drink
wine, and those who drink beer. The Englishman
vies with the German in his insatiable love of beer.
Its small fountains are spouting night and day in
town and country. Our friend Gough thinks that
they are fountains of unadulterated evil, but that
LONDON TO FOLKESTONE.
311
Englishman is poor indeed who cannot have his
mug of ale at dinner. Three fine counties, Kent,
Sussex, and Surrey, are almost entirely devoted to
the raising of hops. In Nottingham hops are also
grown, but they are of a weaker flavor. There is
no prettier sight than an English hop-garden with
its festooned and flowing vines, its narrow lanes,
and checkered lights. It is far more beautiful than
a cropped vineyard of France or Germany. And
the numberless little neat white drying-houses with
their red-tiled pointed towers, and crane-like
wooden flues or chimneys for carrying off the reek
of the hops, are not unpicturesque. The drying
process lasts from eight to ten hours. Fuel that is
smokeless or nearly so must be used.
The pick-
ing commences when the flower is of a straw-color
turning to brown. During the hop harvest in
September there is a merry time throughout the
length and breadth of these counties. It is sober
England turned stroller and gypsy. Men, women,
and children, beggars, strangers, Irishmen, Scotch-
men, Welchmen, and poor London people, stream
into the hop districts and gather the harvest, sleep-
ing mostly out on the fields in tents. But the hop
is the most precarious of crops, and fortunes are
annually lost and won in its delicate speculations.
The very abundance of the harvest sometimes de-
stroys its value; the duty upon hops is extremely
heavy, and as the hop raisers declare, very unjust.
It is laid upon the amount produced, instead of by
the acre or ad valorem; so that the producer in
312
OLD ENGLAND.
one county may raise more and get less, than one
in another county who raises less in quantity but
better in quality. The total number of acres under
the cultivation of hops is said to be not far from
fifty thousand, the region of Rochester raising the
largest crop, and that of Canterbury the next
largest. The queen of the hop-rearing districts
and the royal city of Kent, is Canterbury, fifty-six
miles from London and seven from the sea-shore.
It is a place now of some 15,000 inhabitants. Its
Saxon name was Cantwarabyrig, or "city of the
men of Kent." It is said to be older than Rome,
and at the time of the Conquest it contained more
inhabitants than London. Truly a fair sight it is,
lying "compact together" in the vale of the Stour,
with a circle of picturesque windmills standing
around it on the low hills, and engirt by its hop
gardens and trees, its antique buildings, and the
cathedral rising from its bosom like a very "city of
God." It is an English Damascus for situation.
What multitudes of pilgrims once poured into it to
visit the shrine of à Becket! There was the seat
of the missionary operations of Augustine, the
apostle of England. "Watling Street" of the
Romans which traversed England, the English
Appian Way, ran through Canterbury, and here
still retains its ancient name. But one of the old
gates of Canterbury, that called "Westgate," re-
mains standing by the puny black stream of the
Stour, and forms a narrow arched entrance be-
tween two formidable and battlemented round
LONDON TO FOLKESTONE.
313
towers, reminding one of Hotspur's gate at Aln-
wick. In the little lane called "Le Mercerie,"
leading up to the Cathedral from High Street, was
situated the "Tabard Inn," sometimes called
"Chequers Inn," where the Canterbury pilgrims
rested.
The Cathedral is a gray pile, with an elegant
central tower called "The Angel Tower," two
hundred and eighty-five feet high; the porch is an
exquisite specimen of the Perpendicular Style, and
over its door was formerly carved the scene of
Thomas à Becket's assassination. The spot where
this event occurred was in the north cross aisle at
the end of the nave, and this part of the church
bears the name of "The Martyrdom." The im-
perious prelate died with dignity,
"darkening with his blood
The monument of holy Theobald."1
The day of his death, the 29th of December, 1170,
was long held sacred by the Papal Church in Eng-
land. His shrine in Trinity Chapel behind the
screen of the high altar, which became from the
gifts of innumerable pilgrims one of the richest in
the world, has been removed for centuries, but the
stone steps which ascended to it, worn deep by the
feet of myriad votaries, are still to be seen. One is
also shown the spot from which a small square
piece of stone stained with Becket's blood was cut
out and sent to Rome. The penance and flagella-
tion of the haughty Henry II., showing the power
1 Thomas à Becket -a Tragedy by G. H. Hollister.
314
OLD ENGLAND.
of Rome at that age, took place in the " Chapter-
house" of the Cathedral.
""
From the fact, perhaps, that Edward the Black
Prince was buried in this church, it has become
an English "Valhalla" or "Temple of Heroes.
The tomb of the hero is in an excellent state of
preservation. The bronze effigy of the Prince,
once highly gilded and of fine workmanship, repre-
sents him as a young man of graceful form and
regular, even delicate features. The helm, shield,
surcoat, and gauntlets that he wore on the field of
Cressy, are suspended over the tomb. The helm
is surmounted by a bronze lion, with stiff brand-
ished tail and open mouth. One of the old chron-
iclers of England wrote thus in his quaint way of
the death of the Black Prince: "His deth bare
awey with it all the sikernes (security) of the
land." There are also modern monuments to Eng-
lish soldiers slain in Holland, Belgium, Portugal,
Spain, India, and the fights at Moodku, Sobraon,
and Abwal. The church is hung with torn flags
that have passed through the fierce fires of Eng-
land's battles. In the undercroft of the Cathedral
a small remnant of the ancient church of French
Walloons, driven away by persecution from their
native land in Elizabeth's reign, still worship. This
subterranean chapel was granted to them by Eliza-
beth as a place of worship. They continued to be
silk weavers, and in the time of Charles II. were
the most important silk manufacturers in England.
This Cathedral is an exhaustless mine for the
LONDON TO FOLKESTONE.
315
architectural student, as it was the royal shrine of
English faith for so many centuries, and was orna-
mented, added to, and enriched by so many kings,
whether moved to do so by piety or remorse. King
Edward I. and Margaret were married in 1299 at
the altar of the "Martyrdom." Edward the Black
Prince died in the Archiepiscopal house in Palace
Street near by. Fragments of history of every
age crop out, from the deep and extensive crypt
whose foundations were laid in Saxon times, to the
new windows that are the production of the latest
modern English Art. The bit of Norman staircase,
with four heavy pillars, round-headed arches with
the chevron ornament, and an open arcade at the
northwest angle of the Priory, is an extremely
interesting feature of the past. The armed feet
of the warlike Edward III. and of the "Black
Prince" might often have trodden it, and it looks
now, with its ponderous columns and angles, in
perfect keeping with those dark and mail-clad
forms.
A Missionary College has been founded upon the
site of the Abbey and the residence of Augustine,
and has incorporated within its buildings some parts
of the old edifice, especially two gateways, and a
fine old arch. The ancient work is mostly of flint
rubble, which is a kind of building material now
extensively used all along through the chalk dis-
tricts. This was the "Augustine sent by Pope
Gregory, of whom the familiar story of seeing the
English youth in the slave-market of Rome is
told.
316
OLD ENGLAND.
A purer Christianity had been sown in England
long before, and had its precarious abode among
the mountains of Wales and along the western
shores of the island; but Augustine, partly by
persuasion and partly by force, succeeded in bring-
ing all under his spiritual sway, and by degrees
also won over the warlike Saxon kings and their
people to a nominal acceptance of the Christian
faith. Ethelbert, King of Kent in 596, was the
first to receive the new religion, and upon the site
of his palace Canterbury Cathedral stands. The
chair in which the ancient Kings of Kent were
crowned is preserved in the church. From this
spot therefore, even though feebly and mistily, our
own faith sprang. As much as we may abhor the
errors of the Romish Church, we cannot forget
that it was through her hands we ourselves have
received the Word of Life. The procession of
monks from Rome entered the heathen city where
the temples of stormy Thor and wanton Friga
stood, bearing a silver cross and chanting the sol-
emn old Latin words, "Deprecamur te Domine in
omnia miserecordiâ ut auferatur furor tuus.'
""
The list of ancient charities of the city of Can-
terbury is a curious one. One of them is a bene-
faction producing an annual income of £37 5s., to
provide gowns of russet cloth for poor persons
above fifty years of age, residing in certain parishes
of the city; another is a gift of £100, every £5
of the interest of which sum is to be appropriated
to setting up some young man in trade who has
LONDON TO FOLKESTONE.
317
served an apprenticeship of seven years; another
is a yearly rent of but eleven shillings.
While at the Fountains Inn, the landlord insisted
upon my hearing the famous "Canterbury Catch
Club," which has been established for about a
century. It was an odd scene, rivaling a German
student's beer-cellar. A large room handsomely
frescoed in blue and gold was arranged with long
mahogany tables, at which companies of gentlemen
old and young sat, each with a tall mug of ale
before him and a long white clay pipe. Through
the thick volumes of smoke appeared also a speak-
er's desk, and a raised platform at one end of the
apartment where the singers and the musicians sat.
I was invited to a seat by the side of a ruddy-faced
Canterbury burgher, who gave me a minute history
of the club and its trials with democratic foes, and
furnished me with a good deal of gossip about city
matters, hop speculations, beer making, etc.
ladies occupied an adjoining apartment with an
open door between, and they must have enjoyed
with the music a powerful flavor of smoke during
"the ambrosial evening." There were some brass
instruments, but the chief entertainment was song-
singing, and if ever I heard true melody, such as
makes the heart leap and the eye sparkle, it was
there. The old historic glee of "Queen Bess"
was given in fine round style, and the national
piece called "The British Isles," with five parts,
touched a chord in every heart. Some sweet Eng-
lish airs full of tenderness were sung with manly
The
318
OLD ENGLAND.
feeling; but the gem of the evening was Shak-
speare's majestic lines sung in six voices :-
"The cloud-capt towers, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea all which it inherits shall dissolve,
And like this unsubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind.”
Voice followed voice, solemn and rich, as if they
were building up together in harmony these glori-
ous fabrics, and then interweaving and dying away
in plaintive tones like the wind that sweeps over
the ruins of a desert city. The whole evening
was so thoroughly racy, hearty, and English, that
I could almost forgive the stupefying beer and acrid
tobacco smoke. He who says the English have no
music in them should hear one of these national
"Catch Clubs."
It is a dull, long, lonely ride between Canterbury
and Dover, sixteen miles over the chalk hills, with
now and then a dirty, boozy, drinking inn. The
names of English road-side inns, such as the "Bar-
ley Mow," the "Red Cow," the "Pack Horse,"
the "Malt Shovel," etc., have the true smack of
rural England. Sitting on the outside of the coach
I was amused by the conversation of two young
Londoners, with round hats, checked clothes, and
eye-glasses, upon the comparative merits of Lon-
don theatres. Their pronunciation particularly
attracted me as being the broadest type of Punch's
utterances of this class of youth. As a general
thing I do not altogether dislike the English man-
·
LONDON TO FOLKESTONE.
319
ner of speaking, notwithstanding its "stomachic"
tones. It has a manliness, richness, and breadth
of light and shade, that our sharp flat pronuncia-
tion lacks. It does not dwell upon the short vow-
els as Americans are apt to do, but touches them
lightly. Yet when English pronunciation is pushed
to an extreme, now gurgling thick as Devonshire
cream, and now running up and down the gamut
in extraordinarily high and low tones, it is any
thing but harmonious or intelligible. There are, it
is true, very decided differences of pronunciation
among educated men in England and in America,
-who are right? We should think that the older
nation would retain the right standard, but it
would be difficult for us to say "primer," and "in-
spīration," as they say them in Oxford; or "fer-
tile" and "e-vil;" or "ràther" and "Sarah ;
or "Iron Juke" and "Tehudor architecture."
Pronunciation is so arbitrary a thing, however, that
one need not be alarmed if he sometimes differs
from another educated person, especially from one
across the water. Americans, I contend, have a
superior clearness of articulation, but with our
tendency to lay stress on unaccented syllables,
and our flat pronunciation of the vowels, we may
learn something from the trippingly talking Eng-
lishman.
We are now going over a portion of that great
chalk region of England, which extends north
through nearly the whole of the counties of Suffolk
and Norfolk, and south through large portions of
320
OLD ENGLAND.
Sussex, Hants, Wilts, and Dorset counties, and is
seen also in the Isle of Wight. It marks and
paints itself in the scenery with its more tranquil
and gently undulating hills and vales, rising higher
toward the sea-coast, and breaking off in bold cliffs,
as at Dover and Folkestone. Patches of snow-
white chalk rock gleam out here and there from
the summits and sides of the green hills, like the
white Southdown sheep that feed upon them; and
they are as different from the black slate shelves
of Wales as if it were another world. The in-
tensely green and white colors form a fine contrast.
Geologists tell us that we are treading here upon
the bed of a primitive ocean, formed by the accu-
mulation of minute crustaceous and marine ani-
mals. This was all life once. When we look up
we are lost in the greatness of the celestial uni-
verse, whose edges only we have feebly explored,
and when we look under our feet we are lost in the
infinity of the minute; and both bear equal evi-
dence to the inconceivable extent of the Past, and
to the truth that their Author is "from everlasting
to everlasting."
In the calcareous rock are found those colossal
mammals and quadrupeds of the British Museum,
those mountains of bones, vastly excelling in size
the sculptured bulls of Nineveh.
Here in the neighborhood of Dover began that
famous Roman road of which we have already
spoken, called "Watling Street," and which the
traveler often comes across in his journeyings
LONDON TO FOLKESTONE.
321
It ran through
through the midland counties.
Kent over the Thames by London; on by St. Al-
bans and Stratford; along the Severn by Worces-
ter; and then through the middle of Wales to
Caradigan on the Irish Channel. Nothing by
halves, was the Roman motto.
What a concep-
tion one gets of the power of ancient Rome to find
her roads, viaducts, bridges, arches, baths, citadels,
standing in the midst of totally dissimilar and far-
distant regions, like England, Northern Germany,
Syria, and the wastes of Africa. Her rule in Brit-
ain was on the whole beneficial, and she taught
the painted barbarians of "The Little Island "
their first grand lesson in civilization — the idea of
Law.
Dover has little to interest with the exception of
its castle, which stands upon a high rock to the
east of the town, and covers some thirty-five acres
with its buildings of Roman, Saxon, Norman, and
modern architecture. As the principal of the
"Cinque Ports," and as the great outlet to the
Continent, and more than all as one of the few
places of safety along that sweep of dangerous
coast, Dover will always be important. And even
this is a precarious haven. The immense works
now going on for the improvement of the harbor,
so that fleets may ride in safety in it, are very
slowly progressing. Another generation may en-
joy their advantages. It is a mighty submarine
battle with shifting sands, and an external one with
winter storms. When finished, this "harbor of ref-
21
322
OLD ENGLAND.
uge
will embrace an area of 760 acres, surround-
ed by a wall more than two miles in length, and
securing a depth of 30 or 40 feet of water at low
tide.
These great white cliffs of Dover, covered with
fierce barbarians, presented a formidable sight to
the galleys of Cæsar, as they sailed slowly by to
find a difficult landing-place a little further north at
Deal. In those times the water came up to the
foot of the cliffs, and the port of Dover was at the
mouth of the Dour Valley, on the north of the
city, extending as far as Charlton, and which is
now filled up. Coming into Dover Harbor in a
dark night the lines of lights upon the lofty heights,
the bright lights of the Castle, and the brilliant
beacons along the towering cliffs, have a singular
effect; they seem as if written on the face of the
sky. The town stands chiefly upon a strip of soil
formed under the cliffs, and is mostly composed of
one long street. It has broken an outlet for itself
from its confined prison-house on the ocean, right
through the hills that surround it. The double
tunnel under Shakspeare's Cliff, for the passage of
the South Eastern Railroad, more than three quar-
ters of a mile long, is a stupendous work. From
the soft and crumbling nature of the chalk rock, its
cutting was a perilous and often disastrous opera-
tion. And there are seven other tunnels on this
line, some of them still more difficult and extended.
"Shakspeare's Cliff" is not so high as it was in
the poet's time, and its base has receded from the
LONDON TO FOLKESTONE.
323
water. From its form, sloping inward, and an-
swering perfectly to the words of Edgar,
“There is a cliff whose high and bending head," &c.,
every fragment that falls from the edge lessens its
height. In walking up it I roused a host of little
birds, making the air melodious with their morn-
ing songs. From the top of the cliff I counted
one hundred and twenty sail, and saw the coast of
France distinctly, although the day was dusky. It
is twenty-one miles across. The time was when
this England was thought to be a mere appendage
to yonder coast by its Norman kings. The view
toward Folkestone has something wild and solemn
in it. The white cliffs solitary and stern, gleaming
pale under the sombre sky, look like resolute and
thoughtful sentinels watching the opposite hostile
coast, the giant guardians of freedom.
Folkestone, six miles from Dover, is soon reached
upon the railway. It has been greatly improved,
purified, and beautified, since it has become the
chief point of communication with Boulogne, a sail
of an hour and a half. Here, as at Dover, one
sees the genuine English sailor such as France
cannot grow. He "smacks of the wild Norwegian
still," and has an impudent, independent swagger,
but stands on the deck firm as a rock, and carries
a calm eye and ruddy cheek.
The "Pavilion Hotel" at Folkestone is a most
comfortable and ample house. The aristocratic
town stands above on the heights. The grassy
edge of the cliff forms a beautiful promenade.
324
OLD ENGLAND.
Not far from Folkestone to the south are Hythe,
Romney, and Hastings, three other towns of the
Cinque Ports, -
"Sandwich and Romney, Hastings, Hythe and Dover,
Were all alert that day.”
Seven miles from Hastings is "Battle Abbey," the
remains of that proud structure built by William
the Conqueror on the field of Hastings, over the
spot where Harold fell. It was also upon these
shores that our free-roving ancestors, the rough,
big, blue-eyed Saxons, swarmed in upon Eng-
land. At "the Isle of Thanet," near Margate,
landed the first Saxon invaders. Craftily obtain-
ing possession of but just as much land as a bull's
hide would go around, with true Anglo-Saxon
acquisitiveness they finally overran and conquered
the whole island. The same old viking spirit of
the lust of power and possession has manifested it-
self in the whole course of English history, in the
harrying of Scotland, the oppression of Ireland, and
the unprincipled conquest of India; and it has
cropped out in the New World in the policy of the
United States toward the American Indian, and
in the system of American Slavery. But let us be
thankful that the spark of a nobler spirit was also
sown with this inborn piratical instinct the spark
of the love of liberty — which though long lying la-
tent finally breaks out and burns up what is base
and material.
CHAPTER XVIII.
TUNBRIDGE WELLS TO ISLE OF WIGHT.
TUNBRIDGE JUNCTION on the South Eastern
Railway is just half way between Folkestone and
London; and by a branch line of five miles one
comes to Tunbridge Wells. Seated in the garden
of Kent, on the brow of a hill overlooking a broad
and gentle vale, is this old and popular watering-
place. Its thymy and healthy moors strewn with
singular masses of isolated rock, its luxuriant hop-
vines, its chalybeate spring, and above all its union
of pastoral beauty with the comforts and elegancies
of a handsome town, will always make it a favorite
English health resort, to those who can bear the
rough breezes of the English Channel.
The sandstone rocks of Tunbridge Wells form a
part of that remarkable geologic feature called
"The Wealden Beds." They are a superficial
stratum of clay, sandstone, limestone, and ironstone,
formed over and around the great chalk-bed of this
region. They extend over large portions of Kent
and Sussex, and reach even to the coast of France.
From petrified forests, and characteristic fossil re-
mains found in the "Wealden," it is inferred that
these strata were a fresh - water deposit. Here
326
OLD ENGLAND.
was once the vast estuary of a British Amazon two
hundred miles wide, flowing from interior moun-
tains before the British Channel was scooped out.
It is conjectured that on the subsidence of the
waters, those odd columnar masses known as the
"Harrison," " Eridge," "Rusthall," and "Toad "
rocks, were left standing, and being soft stone have
been worn into their present grotesque shapes by
the action of time and weather. The "Wealden "
is said to grow the finest oaks for ship-timber that
are to be found in England.
Brighton, in Sussex County, the queen of all
English watering-places, is fifty-one miles by rail
from London. I made the journey during a vio-
lent October tempest, when at times the stout
English locomotive could hardly make head against
the fierce blasts of wind, rain, and hail. At the
hotel I was put in a room very high up,
"" be-
cause," said the landlady, "it was the height of the
season." The windows rattled and the house shook.
It was one of those storms that strew the coast
of England with wrecks. I myself counted one
hundred and five wrecks from that one storm re-
ported in the English papers, how many more
there were I know not. But the next morning
the pier at Brighton presented a sublime sight.
Although the wind was still so furious that it was
difficult to walk or drive, hundreds of bold ladies
were gathered on the sea-walk to witness the ef
fects of the storm. No o ship was in sight, and as
TUNBRIDGE WELLS TO ISLE OF WIGHT. 327
far as could be seen there was one wild gray chaos
of waters, with now and then a bright light break-
ing through the coal-black storm-clouds, and illu-
mining a spot far out on the sombre and angry
waste. Every billow made a clean sweep over the
graceful chain-bridge of the "New Pier," twisting
and rending away its supports. What gigantic in-
rolling arches and fountains of foam, that, as they
leaped on high, were scattered by the wind like a
driving snow-blast! An old fisherman told me
that there had not been such a storm since the
Pilgrim was wrecked. Opposite Kemp-town men
were occupied in securing casks, bales, and boxes,
that came ashore from a Mediterranean trading-
vessel, which had been thrown on the chalk cliffs a
few miles distant. The cliffs stretching north even
to Beachy Head looked most formidable, and woe
to the craft that was then flung upon their white
teeth.
Yet ladies reclining on sofas at the windows of
their hotels, while they sipped their coffee at break-
fast, might look directly out over this fierce marine
view. For three miles there is a noble drive and
sea-wall, lined with splendid mansions, hotels, and
boarding-houses, adapted for winter residence.
Brighton, notwithstanding its sea-exposure, is a
comparatively warm and agreeable winter resort.
It is, in the summer months, a city of nearly 100,-
000 inhabitants. The smooth undulating Downs
above the town not only produce delicate mutton,
but are fine fields for walking and horseback exer-
328
OLD ENGLAND.
cise. The "Pavilion," with its puerile domes
and minarets, recalls the false and flimsy epoch
of that semi-Oriental monarch, George IV. His
statue by Chantrey stands upon a promenade called
the "Old Steine." The house of Mrs. Thrale,
where Dr. Johnson visited, is still standing. The
atmosphere of Brighton is considered to be very
favorable for invalids in the winter time, as well
as the summer. Dr. Kebbell, in a book upon
"The Climate of Brighton" says of it: "The mild-
ness, and particularly the equableness, of the at-
mosphere, and its freedom from all malarious ex-
halations, together with the choice it offers in the
difference of temperature between its sheltered and
exposed situations, all combine in rendering Brigh-
ton a very desirable place of residence during the
winter months, and suitable in the great majority
of diseases for which sea-air is found to be service-
able. To define the winter climate of Brighton in
a few words I should use the terms mild, equable,
dry, and bracing; though in this latter quality it
varies considerably in its different situations. I
should say that the more sheltered parts of Brigh-
ton cannot differ very materially in the general
properties of their climate from some of the more
elevated portions of Ventnor. The sea-side places
on the southwest coast, as Torquay and Penzance,
owing to their more westerly position, have both a
milder and more equable winter climate than
Brighton, or any other place on the south coast;
but they are at the same time more relaxing, ener-
TUNBRIDGE WELLS TO ISLE OF WIGHT. 329
vating, and humid — qualities of climate which cer-
tainly agree better with some constitutions, and are
particularly well suited for a large class of pulmo-
nary complaints. But the impression is certainly
now rapidly gaining ground that the drier and
more bracing climates of the south coast are, on the
whole, more conducive to health, as well as more
suitable to the great majority of invalids, including
many chest affections, and even some forms of pul-
monary consumption, for which not long since the
southwest climates were invariably prescribed."
How often one spirit seems to take possession of
a place, and to pervade it like a divinity, so that
every thing else in the place is known or brought
into prominence simply by its relations to that spirit.
We at a distance know Brighton as the home of
F. W. Robertson; though doubtless thousands in
Brighton would be surprised at this, or, it may be,
would sneer at it. But, more than any thing else
Brighton is interesting to us, because here so great
a part of his life-battle was fought. These clay
cliffs have light on them, because his feet trod
them, and this ocean view is glorious because his
wearied mind was so often refreshed by it. In the
pulpit of Trinity Chapel he preached those match-
less sermons which are almost perfect in form, and
are perhaps the best expression of the modern type
of finished, pulpit oratory. It is a singular fact
that he who would not, as a matter of principle,
say any thing that he thought would be popular,
was one of the most popular preachers of the times.
330
OLD ENGLAND.
-
The scene at his funeral, when fifteen hundred
working men followed his remains to the grave, and
the whole city spontaneously put on mourning, was
a burial that no king could hope for. Yet his
power was not altogether inborn or accidental; it
was in part the result of thorough culture. He
who, other things being equal, would rival him as
a preacher, must go through his training. His ser-
mons have a unity, a depth, an individuality of
thought, that could come but from the severest dis-
cipline. Added to this, his æsthetic sense, his
poet's love of Nature, his exquisite mastery of lan-
guage, in which "the word is born with the
thought," and his intense realization of truth his
self-absorption in it made a combination of won-
drous power. He who makes abstract things sim-
ple, and spiritual things plain, will have hearers
enough. He will speak to the world. Robertson
is another proof that the highest culture, the truest
art, instead of unfitting a man to be a preacher
to all minds, to the unlettered as well as educated,
only fits him the better for it. It is the man who
is half trained who never gets to the depths of a
subject, nor the depths of a heart. He spoke some
things that will not chime with the orthodoxy of
the ages, and that are too inconsistent to entitle
him to be a sure guide in theology, but if he spoke
boldly he was ready to suffer; and as a man who
had drunk into the spirit of self-sacrifice, who
seized upon the central truth of Christ as the life
of the soul, who followed his Divine Lord through
TUNBRIDGE WELLS TO ISLE OF WIGHT. 331
life and death, and whose earnest words came out
of the white heat of his own soul's strife and agony
for these things, all true men in all Christian
lands will love him. Robertson's life is sad to read,
though one "with a kingly sorrow crowned." He
has found, in his own words, "Rest in God and
Love: deep repose in that country where the mys-
tery of this strange life is solved, and the most
feverish heart lays down its load at last."
Venerable Winchester, on the way to South-
ampton, in the county of Hants, overlooking the
beautiful vale of the Itchen, is worthy of a longer
description than I can give it. It was Alfred's
home, and was an old British city even before his
day. It has played a royal part in all the early
history of England, especially during the Norman
period. In its ancient cathedral, Egbert the first
Saxon king, Richard I., and three other English
monarchs, were crowned. The dust of Alfred,
Egbert, Canute, and William Rufus, sleeps here.
The remains of many Saxon princes have been
gathered into six small chests, or coffers, and placed
in the choir. Winchester is the chief seat and
home of that great genius, William of Wykeham;
the west front of the Cathedral, with its noble
perpendicular window, and also the magnificent
nave, are his handiwork. No English Cathedral
has a more impressive and beautiful interior than
Winchester, though its exterior is low and austere ;
the amount of exquisite carved flower-work in this
church I have before hinted at. The tomb and
332
OLD ENGLAND.
painted effigy of its greatest builder, William of
Wykeham, is quite perfect, and represents him as a
fresh-faced benignant looking man.
The capped
effigy of Cardinal Beaufort is in the presbytery,
in which he is represented as having a Norman
nose and high proud face.
died and made no sign;
Shakspeare says "He
and one cannot help
thinking in contrast of the death of the stern but
just Scotch reformer, as related by Carlyle:
"Hast thou hope?' they asked of John Knox
when he lay a-dying. He spake nothing, but
raised his finger and pointed upward, and so he
died."
Gentle Izaak Walton's remains also rest here.
He lived in Winchester with his son-in-law until
he was ninety years old. Dr. Arnold was a scholar
of Winchester School, which is the oldest in the
kingdom.
From Winchester I went to Portsmouth, a
wholly different scene, with its dirty crowded
streets and busy dockyards. Hiring two old mot-
tle-faced"salts," I took a row in the lake-like
basin of the harbor, though the waves were still
rolling and tossing uncomfortably, so that when we
put up sail and plowed across the harbor, we had
a plentiful shower-bath of salt water. We passed
the old Bellerophon, now rotting by the wharf.
She looks small and stubbed by the side of those
vast "three-deckers" that lie around in the harbor
like chained sea-lions, and which are in fact like
lions with their fangs pulled out.
"Yankee cheese-
TUNBRIDGE WELLS TO ISLE OF WIGHT. 333
boxes on rafts" have drawn the fire from these old
thunderers. The Victory also lies here, and is
crowded with chubby-cheeked, bright eyed naval
apprentices. Though made over almost entirely,
something of the ancient vessel still remains, es-
pecially in the lower parts. One is shown the spot
where Nelson fell, and the "cock-pit" where he
died.
At Spithead, just outside of the harbor, where
the Royal George went down, is the chief ren-
dezvous of the British Navy. It is protected
from violent winds by the Isle of Wight and the
main land. These great inland channels made by
the Isle of Wight, Spithead, the Solent, and South-
hampton water, these free yet broad and sheltered
anchorages, give to this point of the English coast
its naval preeminence. Here is its naval arsenal.
Not obtaining admission to the dockyards which
form the principal object of interest in Portsmouth,
covering some one hundred and twenty acres, and
separated from the city by a wall fourteen feet high,
I will go on to Southampton.
The ride of eighteen miles is for the first part
of the way along the shore of the inner harbor, and
affords one a view of the fine ruins of Porchester
Castle. I had here a second specimen of an oscil-
lating car, which jolted out many rough sayings
from the sea-faring passengers.
At Southampton the most striking object is a
piece of the old feudal wall looking sea-ward, — a
grand fragment. Southampton has almost the as-
334
OLD ENGLAND.
pect of a new American town, and seems to have a
great deal of unoccupied ground. In the hall of
the hotel all sorts of odd-shaped boxes, elaborately
corded bundles and packages, marked "Bom-
bay," "Calcutta," &c., remind one that he stands
here in the vestibule of the avenue that leads to
the great Indian Empire. I was told that when a
steamer for Egypt left Southampton, she would
often take eight hundred solid boxes of letters,
such as one sees marked with large capitals in the
yard of the London Post-office. Southampton was
the birthplace of Isaac Watts; and beautiful Netley
Abbey, one would think, might make poets now.
The Isle of Wight is a pocket edition of Eng-
land, an epitome, a compact gem, of all Eng-
land's beauties of rolling hills, quiet valleys, em-
erald meadows, hedgy lanes, broken cliffs, and
shaggy ocean bays. I visited the Isle of Wight in
the month of August, so that this visit forms a
short episode by itself, and breaks somewhat the
regular course of my travel southward. In driv-
ing across the island from Cowes to Sandown Bay,
we soon lost sight of the tall square campanile of
the Italian villa of "Osborne House," and after a
ride of five miles along the Medina River, through
a bosky wooded country, we came to the old town
of Newport, the harbor of Carisbrooke. Caris-
brooke Castle lies about a mile to the north, and
nearly in the centre of the island. It is perched
on the summit of a round green hill, and one enters
it under an archway of Elizabeth's time; and sure-
TUNBRIDGE WELLS TO ISLE OF WIGHT. 335
ly nothing can be more lovely than the marine view
from its battlements over the tranquil but busy
waters of the Solent. On the left of the gateway
are the rooms once occupied by Charles I.; but
the window from which the king's escape was at-
tempted is built up. The broken keep still pre-
sents outwardly a lofty, rugged, defiant aspect;
while within, a poor little scrubby donkey draw-
ing up water from the interminable well, was the
chief amusement at this stronghold, where a rough
nation put its unsafe sovereign under lock and
key.
I went on by the Standen and St. George's
Down road to Arreton. The road was deeply cut,
and on either side was a perfect tangle of thorn
and bramble; while riding over some other parts
of the island the fragrance of the rose and honey-
suckle was delicious. The Downs here looked
sere and white, dried up by the heat, although the
sheep found pretty good pasturage upon them. At
Arreton I paid a visit to the church where "The
Dairyman's Daughter" worshiped and was buried.
It is a plain stone building not unlike Hucknall
Church, with buttresses to the tower on either side
of the doorway. Outside in the rude churchyard
is the tomb of Elizabeth; and many little bare-
footed children clustered around as I read the sim-
ple inscription. The bell on this old tower tolled
her funeral. The "rich and fruitful valley," now
rich again with a new harvest, lay beneath with a
streak of the blue sea in the distance, just as Leigh
336
OLD ENGLAND.
Richmond describes it; and the summer air was as
mild as then.
We drove on through a region growing greener
and more luxuriant to the "Common," as it is
called, where stands the cottage in which this pious
maiden lived, who thought religion consisted in
being "like Christ." Stepping over two bars into
the pasture, a few steps through the green meadow
brought us to the small oaken wicket gate (doubt-
less the same one mentioned in the tract) opening
into a yard, where a few common bright flowers,
wild thyme, etc., were growing; two or three
tall elms shaded the thatched roof of the cottage,
and a roughly carved porch was over the doorway.
A decent intelligent woman welcomed me within,
where an air of neatness and humble English com-
fort prevailed. There was the wide kitchen fire-
place, at which doubtless the good minister often
sat and talked with his young disciple; and I was
shown the Bible belonging to "The Dairyman's
Daughter," with some of her writing in it. I
looked too at the little window of the chamber
where she died, and where she said that the dark
valley was not dark because the Lord was there to
light it.
In riding on toward Sandown I noticed a copse
of oak-trees very curiously bent by the south
wind, so as to form a complete green arch over
the road.
The window of the hotel at Sandown looked
directly out on that wide spreading bay often
TUNBRIDGE WELLS TO ISLE OF WIGHT. 337
spoken of by Leigh Richmond, who had something
of a poet's nature. Shanklin Chine terminated it
on the south, and white Culver Cliff on the north.
I gathered fantastic flint pebbles, to fling them into
the sea again. What sight after all is so fine as a
great green billow just arching into the sunlight to
pour itself along the shore!
A short distance north of Sandown is Brading;
and in the walk from Sandown to Brading one sees
the scenery through which Leigh Richmond walked,
in his pastoral labors as Rector of Brading and
Yaverland. Back of lofty Culver Cliff, which is
crowned by an awkward and neglected monument
to Lord Yarborough, lies a broad glistening bay
almost land-locked, with green hills around, on
whose steep slopes feed flocks of sheep, and the
beautiful and rich promontory of Bambridge, where
Leigh Richmond used to go to teach the people of
this hamlet, stands at the mouth of this bay. The
ancient church of Brading, in the valley, is far
more picturesque than the one at Allerton. It has
a short spire with a long low body covered with a
red roof, and terminated by a broader addition or
ell with three roofs and gable ends, giving the rear
of the church greater width than the front. A
conspicuous weather-cock stands upon the low
spire, as if to remind one of an inscription on one
of the old tombstones in the yard: "Watch, for
ye know not when the day of the Lord cometh ;
and in this yard is the monument of "The Young
Cottager," erected by her pastor, which many
22
338
OLD ENGLAND.
""
66
ladies, and children, and men also, were looking
at when I was there. Leigh Richmond made a
book of instruction for his people out of this an-
cient churchyard among the hills. This may seem
strange, but among a rural and primitive people
the churchyard, usually a green and tranquil spot,
and the place where the congregation on summer
Sabbaths spend the interval between the services,
is no feeble preacher to conscience and heart; it
is their "wicket gate into Immortality. Many
of the graves were bound over with interlacing
rose-vine withes. The parsonage, separated from
the churchyard by a high stone-wall, stands at a
little distance hid in a wilderness of trees, while
Bambridge Hill rose steeply to the south speckled
over with sheep. It was the Sabbath
ing." On the old dial in the yard there rested
no shadow. Groups of lean-dressed villagers sat
conversing together upon the mossy grave-stones.
The soft summer wind gently swayed the tops of
the trees. The rugged church, of great antiquity,
with weeds and flowers growing out of every
crevice, stood in strong light and shade; and on
this spot, the tradition is, was the first preaching
of the Word of Life in England. I entered by
the low west porch into the broad and cool Nor-
man interior. The arches between the pillars were
rimmed with red color, otherwise every thing was
bare and plain. In the high square unpainted
oaken pews a few people were gathered. The
Evening Hymn" was first sung, principally by
66
noon-
TUNBRIDGE WELLS TO ISLE OF WIGHT. 339
fresh young voices; and from the pulpit where
Leigh Richmond preached, I heard a serious and
pathetic sermon from the text, "If any man
would come after me, let him take up his cross
daily and follow me." The thought "daily" was
dwelt upon, the need of self-culture in small
things, and in common every-day matters. The
doors were wide open, the mild air stole softly in
with the sunshine, and one caught glimpses of the
flowery churchyard and the high swelling green
hills beyond.
Before leaving Sandown I traversed Culver
Cliff, peeping over its fearful perpendicular front,
and sliding down its steep rolling grassy sides.
From Sandown I took a ride along the "Under-
cliff" to Shanklin and Bonchurch, and beyond.
This "Undercliff," which extends to the "Nee-
dles," is a breaking down, or as we would say in
America "caving in," of the high chalk and green
sand-cliff coast, leaving the sea-line a tumbled in-
extricable mass of luxuriantly weeded and wooded
rocky chaos, through which the road winds along,
sometimes shooting over the high hill-top six or
seven hundred feet in elevation, sometimes around
the narrow edge of the cliff, and sometimes down
on the ocean shore at its base. There is here a
narrow strip of country lying directly upon the sea
under the hills, of about seven miles in extent,
which is another of the great health resorts of Eng-
land-for it has a Mediterranean climate of
which Ventnor is the head point of fashion. The
340
OLD ENGLAND.
myrtle and fuschia winter here in the open air.
The northerly, easterly, and westerly winds do not
blow here, and it is only open to the soft south
wind blowing over the sea.
The cottages by the road to and beyond Shank-
lin were the merest dots of houses, built of flint
paving-stones, and some of them literally smoth-
ered in roses. The brass knocker on each front-
door looked about as big as the house. The reapers
were in the fields; the blackberries were ripening;
the clover meadows were the richest I have ever
seen. The smooth green field ran even to the
edge of the cliff, and men were tying up sheaves
of wheat on the very rim of the high precipice.
Looking thus suddenly off from the cliffs upon an
unlimited ocean horizon, the sky and sea being of
the same tint, for there was a slight mist in the air,
and ocean and sky thus mingling mysteriously to-
gether, with patches here and there of soft hazy
sunlight on the sea, the effect was strangely beauti-
ful,
there seemed to be a mystic indefiniteness.
and infinitude to the view. There is a transcend-
ental. passage in Jean Paul Richter's writings
which conveys something of a similar impression:
"As the sea, when it is quite stilled and trans-
parent melts so softly and entirely into the heaven
which is mirrored in it, that both become arched.
into a globe of sky, so that the ship appears not to
be borne on the water but hovering in the soft
ether of the universe."
Down in little gray old Bonchurch Cemetery,
TUNBRIDGE WELLS TO ISLE OF WIGHT. 341
entirely hid from the road, and within sound of the
gently rippling sea, sleeps John Sterling, the friend
of Archdeacon Hare and Carlyle; and here also
William Adams, the author of "The Shadow of
the Cross," is buried. Ventnor itself is getting
to be too grand and town-like for such a little
"Aiden" as the Isle of Wight; and the great
prim English stone villas accord ill with the wild
verdurous chaos of "Undercliff."
St. Lawrence Church, a little way beyond Vent-
nor, is said to be the smallest church edifice in
England. It has been lately enlarged, and is now
just twenty feet by twelve, and has held, when
crammed as full as it could be, one hundred and
seven people! One actually looks down on the
eaves when standing upon the outside of the
church, which is built on sloping ground. One
minute window is twelve by eighteen inches; two
small stone crosses crown either end, and rough
beams cross the ceiling which are not even straight,
resembling the bent oak ribs of a ship. Lord Yar-
boro's large pew took up about one fourth of the
interior; but still it had every thing that belonged
to a church, even to a painted window. It was a
Lilliput cathedral; yet from its high antiquity and
touching lowliness, it had a certain dignity of its
own. The view from it is superb over the darkly
fringed cliff and the broad blue serene ocean.
I
could not carry out my intention to return to the
Isle of Wight and visit the southern and western
coasts, the Needles and Scratchell's Bay, where the
342
OLD ENGLAND.
scenery is said to be truly magnificent, with the
pearly-white sharp-edged cliffs towering in great
isolated masses from the ocean, and in a storm
looking wan and strangely threatening against the
gloomy sky. Things there are not upon such a
miniature scale of prettiness as is the rest of the
island.
Near Freshwater Bay, at Farringford, was then
the residence of Alfred Tennyson. A good oppor-
tunity had been afforded from a high source of an
introduction to the poet, which would doubtless
have secured for me a pleasant reception, but I did
not avail myself of it. In the case of Maurice and
Kingsley, and also of Miss Marsh, I had another
object than personal curiosity; and the interview
with old Mr. Brontë at Haworth was also entirely
unsought by me. It is quite unsatisfactory to
present letters of introduction in England, and it
is far better to receive the spontaneous invitation
of a fellow-traveler, as it was my good fortune to
do in two or three instances, thus winning for me
delightful visits to pleasant English homes, where
every kind of generous hospitality was heaped
upon me. An American friend who visited Ten-
nyson about this time told me of his pride in the
grove of ilex-trees growing near his house, of
which he speaks in his poems. In his ordinary
conversation he would be taken for a
man of
science rather than a poet; for he is an accurate
student and keen observer in the natural sciences.
TUNBRIDGE WELLS TO ISLE OF WIGHT. 343
Although they may be quite familiar, I will repeat
his lines to Rev. F. D. Maurice :
Where, far from smoke and noise of town,
I watch the twilight falling brown,
All round a careless ordered garden
Close to the ridge of a noble down.
You have no scandal while you dine,
But honest talk and wholesome wine,
And only hear the magpie gossip
Garrulous under a roof of pine.
For groves of pine on either hand,
To break the blast of winter, stand;
And further on, the hoary channel
Tumbles a breaker on chalk and sand."
CHAPTER XIX.
SOUTHAMPTON TO SALISBURY.
IN going from Southampton to Salisbury on the
Southwestern Railway, I stopped for a few hours
at Romsey, Hants, where is "Broadlands," the
seat of the late Lord Palmerston. I wished to
hunt up some records in the Abbey Church, for
which I was furnished every facility. The fine
old church itself is a genuine specimen of the
early Norman, and it stands in its primitive sim-
plicity. It struck me as having some architect-
ural resemblance to Bakewell Church, Derbyshire.
The sexton grew pathetic over a long tress of
auburn hair which he had himself exhumed, and
which he said belonged to Alfred's daughter, or a
Roman princess, I have forgotten which. I spent
some time in turning over the ponderous vellum
church archives; but it was like looking for the
grave of Merlin, to find any particular name in
such a vast unsystematized mass of extinct names.
Three miles from Romsey is "Embley Park,"
the southern home of Florence Nightingale.
It is a culminating point in one's English travel
when he catches his first distant sight of Salisbury
Cathedral. If there is any thing graceful it is the
SOUTHAMPTOM TO SALISBURY.
345
spire of Salisbury Cathedral, and above all when it
is seen etherealized through the misty English at-
mosphere, which transmutes solid into aërial forms.
At this season of the year, when the fashionable
travel was nearly over, and only business men, or,
as they are termed, "commercial travelers," are
abroad with their "mackintoshes" and carpet-bags,
I was doomed to interminable conversations in rail-
way carriages and coffee-rooms, with hard-brained
and plain-spoken men. I met among them often-
times exceedingly well-informed individuals, and if
one is a little cautious not to arouse national preju-
dices, there are few more interesting and graphic
conversationalists than this class of persons. They
are men who blurt their thoughts out without fear
or favor. They are practical men, who despise
humbug and pipe-claying. Louis Napoleon, to be
sure, was determined to burn and sink England
before his reign was over; and they did not know
but he could do it, though he would find it a tough
job; but, on all other topics, no people are more
sensible and clear-headed. I fell in with some of
these men at the "White Hart Inn" in Salisbury.
They did not spare their national idols, their lead-
ing men. Even Gladstone, who was one of the
best of them in their estimation, came in for his
share; they called him "a book-man" who knew
no more of finance than "Boots" here. They
berated the boarding-houses of London, and in fact
London trades-people generally, and said that any
of these would coin his soul for a guinea. This
346
OLD ENGLAND.
honest talk, if it sound rough, lends an individual-
ity and knotty picturesqueness to the commonest
Englishman, and makes him stand out from the
rest of mankind like a gnarled oak.
The
It is beautiful to see the pleasant relationship
existing between father and son in England. It is
free and unrestrained like that of brothers.
father yields up his stiff authority and paternally
critical tone, and descends to meet the son almost
on a level; and the son repays this with unbounded
affection and confidence. The conversation be-
tween them sounds almost like that between young
men; they laugh and jest, and yet the fine sense
of the true relationship is never lost. I noticed
this particularly in the case of a young officer and
his father whom I met at Salisbury. They came
into the hotel from a walk of sixteen miles in a
heavy rain, to and from Stonehenge. The father,
if any thing, was the more brisk of the two. The
son was an elegant fellow who could quote "Juve-
nal" about his fish, and who had seen hard service
in India. He told his soldier stories and advent-
ures in a genial way, that American sons would not
do before their father. And I confess I liked it,
for there seemed to be true love between the two,
without the actual loss of filial respect.
Salisbury, the principal city of Wilts County,
eighty-two miles from London, seated amid its
broad open downs, is the centre of a highly inter-
esting region for the antiquarian. Salisbury itself
has some very old houses, many of them having
SOUTHAMPTON TO SALISBURY.
347
thatched roofs, which, grown undulating and irreg-
ular by age, look like black elephants' backs; but
its chief interest concentrates in its Cathedral.
The quiet "Close," occupying an area of half a
square mile, surrounded by its high wall and quaint
antique gates, its smooth lawn and noble trees,
comprehends the church, the Bishop's palace, the
deanery, and many other buildings of old founda-
tions. These ancient "Closes," more or less de-
fined, are found in every ecclesiastical town in
England, and indicate the former magnificence
of the Church, taking the lion's share of the city,
and of every thing good and pleasant in it. They
were in fact the hearts of the old civilization, the
centres of power, - cities within cities, — and gen-
erally ruling all outside of them.
In this green and tranquil yard sheep roam about
unmolested, and lie close up under the walls of the
church. Salisbury Cathedral has a noble and open
site, and can be seen therefore to peculiar advan-
tage. The buildings of the city have not been
allowed to encroach upon and crowd it. It is a
reverend and awe-inspiring structure, with a moss-
grown, scarred, and broken front, but all its lines
are elegant and pure.
The octangular spire is wonderfully beautiful,
soaring upward slenderly but to an immense height
from the forest of crocketed turrets upon the tower,
its shaft intersected at intervals with richly wrought
bands. Its height to the top of the cross is within
two inches of four hundred feet. I recall my last
348
OLD ENGLAND.
sight of it. It was on the edge of evening, when
the sailing mists had left it entirely free and clear,
and the calm golden light of setting day rested
brightly for a little time upon it, as it pointed to
heaven and seemed to show the way.
The decline of the spire from the perpendicular,
of about twenty-four inches, has caused apprehen-
sions of its falling; and it has been bandaged and
strengthened, for it is boldly poised on four arches
thrown across the angles of the tower, and clamped
with iron. The walls of this tower itself are only
two feet in thickness. Salisbury Cathedral from
foundation stone to spire-point, is perhaps the most
perfect specimen that exists of the "Early Eng-
lish" style. Its first stone was laid in 1220, and
it was hardly finished in the reign of Edward III.,
somewhere about the middle of the 14th century.
It is built of Chilmark stone obtained fifteen miles
from Salisbury, and is in the form of a double cross.
Its majestic west front is covered with the finest
tracery work, and has one hundred and twenty-
three niches for statues, most of them now empty.
Its interior, compared with Winchester or Ely, is
severe and bare, but harmonious. It is not an
astonishing irregular Gothic epic, but a pure Eng-
lish poem. The columns are clustered and slender;
the windows are lancet-shaped and the mouldings
plain. The length is four hundred and forty-nine
feet; and stretched along on either side of this
grandly extended nave lie the effigies of heroes who
fought in the Holy Land, carved with their legs
SOUTHAMPTON TO SALISBURY.
349
crossed, and with broad shields on their breasts;
and those also who contended in the ancient bloody
civil wars, their gorgeous blazonry gone, and some
of the figures headless and handless, but brave still
in their wide girdles and chain armor.
The tomb of William Longsword, first Earl of
Salisbury, son of Henry II. and Fair Rosamond,
has been especially battered by time. The Count-
ess of Pembroke, upon whom Ben Jonson wrote
the epitaph, is buried in the east choir of the Ca-
thedral. The place is not marked by a monument.
The Chapter House, in the "Octagonal Pointed
Style," supported gracefully by one slight spring-
ing column of Purbeck marble, as if it were a
slender fount in stone, shines richly with modern
gilding and colors. It has been carefully restored.
The architect supposes that he has authority for
this high coloring and gilding, from having detected
the traces of ancient colors here and there upon the
carved work; but I agree entirely with the remark
of a friend, who said, "I doubt whether the room
ever looked half so gorgeous in the olden time as
now."
A series of old sculptures in alto-relievo of Bibli-
cal scenes, runs around the apartment below the
windows, and is surprisingly ingenious and elabo-
rate. The same patience and faithfulness are shown
in them that we see in ancient missals, and often
the same exquisite purity of expression. Besides
these, on the face of the archivolt are a number of
allegorical figures representing the "Virtues" and
350
OLD ENGLAND.
"Vices," which for delicacy and power called forth
Despair presses his
condemned spirits in
the admiration of Flaxman.
hand on his heart like the
Beckford's Hall of Eblis, and Pity throws a cloak
over one who is slaying her with a sword.
On the Cathedral door, as may be everywhere
seen on parish church doors in England, were
pasted notices in large letters of "Income Tax-
Land Tax Assessed Taxes in this liberty."
Let us take a walk of three miles or so out to
"Wilton House," through the Fisherton suburb
crossing the Avon, and we will stop first at Bemer-
ton, about two miles from the city. In this obscure
village George Herbert lived and labored, following
out his own words,
"Be useful where thou livest."
It was while walking over this very road, Izaak
Walton relates, that Herbert stopped to aid a coun-
tryman whose cart had been upset, and for this
reason arrived late and dirty at a social musical
meeting of his friends and brother clergymen in
Salisbury; upon being rallied for such an unseemly
operation, he said that, "the thought of what he
had done would prove music to him at midnight.”
Turning off the main road down a quiet lane, on
one side of which is a thick wood, is the little church
of Bemerton, somewhat larger than St. Lawrence
Church on the Isle of Wight, but they would match
pretty well for smallness and humility. It has one
minute window upon a side, four tiny buttresses, a
red-tiled roof, and a low flat cupola with a vane;
SOUTHAMPTON TO SALISBURY..
351
in the interior are seven pews on each side of the
narrow aisle, and a gallery for the choir.
Almost within sight of the proud mansion of his
own illustrious Pembroke family, here the Rector
of Bermerton, and the glory of Trinity College,
Cambridge, fed his illiterate flock. And he hes-
itated long before he assumed even this humble post,
so that a tailor happening to be at Wilton House,
so says Izaak Walton, made his canonicals in great
haste, he putting off his fine silken clothes and his
sword to assume them. Yellow tottering grave-
stones stand around this diminutive edifice and
crowd up under its shadow, and within its lowly
walls, under the altar-table, Herbert was buried.
He taught us that a man is made no greater nor
less by his place. He is what he is in himself.
Nothing can lower him if his heart be above.
Does his own poor earthly life lie buried here, -
"Gone
Quite underground; as flowers depart
To see their mother-root when they have blown?
Yet that sweet, Christ-like soul, now "past chang-
ing," sings:-
"I bud again."
The parsonage where Herbert lived stands just
across the little lane that runs by the side of the
church. His own study is shown. I noticed no
other houses immediately around. A larger church
is to be erected near by, by the Herbert family, to
bear the name of the poet. Sweeter than ever
to me since this visit to Bemerton have George
352
OLD ENGLAND.
Herbert's poems with all their odd conceits grown,
and, above all, that gem:-
"Teach me, my Lord and King,
In all things Thee to see;
And what I do in any thing
To do it as for Thee.
All may of Thee partake;
Nothing can be so mean,
But for this tincture (for thy sake)
Will not grow bright and clean.
This is the famous stone
That turneth all to gold:
For that which God doth touch and own
Cannot for lesse be told!
Somewhat further to the west, at the entrance of
Wilton town, in the bosom of a magnificent park,
stands Wilton House. It was built from designs of
Holbein and Inigo Jones, upon the site of a Bene-
dictine Abbey, granted by Henry VIII. to Sir Wil-
liam Herbert. It is indeed a palace, but has some-
thing grave and sober about it. Its fair stateliness
could not be more precisely described than in the
lines of Wordsworth :-
"Like image of solemnity conjoined
With feminine allurement soft and fair
The mansion's self displayed: a reverend pile
With bold projections and recesses deep;
Shadowy yet gay and lightsome as it stood
Fronting the noon-tide sun. We paused to admire
The pillared porch, elaborately embossed;
The low wide windows with their mullions old;
The cornice richly fretted of gray stone;
And that smooth slope from which the dwelling rose,
By beds and banks Arcadian of gay flowers
And flowering shrubs, protected and adorned.
SOUTHAMPTON TO SALISBURY.
353
Profusion bright! and every flower assuming
A more than natural vividness of hue,
From unaffected contrast with the gloom
Of sober cypress, and the darker foil
Of yew, in which survived some traces, here
Not unbecoming, of grotesque device
And uncouth fancy. From behind the roof
Rose the slim ash and massy sycamore,
Blending their diverse foliage with the green
Of ivy, flourishing and thick, that clasped
The huge round chimneys, harbors of delight
For wren and redbreast, where they sit and sing
Their slender ditties when the trees are bare."
The trees are of great variety and noble growth.
One sweeping ilex has its branches supported by
chains. A group of cedars of Lebanon, towering
in massy chambers of foliage, gives an almost Ital-
ian, or Oriental, shading to the picture. The river
Nadder, which flows through the park, is crossed
by a bridge in the grounds. In these quiet.shades
Sir Philip Sydney wrote his "Arcadia,” — it is
said, for his sister's pleasure and amusement.
The suite of state apartments, though superb,
looked comfortable and as if they were lived in.
It was not a show-palace. In the "double cube
room," is the noted collection of Vandykes, most
of them portraits of the Pembroke family. There
was one striking picture of Prince Rupert, as a
youth, calm and beautiful, with none of the dash-
ing cavalier about it, but a determined look in the
large brown eyes. I did not notice any portrait of
Sir Philip Sydney, or of George Herbert. They
must, however, have been there. A small likeness
of Florence Nightingale, of whom Lady Herbert
23
354
OLD ENGLAND.
is said to be a particular friend and co-laborer,
stood upon a side-table.
It was a luxurious apartment as far as the opu-
lence of the furniture was concerned, but that was
not the real feature of the room. I do not dwell upon
the age-darkened and highly carved furniture, the
splendid mirrors, the antique marbles, the princely
books, the pictures, and the hundred objects of or-
nament and taste about the room, for every thing
was so harmoniously placed that nothing arrested
attention; but there was an æsthetic charm in the
apartment, which did not allow one to think of
material magnificence. It was a room worthy of a
noble mind to take its ease in, to make itself at
home in. There was no cold splendor to be warmed
up twice a year on the eve of a great ball, but a
sense of perpetual ease and enjoyment, a spot
lighted with tokens of affection and friendship, and
with all that is soothing and ennobling.
From the grounds in front of the house, the glo-
rious spire of Salisbury Cathedral is seen through a
skillfully made opening in the thick screen of trees.
The Lombard Gothic church erected by Sir Syd-
ney Herbert in Wilton, with its square bell-tower,
as a family memorial church, is one of the most
gorgeous modern structures in England. It seems
as if Italy and the Continent had been rifled of
architectural jewels to enrich it. Its brilliant mo-
saic pulpit of Caen stone, its white vine-wreathed
columns, its gleaming brasses, its blue and gold
frescos, its great sparkling rosette windows, and its
SOUTHAMPTON TO SALISBURY.
355
antique fonts, transport one from the little English
carpet manufacturing town, to Siena or Rome.
Along the top of the screen are carved the words,
"All things come of Thee, and of Thine own we
have given Thee." It seemed, however, too rich
for the place, and had to me a foreign and un-
English look.
Wilton itself is a very ancient town, once the
capital of the West Saxon kingdom; but it was
overshadowed by the growth of Salisbury. It was
a favorite town of Charles I. The first carpet ever
made in England was here manufactured. Massin-
ger is said to have been born at Wilton.
Twelve miles from Wilton, near Hindon, is
"Fonthill Abbey," now owned by the Marquis of
Westminster, where Beckford spent twenty years
and regal revenues in building his jealously in-
walled Kubla-Khan palace, employing a little army
of workmen night and day. The gigantic tower
of his selfish pleasure and pride crumbled, like the
tower of Babel, as if it had been smitten by an in-
visible hand. I ascended another Saracenic tower
erected by him at Bath, from which one could
almost have seen among the green Wiltshire hills,
this more Titanic monument of a depraved egotism
and prostituted genius.
I have left little room for the two most inter-
esting places, to an antiquarian, in the whole Salis-
bury circle, old Sarum and Stonehenge.
Fortified with a breakfast of hot coffee and muf-
fins, for this is wild weather, we will tramp off to
356
OLD ENGLAND.
scramble over the site of that ancient Saxon city,
"Old Sarum," the germ of "New Sarum," or
Salisbury.
It lies within sight of Salisbury, about two miles
distant, and is simply a hill cut into great steps or
terraces, looking like a modern sand-fort, or a huge
mound which suggests more than it reveals. Back
to the time of the early Britons this hill was a for-
tified spot; the Romans made it a great military
centre, and six roads radiated from it; in the time.
of Alfred it was a strong city; under the Norman
kings it attained great ecclesiastical splendor and im-
portance, two bishoprics being blended here in one;
but in the reign of King John, its bishop, Herbert
Poore, determined to come down into the plain and
establish his ecclesiastical seat there. This was the
death-blow to Old Sarum. Gradually all the in-
habitants followed him and gathered around the
rising walls of the new "House of God in the
plain below. This new house was itself built of
the stones of the old cathedal. The circular for-
tress which once crowned the hill, whose walls
comprised a space of fifteen hundred feet in circum-
ference, is now reduced to a ragged mass of flint
and rubble, which hangs tottering upon the edge
of the height. This broken fragment is all that
really remains of this once powerful city of Celt,
Roman, and Saxon. The hollow of an ancient
ditch runs around what was the line of the cita-
del walls. I startled numerous rabbits in running
around the hill, and from a gloomy tangle of foliage
SOUTHAMPTON TO SALISBURY.
357
that filled one part of the ditch, an owl whirred
away; it is a desolate spot, although a little cul-
tivation smooths one side of the first terrace.
Until the passage of the Reform Bill, the election
of the members from Old Sarum- which Wil-
liam Pitt so long represented took place under
"witch-elm" that marked the site of the an-
cient Town House. There is a wide view from the
top of this discrowned hill, in which Salisbury Ca-
thedral spire forms the marked feature.
a
Stonehenge! I am not going to add another to
the many learned theories which lie strewed at its
base, like rusty tools broken against its granite
walls; for when we know who built "Tadmor in
the wilderness," we may know who heaved up this
rude circle on Salisbury Plain.
In some
This mysterious monument lies eight and a half
miles to the northwest of Salisbury. In coming
to it one passes over a wide, slightly undulating,
and thinly grassed chalk marl-down, where now
and then a weather-beaten "Shepherd of Salis-
bury Plain" may be seen sitting with his dog and
staff, and his flock feeding near him.
directions one may ride twenty miles on the plain
without seeing a house or human being. It is not
until one strikes into the clearly defined ancient
avenue that leads up to Stonehenge, and gets
pretty near the monument itself, that its vast skele-
ton form can be seen looming over the hillocks.
There is said to be a gradual ascent to it from every
direction. As one approaches the temple, the plain
358
OLD ENGLAND.
is filled with green circles and round barrows, as
if it were the burial-place of a numerous nation.
Some of these mounds have been opened, and con-
tain the evidences of primitive sepulture. The
Celtic cyrch," or cirque, or circle, the national
sacred place of burial, is said to have been the ori-
gin of the word “kirk.”
""
The sky had a threatening look, the heavy clouds
drooped low, and the gusty autumn wind swept in
melancholy cadences over the plain, as I saw before
me this oldest structure now standing in England,
this solemn circle of unwrought stones, out of
whose rocky loins have come forth her life, art, and
history.
"Stonehenge" is a Saxon name, meaning "hang-
ing stone," descriptive of the blocks of stone im-
posed transversely upon perpendicular masses.
The Britons and Druids had another name for it.
It was probably, like the great temple at Avebury,
in Wiltshire, a hypethral temple, even to the inner
circle or adytum, where is the sacrificial altar-
stone.
It is a circle within a circle. First comes an
outer trench three hundred and sixty-nine yards in
circumference. Then a circle of sixty stones, com-
posed of thirty perpendiculars and thirty imposts,
fastened by rude mortice and tenon, and forming a
continuous architrave, the uprights being twenty
feet high and four feet apart. Then a second con-
centric circle of thirty smaller stones without im-
posts; and then two ovals of huge uprights with
SOUTHAMPTON TO SALISBURY.
359
imposts, forming perhaps the real body of the tem-
ple. In the inner oval is the altar-stone, a block
of hard gray Derbyshire marble. The other rock
masses are of crumbling siliceous grit. The entire
number of stones was originally one hundred and
forty. Of course many of these have disappeared,
and many have fallen. A gigantic trilithon recently
fell with a force that shook the plain.
The stones taper somewhat to the top, and bear
but rude marks of the chisel and hammer. Yet there
is a mathematical unity of plan in the structure.
It is the thoughtful work of a rough strong people.
But where did these great masses come from on that
stoneless plain? And how were they transported
thither? The character of some of them differs
entirely from the rocks of the region.
I feel much inclined to adopt a theory lately put
forth concerning the origin of Stonehenge; that it
was built by the Celts, or native Britons, in the
Arthurian period, or the fifth century A. D., as a
sepulchral temple, to commemorate the treacherous
slaughter of the Celts by Henghist in 461; that it
means "Stone of Henghist."
In all ancient nations of Celtic origin on the
Continent, and even to the centre of Asia, circles
inclose sacred spots. The form of the Buddhist
temple is always circular.
Stonehenge could hardly have been a Druidic
temple, because here is, and has been, no grove in
which to perform the secret Druidic rites, or to cut
the mistletoe with the golden knife.
360
OLD ENGLAND.
And this locality was evidently the ancient national
British burial-place, although no signs of sepulture
are discovered immediately in or under the temple;
yet an immense number of "barrows" or sepul-
chral mounds are found not far from it, and indeed
everywhere upon the plain.
Merlin himself might have built it, for he was
evidently the poet, artist, and philosopher of that
period.
Harmless sheep feed quietly under this mighty
solitary form of barbarian power. A rough shep-
herd clad in skins, with hay leggins and a long
staff, standing in the shadow of one of the colossal
pillars, told me the story of the place as it was told
to him by his fathers, and will doubtless be told to
others by his shepherd sons.
CHAPTER XX.
SOUTH DEVON AND TORQUAY.
By one route from Southampton to Exeter,
which I had previously taken, I passed through a
portion of the "New Forest," looking like unset-
tled land in America, and stopped a night at the
dull old town of Dorchester, in Devonshire. The
new line of railway from Dorchester passes through
the beautiful Axminster and Honiton Valley, near
Ottery St. Mary, where Coleridge was born. His
father was vicar of the Collegiate Church there.
From this town of Dorchester the "Dorchester
Adventurers Company" was formed, that settled
Gloucester, Salem, Charlestown, Dorchester, and
other towns in Massachusetts. Dorsetshire, and
Devonshire, and all Southern England, in those
days, contained a strong element of Puritanism, and
formed perhaps the chief source of supply to the
Massachusetts colonies, after the settlement of New
Plymouth.
In going to Exeter by the other route, I was
obliged to wait an hour or two in the little agricul-
tural town of Yeovil. It was a rainy cold day, and
in the bit of the tap-room where I dried my wet.
clothes, the burly farmers and drovers came in to
362
OLD ENGLAND.
drink their hot mulled wine, and talk over the
storm and cattle market, while paddling armies of
sheep and frightened cows, and now and then an
ugly red-eyed bull, went by the windows. It was
“Fair Day.” I walked through the cattle-stalls.
and saw some noble Devonshire oxen and cows.
The beef, with such layers and collops of yellow
fat, that one sees hanging up in English butchers'
stalls, I saw here in its sleek amiable living state.
Devonshire cattle rather take the lead of fine cattle
in England. Perhaps the finest specimens of them
are found in North Devon on the Bristol side.
They are thus described, and the very particularity
of the description will show how much is thought
of such points: "The Devonshire bull has the
head small; the muzzle fine; the nostrils ample;
the horns tapering, and of a waxy yellow; the eyes
large and clear; the neck thick and arched above.
with little dewlap; the chest is broad and deep;
the breast prominent; the limbs fine boned; the
fore-arm muscular; the hips are high, and the
hind-quarters well filled up; the thighs are volumi-
nous; the tail long, slender, set on high, and tufted
at the extremity. The ox is taller and more light-
ly made, with fine withers and a slanting shoulder;
the breast is prominent; the limbs are fine-boned,
muscular, and straight, but rather long; the neck,
too, is thin and rather long, the head small, the
muzzle fine; the horns longer than in the bull,
slender and tapering. The whole form indeed in-
dicates activity and freedom of action. The skin
SOUTH DEVON AND TORQUAY.
363
is moderate and covered with mossy or curling
hair; but occasionally it is smooth and glossy.
The color is universally red, chestnut, or bay,
seldom varied with white; a paler space surrounds
the eye, and the muzzle of yellow.'
The cow is
lighter and full of action and life. Though they
do not attain to the elephantine size of some of the
larger breeds, they lay on flesh rapidly, and of the
finest grain. The cows, grass-fed, weigh from
thirty stone to forty stone. The oxen weigh from
fifty stone to upwards of sixty stone. Hundreds
of these fine red fellows may be seen along the
railroad track, cropping the green meadows, or
lying under the broad-armed trees. England is
green all the year round; and no country in the
world has such grass-feed as this misty island has.
And in no other land have there been such persist-
ent and scientific efforts for the perfection of do-
mestic cattle. Breeds have been made over and
over till they are as perfect for this or that quality
as Nature seems willing to make them. A York-
shire cow is as different from a Devonshire cow as
are the dialects of the two counties, and a little
Kerry ox by the side of a big, coarse Herefordshire
ox, is a small rattling Pat, compared with a huge,
slow-revolving, slow-motioned Englishman.
In the ride from Durston, through Wellington,
Tiverton and Hele, on the Bristol and Exeter Rail-
road, true Devonshire scenery began to make its
appearance, and the rich green hill-slopes, narrow
valleys, and the red clay, showed that we were in
"Dark Devon.”
364
OLD ENGLAND.
The long red cliffs rising from the Exe River, on
which fair Exeter stands, gave a warm tint to the
beautiful scenery around that old ecclesiastical city;
and already the cold raw air and driving rain of
the north began to be subdued into a moist drizzly
mildness, as if one had come suddenly into a new
zone.
At the snug old-fashioned "Clarence Hotel,"
near the cathedral yard, I passed several days. It
was now the beginning of the fox-hunting season,
and the "Clarence" was the headquarters of a
jovial young nobleman with his friends and retain-
ers, who sallied forth to the "Grand Meet" in the
morning, in great pomp of scarlet coats, white-
topped boots, velvet jockey-caps, yellow breeches,
and heavy whips, to return well bespattered and
hungry for a feasting, roaring night. All England
is on horseback at this season. Every one is mad to
break his neck, or at least his collar-bone. There
seems to be no affectation in this love of hunting.
A free-spoken Englishman told me that he had
been to California and Australia, had traveled all
over the world, had seen all kinds of life, had
gambled and fought, and there was but just one
thing left now that roused him, and that was fox-
hunting!
The days of "fox-hunting parsons" have not
altogether gone by. I cut out a piece from an
English newspaper about this time, describing the
presentation of a testimonial to a clergyman in
Devonshire, who, for many years, had discharged
SOUTH DEVON AND TORQUAY.
365
the duties of a master of hounds in his district.
In every English town at this season large red
hunting horses, with their sides literally flashing
from high grooming, with quick-moving ears and
springy step, may be seen ridden slowly through
the streets by their diminutive grooms. Such
gaunt greyhounds of horses, with pinched bellies
and straight rail-necks, may have reached the
maximum of speed, but they have also attained the
minimum of beauty. How different the Arab's
estimate of beauty and excellence in a horse, ac-
cording to Dr. Barth, in the Oriental description
which he translates of the steeds of heaven:
"Sleek swift horses, coursers trained to run, tall
piebalds, five-year olds, fleet, wide-stepping, apple-
rumped, plump, long-boned, strong in back and
neck, Arabian blood horses of El Hôdh, that are
fed upon cooling milk."
Exeter is a large and stately city. Devonshire
and Cornwall form one Episcopal See, whose seat
is at Exeter, and ecclesiastically, socially, and com-
mercially, it is the principal city of these two coun-
ties, and of Southern England. It has been some-
what impoverished by railway speculation, as the
road to Plymouth was enormously expensive. By
means of "locks," small vessels can come up to
Exeter, whose real port is Exmouth, three miles
below. High Street, which runs under different
names through the whole length of the city, is a
broad and in some parts elegant street, containing
the most attractive art-shops, and book-shops, and
366
OLD ENGLAND.
hunting-shops, of any street of a smaller sized city
in England; it crosses the river Exe by a hand-
some stone bridge; the old "Guildhall," which
stands midway upon it, looks like a bit of quaint
Flemish architecture, or like an ancient, black,
elaborately carved sideboard.
Exeter is the city of churches. The Cathedral,
as usual, crowns all, and presents a noble appear-
ance when seen from the other side of the river,
standing loftily upon its hill-bank, with its two
massive Norman towers. It does not belong to
the first class of English cathedrals in point of
size, but it has some peculiarly rich features, of
which the singular fleur-de-lys ornament of the
roof is an instance. Its two Norman towers of
which I have spoken were built in the twelfth cen-
tury, and the rest of the edifice belongs to a date
considerably later than that. The superb stone
vaulting of the nave is of the deepest and most
harmonious fan-tracery style, branching as if with
living stems from lightly clustered columns and
drooping in heavy corbels and bosses like verita-
ble bunches of fruit. It is like standing under a
young grove of low raying palms, compared with
whose gorgeous tropical luxuriance, the nave of
Salisbury Cathedral in its pure simplicity is quite
frozen and arctic. And other parts of the Cathe-
dral have the same richness of detail; the windows.
especially, of an elaborately geometrical character,
are wonderful for the variety of their tracery work,
never repeating the same designs. The front is
SOUTH DEVON AND TORQUAY.
367
renowned for its magnificent stone screen of the
finest work, called "The Grandisson screen," which
is thrown like a lace veil suspended over the actual
dead wall of the edifice; and this is wrought into
columns, porches, niches, and statues of martyrs,
saints, and kings; while above is the great west
window, and above that a gigantic statue of St.
Peter, from whom the church is named. These
statues, though sadly mutilated, are by no means
badly carved, and may some of them have been
portraits; one old Wessex king, I remember, had
a nose as decisive of fate as the Duke of Welling-
ton's.
There is a boldly carved "Minstrel's Gallery
on the left side of the nave, representing twelve
angels, each playing upon a different instrument,
and when the music of the organ and the chanting
rolls through the vaults of the church, it is not
difficult to imagine that it proceeds from this an-
gelic minstrelsy.
In the choir, separated from the nave by a light
and elegant organ-screen, is the bishop's huge
throne of carved black oak, towering pyramidi-
cally nearly to the roof; one could not help think-
ing if the Apostle Peter had walked into the
church, would he have seated himself in it, or
would he have taken the lowest seat in the syna-
gogue? The ancient monkish "miserere seats "
around the choir are fanciful and grotesque; they
fold back and show underneath them most extra-
ordinary carvings - lions' heads, birds, elephants;
368
OLD ENGLAND.
{
a boat, with an armed knight in it, towed by a
swan; a knight attacking a leopard; a man stab-
bing a bird; a man with pipe and tabor; a mer-
maid holding a dish; -and many other designs.
What was the idea, I am always asking myself, of
introducing these odd shapes and thoughts into
what was considered the most sacred part of the
edifice?
The east window, with some very beautiful frag-
ments of ancient painted glass in it, is of later
Perpendicular architecture; the triplicity seen in
the arrangement of all its parts, is supposed to be
symbolical of the doctrine of the Trinity.
A curious old astronomical clock in the north
transept is inscribed with the solemn words, -
"Pereunt et imputantur."
The Services of Exeter Cathedral, and its whole.
ecclesiastical furnishing, order, and economy, are
perhaps the most full and gorgeous, carrying out
the most perfectly and persistently the High
Church idea of worship, that are to be found in
any Cathedral in England; and indeed the tone of
the city is thoroughly ecclesiastical, or pervaded
with the sense of the presiding idea of the Church
hierarchy. The curfew-bell tolls from the old
towers. The Cathedral Services are as follows:
"I. EARLY MORNING, DAILY.
"In the Lady Chapel, at 7 A. M. Morning
Prayers; and the Litany on Sundays, Wednesdays,
and Fridays.
SOUTH DEVON AND TORQUAY.
369
"II. MORNING, DAILY.
"In the Choir, at 10.30 A. M. Full Services
of the day. The Holy Communion celebrated
every Sunday and on Christmas day.
"On the Wednesdays and Fridays in Ember-
weeks, a Lecture from the Chancellor of the
Cathedral.
"The Lord Bishop holds his Ordination on the
Sundays after the Whitsun and September Ember-
weeks.
"III. EVENING, DAILY.
"In the Choir at 3 P. M., except on the Sun-
days from Nov. 1st to Feb. 2d, when it is at 2.30
P. M. On Sundays the Service is followed by a
Lecture."
The present Cathedral Establishment consists of
the Lord Bishop; the Dean; the seven Canons ;
the twenty-four Prebendaries; the four Priest
Vicars; the eight Choir-men, who are Lay Vicars ;
the six Secondaries; the ten Choir-boys; the two
Vergers; and the one Dog-whipper!
In spite of this large ecclesiastical force, and the
great number of other churches, Exeter is said to
be not at all remarkable for its piety, morality, and
sober manners. Many of the clergy reside out of
the city, and are away from it excepting when their
presence is needed in the public ministrations; in-
deed, the missionary idea of active aggressive work
among the hearts and lives of the people did not
24
370
OLD ENGLAND.
appear so much to prevail, as the more poetic one
of maintaining a perpetual, dignified, and beautiful
Church form, before the eyes of the people — but I
will not criticise where any wish to pray.
On the Sabbath, the Mayor of the city was
present at the Cathedral Service in a scarlet dress,
and the City Recorder in a big wig; and a great
number of begowned clergy, officials, and boys,
filled the stalls and a large portion of the choir.
The Liturgy and Psalms were chanted and in-
toned; and when the Commandments were read,
the reader turned himself toward the east window.
The preacher, in an otherwise sensible discourse,
dwelt strongly upon the idea that the real ingraft-
ing upon Christ was through baptism; that in this
way we were made his children and obtained en-
trance into his spiritual kingdom. No allusion at
all was made to the terrific storm which had been
sweeping over England, desolating thousands of
households, though its blasts hardly yet ceased to
shake the solid walls of the church- and there
seemed to be in fact no place in the Service for a
present and vital emergency.
Quite near the Cathedral, to the south of the
choir, is the Episcopal Palace, built of red sand-
stone, which has a grave and almost gloomy
look. Its doorway consists of an immense re-
cessed arch; the lawn about it is beautifully green
and shaven; and ornamented with dark laburnums.
English Bishops have commonly more than one
palace the Bishops of Winchester and London
SOUTH DEVON AND TORQUAY.
371
can see the smoke of one of their palaces from
the top of the other. The Bishop of Exeter has
£5000 salary, and holds also a rich living as
Canon of Durham, besides other patronages; but
I do not know that he is considered a particu-
larly wealthy prelate. Indeed, compared with the
Archbishop of Canterbury who has £15,000, the
Archbishop of York and the Bishops of London
and Winchester who have £10,000, his income is
one of the smallest; for with the exception of the
Bishop of Durham who has £8000, and of Ely
who has £5500, all the other English Bishops
have £5000 each, or nearly that amount. Yet the
lowest of these sums sounds very large to Ameri-
cans, with whom all that is paid for mere dignity
is considered to be money thrown away. But
Lord John Russell says that there must be
'prizes" in the Church.
66
Henry Phillpots, D. D., Bishop of Exeter, whose
jurisdiction extends over Devonshire and Corn-
wall, has been a modern St. Bernard, "a dog of the
Church," an ecclesiastical champion and athlete,
and in his controversy with Lord Brougham on
points of English Church History, and in defense
of Church rights, he showed himself, as far as force
and skill are concerned, worthy of the palmiest
days of Catholic Rome. The making of a great
lawyer was spoiled in him. He is now I believe
incapacitated by his great age from active duty,
and is aided by a colleague recently appointed.
In my frequent walks about Exeter, I fell in
372
OLD ENGLAND.
with more than one grave-looking clerical gentle-
man with black frock-coat cut long, black gloves,
and black cane, and broad-brimmed hat slightly
curled up on one side, walking with dignified slow-
ness, doubtless a reverend canon or prebend; and
I must confess, that from some cause or other,
Exeter gave me now and then a shadowy Roman
Catholic impression, which the broad honest red
faces and hearty voices of the common English
people just as instantly dispelled.
The walks about Exeter are lovely. One long
steep hill, leading to what is called "Pennsylva-
nia or Marypole Head," gives one a charming pano-
rama. Trudging up this hill, I met an old woman
holding her hand on her heart; I asked her if she
were tired; "Yes," she said, "very tired; this
is what they called "Break-heart Hill."
""
The view from the top of this hill takes in the
city with its long dark Cathedral pile dominating
over all; the vale of the Exe to its mouth, and the
waters of the British Channel beyond; and back,
far in among the swelling hills, the river meander-
ing past hundreds of peaceful villages and farm-
houses; and to the southwest the dimly-seen blue
mountain walls of Dartmoor. Descending the hill
on the other side one gets into the genuine inland
Devonshire country, a quiet valley lying amid
green hills cleanly cultivated to the top, with deep-
sunk, hedged lanes running through it, and a
noble Elizabethan country-house half way up its
side, and splendid cattle feeding as if in regular
military lines on its meadows.
SOUTH DEVON AND TORQUAY.
373
This was the season of hedge-pruning; and I
met men hard at work on the tall luxuriant hedges
with their broad pruning-bills.
I had to wait a day or two longer in Exeter on
account of the road being impassable between Exe-
ter and Dawlish; and when I went over it, it was
amazing to see how the ocean had spurned man's
strongest work. Brunel was warned not to build
so near the sea; and one old man in especial told
him that the work might last ten or even twenty
years, and then there would come a storm which
would demolish it; but in the willfulness of his
genius he despised the warning, saying that "an
obstinate old man was worse than Parliament.'
Yet he was a great genius; and this very South
Devon road, triumphing as it does over all obsta-
cles, spanning arms of the sea, and striding from
hill-top to hill-top, is proof of it.
,,
On the causeway before one gets to Dawlish,
under the red-clay cliffs just at its side, enormous
masses of granite had been twisted around and
tumbled down as if they were cotton-bales; and
still the sea was roaring and churning the shells
and gravel of the long beach in menacing unrest,
although the sun shone brightly upon the expanse
of the broad estuary of the Exe River, and upon
the pretty towns of Topsham and Exmouth on its
opposite bank.
Dawlish is a snug little watering-place, cosily
set in a narrow bay of green hills, with a stream
running through the centre, and with a splendid
374
OLD ENGLAND.
gravelly sea-beach. It was formerly an insignifi-
cant fishing place, though long ago visited by
health-seekers; and the readers of " Mrs. Schim-
melpenninck's Life" will remember how much she
speaks of Dawlish. In one place she says: "In
the beginning of June we left Bath and accompa-
nied our aunt to Dawlish, where she had just built,
on a model of her own, a very pretty little villa
called Seagrove Lodge. We had our abode in a
small lodging a few hundred yards off. Dawlish
was not then what it is now. It was no watering-
place, but a small rural village, pastoral indeed, but
without pretension either to beauty or picturesque
effect. It consisted of a straggling line of small
houses, mostly thatched, and many whitewashed
cottages, interspersed with little gardens, extending
irregularly from the sidès of a shallow brook, that
wound through a plashy green full of rushes and the
yellow-horned poppy, till, crossing through sands,
it reached the sea. This little stream was crossed
by a crazy wooden foot-bridge, where the children
of the village often delighted to angle, while we
were occupied in the marshy sward beneath in
gathering the water-cresses growing in the brook
in great abundance."
One would hardly recall this "water-color" pict-
ure in the substantial yellow-stuccoed houses, prim
green, and noble sea-promenade of the present
town.
The red earth cliffs between Dawlish and Teign-
mouth are of the most bold and grotesque forms;
SOUTH DEVON AND TORQUAY.
375
they resemble immense Egyptian sculptures in
their massive character; for the sea, rude sculptor
as it is, has hollowed, and carved, and shaped them
to its own rough fancy. The railway cuts directly
through some of these great sandstone masses. The
fragments called the "Parson and Clerk" stand
out very oddly in the sea, the red-faced parson
preaching to the waves, while another figure,
below the breakwater when the tide is out, presents
a still more remarkable appearance, resembling a
gigantic Capuchin monk, with his ample cape and
gown wildly flying in the wind.
In walking about Devonshire one gets well
painted with this red clay; where it has been re-
cently plowed and the water stands in the furrows,
it is as bright-colored as red ochre.
At Teignmouth, a very old town, there is the
longest bridge in the kingdom; it has thirty-four
arches, and is 1671 feet long. This is another
pleasant health-resort. "The average tempera-
ture is almost six degrees higher than that of Lon-
don from October to May, and five lower from
June to September."
Newton Abbot, where one takes the branch train
to Torquay, is a finely situated and wooded place.
When I looked out of the window the next
morning upon the streets, harbor, and bay of Tor-
quay, it was truly
was truly "a moving sight to behold;"
for every thing was in a state of restless agitation;
the rain was leaping and spouting, the small craft
in the inner harbor were rocking and dancing, and
376
OLD ENGLAND.
the big waves outside were tossing their white
crests in tremendous glee another of those fierce
October gales was upon us, though of shorter du-
ration. Of course it rained more or less violently
during the three days I was at Torquay. But it
is a continual drizzle at all seasons in Devonshire ;
for the warm wind from the tropics coming over
the Atlantic, and charged heavily with moisture,
deposites itself in a thick mist of soft rain on the
Devonshire coasts and fields; and it is this that
lends them such a dark rich green. Yet there is
more rain at London than at Torquay! The aver-
age number of days on which rain falls in the
course of the year in Torquay is said to be one
hundred and thirty-two, and at London one hun-
dred and seventy-eight. Torquay is looked upon
therefore as a dry place, being situated between
two rivers and under the Dartmoor highlands,
which serve to carry off the moisture. This, with
its sheltered situation and warm equable climate,
makes it a rival of Brighton as a health-resort,
though for another class of invalids. It is indeed
snugly and charmingly situated in one of those
deeply indented bays that stud the shores of Dev-
onshire a bay within a bay-nestling itself in a
gorge under the steep piny cliffs of Park Hill,
Waldon Hill, and the Braddons, themselves cov-
ered with noble stone villas. It is a famous up-
and-down place, and by climbing a little one can
get very soon into a bracing hill atmosphere. Un-
able to bear the ennui of an in-door hotel day, I
SOUTH DEVON AND TORQUAY.
377
walked around the sea-road and the shore of Tor-
bay for some distance, though it was, from the
force of the wind, rather wrestling than walking.
Sometimes I had to run from a cataract of salt
water. The sea-road under the cliff had suffered
in the same manner that the Exeter and Teign-
mouth road had done; it was torn, and twisted,
and knocked all to pieces; its ponderous stone-
wall was plowed through in places as by an iron
share; and the waves had flung themselves over
into the garden and roared unceremoniously into
the door of a villa, which was placed too ambi-
tiously near the borders of their dominion.
But the splendid semicircle of Torbay, between
dimly defined Berry Head on the south, and
Hope's Nose on the north, presented a grand spec-
tacle under these circumstances a broad sheet
of yellow tumbling yeast, fringed by a wall of
white foam. King William's fleet would have
stood a poor chance then to have landed its bold
invaders. God times the moments and the ele-
ments in these turning points of history; for so
thundered the waves on England's cliffs when the
Spanish Armada was broken to pieces.
et dissipati sunt.”
"Flavit
Before I left Torquay, however, the storm had
subsided and softened away, leaving a golden hazy
atmosphere in which the autumnal sun bathed and
diffused itself, and at moments broke through the
vapory heavens with all the more brightness. I
made excursions to Anstey's Cove and Babbicombe
378
OLD ENGLAND.
Bay. At the head of the former, which is a
tangled, ivy-hung, rock-cloven chasm, stands an
Italian villa of the Bishop of Exeter, called
"Bishopstowe," having a wild seclusion and a
noble sea view. Babbicombe Bay has a pretty
sweep of silvery beach with red-tinted headlands,
and a terraced slope to the edge of the cliffs. At
Watcombe Bay the scene was truly Arcadian,
green landslips under the cliffs and shepherds with
sheep feeding.
In returning I noticed an ancient "Lich-house,"
or place for the temporary deposit of the dead, in
front of a venerable country church; these are
rare now in England.
A more interesting excursion was to the little
town of Brixham, just at the southern corner of
Torbay. It is built in a deep basin between the
hills, and is a good specimen of an old-fashioned
English fishing town. As it was
As it was "dirty weather,"
the old salts in their flapping hats and Mackin-
toshes were hanging about the stone piers, mending
their fishing tackle, or tinkering their little crafts.
The small harbor was crowded with such craft
99
driven in by the storm. The smell of burning
pitch contended with the more ancient "fish-like
odor. The fishing is chiefly done by trawling. A
new trawling-gear costs some £80, and it is there-
fore no light matter to lose it, as is frequently done.
An old fisherman said to me, that "it was fine
sport fishing in pleasant weather, but no fine when
winter came on." Gudewives had baskets of
SOUTH DEVON AND TORQUAY.
379
haicks and whitings for sale, although Saturdays
are the market days. Brixham is also a famous
place for turbot, soles, mullet, and cod. At the
end of the pier there is an obelisk of stone, set in
granite, bearing the following inscription :
"On this stone,
And near this spot,
WILLIAM,
Prince of Orange,
First set foot,
On his first landing in
England,
5th November,
1688."
Macaulay, in his "History of England," gives the
following picture of this event. "A soft breeze
sprung up from the south, the mist disappeared, the
sun shone forth, and under the mild light of an
autumnal noon the fleet turned back, passed
around the lofty cape of Berry Head, and rode safe
into the harbor of Torbay. The disembarkation
instantly commenced. Sixty boats conveyed the
troops to the coast. The Prince soon followed.
He landed where the quay of Brixham now stands ;
a fragment of the rock on which the deliverer
stepped from his boat has been carefully preserved,
and is set up as an object of public veneration in
the centre of that busy wharf."
Although the squall was furious, I scrambled
up to the top of huge Berry Head, beside which
"Shakspeare's Cliff" dwindles, and had a talk
with the old coast-guard there, in his whitewashed
380
OLD ENGLAND.
stone hut, over a little smoking furze fire. The
view from the cliff was grand, though the approach ·
to the edge of it, from the violence of the gusts,
required some caution. Over the bold detached
headland, which forms the northern boundary of
Torbay, flew plumes of spray, and the green waves
of the British Channel, as far as the eye could
reach, were streaked with foam.
The veteran coast-guard might hang up his bat-
tered telescope on its rusty nails and smoke his
pipe in peace. His only duty was to make himself
comfortable that afternoon.
In driving back to Torquay we passed the seat
of a nobleman, with whose family history the coach-
man seemed minutely acquainted, and he helped to
while away a rainy ride over a dull bleak region
by detailing it to me. Among other things, he
said that the son of this nobleman, who was as
great a scapegrace, from his account, as the famous
"Heir of Linne," had lately lost £30,000 in racing
spiders over a hot plate! This story I give en-
tirely on the coachman's authority.
The season had just about commenced at Tor-
quay, though the severe weather had prevented as
yet much thronging of visitors. It is an elegant
and fashionable town, and has some rich modern
churches, costly residences, and one of the best
hotels to be found in the kingdom. The Devon-
shire country people that one sees on the streets
here, are generally noble specimens of men, with
blooming red faces, and eyes as black as sloes;
SOUTH DEVON AND TORQUAY.
381
and with their velvet jackets, yellow corduroy
breeches, huge brogans, miniature felt hats stuck
on one side of the head, and flowers pinned into
their coat-collars, they are indeed quite present-
able giants.
CHAPTER XXI.
CORNWALL AND PENZANCE.
STRIKING again upon the South Devon road, I
went on to Totness. At Totness we crossed the
beautiful river Dart, navigable ten miles from Dart-
mouth. One sees here in England the meaning
of the names Dartmouth, Exmouth, Plymouth, &c.,
which transferred to our American inland, or sim-
ply shore towns, have lost all their original signifi-
cance. From Totness to Plymouth the distance is
twenty-four and a half miles, and the road passes
through much interesting Devonshire scenery,
especially about Ivy Bridge, a favorite neighbor-
hood for artists. The Dartmoor highlands lie
somewhat to the north, which though not of great
elevation are exceedingly romantic, forming a wild,
solitary, and tempestuous region.
Plymouth, a name dear to the American, has
great beauties and charms of its own. I can never
forget the surprise I experienced at the first sight
of the harbor of Plymouth from the Hoe prom-
enade; to say that it is an English Bay of Naples,
would have little meaning, for there is no resem-
blance between the two; but Plymouth Bay is
certainly the most noble, varied, and beautiful, of
CORNWALL AND PENZANCE.
383
all the English harbors, and there are few in the
world to compare with it. And out of it about this
time of the year, perhaps upon such a clear, fresh,
and golden autumn morning, with the trees of
Edgcumbe Park just turning crimson, and the
waves in the bay curling merrily to the breeze,
the little Mayflower put out to sea, bearing another
England within her!
New Plymouth, so the tradition is, was named
from a fancied resemblance to the old Plymouth.
The resemblance must be very slight. A Pilgrim
College is now established at or near the traditional
spot where the embarkation of the Pilgrims for
America took place. This event is thus related in
the "Journal of the Pilgrims: ""Wednesday, the
sixt of September, the Wind comming East North
East a fine small gale, we loosed from Plimoth,
hauing beene kindly intertained and curteously
vsed by diuers friends there dweling, and after
many difficulties in boysterous stormes, at length by
God's prouidence vpon the ninth of Nouember fol-
lowing, by breake of the day we espied land."
And it seems to be England's destiny still to have
her population flow away ever from her shores to-
ward America. With all the increasing wealth of
England, her system of taxation falling so unequally
on the lower classes, and the tendency of her
legislation to concentrate the landed interests in the
hands of a few, so that the small landholders are
every year diminishing in number and in ability to
*
* Walker's Science of Wealth, p. 370.
384
OLD ENGLAND.
support themselves, and with her untold millions of
hopeless paupers, great numbers must emigrate or
starve; so that willingly or unwillingly England
still continues to nourish America, and America is
twice-born of the mother-country.
The Tamar River widens at its mouth and forms
Plymouth Sound, and the splendid inner basin of
the Hamoaze, some four miles long, and capable of
mooring a hundred sail of the line. The estuary
of the Plym, called the Cat-water, is a still larger
anchorage for merchant vessels to the east of the
city. These are both crowded with vast frigates,
and with smaller shipping, the view up the Hamoaze
ending with the long and lofty lines of Albert Bridge
at Saltash.
The massive citadel of Plymouth, and the pyra-
midal rock of Drake's Island, strongly fortified,
give a grave and solid aspect to the scene; while
the lovely banks of the Tamar, and the thickly
wooded promontory of Mount Edgcumbe, take it
out of the commonplace of harbor views, and lend
it a strange picturesqueness.
Mount Edgcumbe, with its feathery slopes and
bold banks girdled by the deep blue sea, peculiarly
attracted so says his biographer-the painter Tur-
ner; as did also this whole region about Plymouth
Bay, and the sweet scenery of the Tamar River.
And indeed there is no one who has so photographed
by the sun-flash of genius the varied scenery of all
England, as this eccentric but enthusiastic lover of
his native land has done. Born in one of the most
CORNWALL AND PENZANCE.
385
obscure of the dingy courts of London, the son of
a barber, and with the prospect of frizzling hair
himself all his life, his genius was first fairly awaked
by the daily sight of the river Thames, and by the
trees and meadows of Twickenham and Bushy
Park, in the neighborhood of which he was sent to
school. He afterward saw the ocean at Margate
in Kent, where he also went to school; and there
he fell in love with the sister of a school-mate,
which led to the great sorrow of his life, but which,
perhaps, wedded him the more closely to Art. His
blue eyes, red face, and stout, short, shabbily dressed
form, might have been seen a quarter of a century
ago or more in every part of Devonshire, on its
southern and northern coasts he used to say he
was a Devonshire man also in Cornwall where
he sketched St. Michael's Mount, in Wiltshire with
Beckford, in Kent, in Derbyshire, and above all in
Yorkshire, his favorite county. He was preëmi-
nently an English painter, as Milton was an English
poet. Ruskin says that he so caught the trick of
the Yorkshire hills, rounding as they do at the sum-
mit with a break or precipice at the foot instead of
one sheer to the top, that he really made the Alps.
themselves bend in the same way to do homage to
his unconquerable English genius.* Turner, as far
as I have gained any conception of his character,
seems to me to be a type of the best and worst, the
greatest and meanest traits of the English mind, —
original, incomprehensible, positive, reticent, acqui-
* Thornbury's Life of Turner, Vol. I., p. 151.
25
386
OLD ENGLAND.
eager
sitive, tender, rough, despising public opinion but
for a solid and lasting fame.
He did not see
why Italy, or an Italian artist, should monopolize all
God's beauty in Nature, or that dear misty England
should be without her Claude- and with tenfold
more of power, as when the storm awakes in its
might around the coasts of this green and lovely
isle. But I have gotten far away from Plymouth
Bay and Mount Edgcumbe. This last striking
and beautiful spot, was the place that the com-
mander of the Spanish Armada set his greedy eyes
upon as the seat of his power and pleasure after his
speedy conquest of England, and from the harbor
near by darted out those nimble little English frig-
ates under Howard, Hawkins, and Drake, to spoil
his dreams. Drake, it is related, would play out
and win his game of bowls, before he stirred a
step to go aboard his ship, though all Spain and
Philip himself were coming. As to these same little
English frigates - we are sometimes apt to regard
England as if she had always been the great naval
power that she now is; but before the reign of Eliza-
beth she had no navy worth speaking of. Froude
says that at the beginning of that reign "the whole
naval force in commission amounted to seven coast-
guard vessels, the largest of which was but one
hundred and twenty tons; and eight small mer-
chant brigs, and schooners, altered for fighting."
The love of gold and the plunder of rich Spanish
galleons, and the wild hopes which the opening of
a New World aroused - America, in fact, with her
CORNWALL AND PENZANCE.
387
mysterious magnetic power drawing west to new
fields of wealth and conquest-here was the true
originating cause of the maritime greatness of Old
England.
At the mouth of the broad harbor stretches that
wonder of patient science, the Plymouth Break-
water, a mile long, terminated by a light-house. It
receives the full force of the stormy Southern At-
lantic as it rolls up into the English Channel. And
beyond all, fourteen miles out to sea, I could discern,
even with the naked eye, the tall tapering white
form of "Eddystone Light-house," and with a glass
could see the spray dashing in graceful jets at its
base, under the northerly wind. Smeaton, Rennie,
Brunel, have crowned Plymouth with works of im-
perishable honor, works of peace, humanity, and
enduring utility.
I stayed two days in Plymouth, boating in the
harbor, boarding some of the immense men-of-war
that lie there so silent and immovable, and tramp-
ing over Edgcumbe Park, from which one has a
view of Carson Bay, the favorite anchoring ground
of Nelson and Vincent; and here too I had an
opportunity of studying some of the finest trees in
England,oaks, laurels, firs, ilexes, and cedars of
Lebanon. I also made an excursion up the Tamar
to the Royal Albert Bridge, the only work of Bru-
nel that combines stupendousness with economy.
Generally speaking, his designs have been great,
and greatly ruinous to all concerned in them.
Here he seems to have studied cheapness as well as
388
OLD ENGLAND.
vastness. It is as plain a structure as could well be
conceived, but its simplicity is impressive and al-
most sublime. Its span of four hundred and eighty
feet and its huge unornamented white iron cylin-
ders make a lofty gradual arch over the abyss, and
in spite of the immense piers, and other gigantic
supports, appear to hold the whole structure sus-
pended entirely from them. So perfect were the
preparations, that the bridge was raised at last
without the sound of a hammer. A man-of-war
may pass under it with full sail set.
Old Saltash tumbling up the steep bank under
the colossal shadows of the bridge, with its irregular
clustering houses, and boats lying about in confu-
sion on the gravelly beach, is a piquant bit of pict-
ure in itself. Above Saltash the Tamar assumes
a strictly rural, quiet, inland beauty.
The Royal Hotel at Plymouth was intended to
be a comprehensive institution, or to embrace hotel,
coffee-house, theatre, and church, all under one roof.
It is a rambling old house enough. The sombre
coffee-room and its low ceiling, middle arch, red car-
pet, oak-pattern paper, game-piece medallions, and
polished ponderous mahogany furniture, with the re-
spectable old waiters in white cravats and aprons, and
naval officers eating coppery oysters, and talking
thick over their port wine, are fresh in my memory.
Here I partook, not for the first time, however, of the
famous Devonshire "clouted cream, a rich and
palatable dessert, something like improved "bonny-
clabber." The method of making it is fully de-
CORNWALL AND PENZANCE.
389
scribed in a book on "English cattle" which I
picked up; but the real Devonshire milk is to be
first obtained. "The milk is suffered to stand in a
vessel for twenty-four hours; it is then placed over
a stove or slow fire, and very gradually heated to
an almost simmering state, below the boiling point.
When this is accomplished, (the first bubble having
appeared,) the milk is removed from the fire, and
allowed to stand for twenty-four hours more. And
at the end of the time the cream will have arisen
to the surface in a thick or clouted state, and is re-
moved; in this state it is eaten as a luxury, but it is
often converted into butter, which is
done by stir-
ring it briskly by the hand or stick." By this it is
seen that it is almost as rich as butter. This
clouted cream is said to have first come from Corn-
wall, where it is still a common luxury; and,
strangely enough it is an Oriental or Syrian dish to
this day; so that some, (by rather a broad leap,)
have argued from this fact the authenticity of the
Phoenician visitation to Cornwall.
There are no specially handsome streets in Plym-
outh, though it is much more of a city than Ports-
mouth, and with Devenport and its immense dock-
yard of seventy-one acres, its vast military works,
and its fine houses and churches, it is a stately and
imposing place. In the public library I saw three
pictures by Sir Joshua Reynolds, and an ill-spelled
letter of his, inviting Boswell to dine.
We have now to make a rapid tour through the
last county in England, Cornwall. There is truth
390
OLD ENGLAND.
in these remarks of an English writer: "Cornwall
has been, perhaps, less known and visited by
tourists than any other of our counties; and I
might say less than the capitals of the Continent
of Europe. You will find in any miscellaneous
company, many more Englishmen who have visited
Paris than Truro; many more who have sailed up
and down the Rhine than up and down the rivers
Tamar and Fowey; many more who know the
outside and inside of St. Peter's at Rome, than the
outside or inside, especially the latter, of a Cornish
copper mine." How many Englishmen, in Eng-
land and on the Continent, have told me that they
had never been to Cornwall, and, what is more,
never wished to go. They have lost the sight of a
wild and singular region, totally unlike the rest of
England, and of an interesting people.
Whirling over the "Royal Albert Bridge" to
Saltash, one is in Cornwall. The
The scenery con-
tinues to be beautiful, and like that in Devonshire,
until the mining region is reached. The railway
crosses a number of narrow valleys or gorges
sloping to the sea, and richly wooded and green.
The vales of Liskeard and Lostwithiel are charm-
ing, containing a dark ferny luxuriant vegetation,
with beautiful river scenery, and noble artificial
works, broad canals, and stupendous railway via-
ducts spanning from hill to hill; for Brunel put
out all his strength on this South Devon and Corn-
wall road. At Lostwithiel, on the lovely Fowey
River, one first begins to see mining carriages, and
CORNWALL AND PENZANCE.
391
traces of that immense system of underground
operations, that convert this end of England into a
solemn, candle-lit, subterranean hive or prison.
Before coming to Truro, we passed the famous
Carclaze tin-mine, with its white clay cliffs. It is
an open excavation of a mile in circuit, and from
twenty to thirty fathoms deep. It presents the
unique spectacle of an out-of-door mine. It is
worked in an earth called "soft growan" (or de-
composed granite), and the metal is obtained sim-
ply by washing. The mine has been worked four
hundred years, and an incredible amount of metal
has been taken from it. Now begins to appear the
true Cornwall scenery, - low hills without wood,
barren moors covered with a short furze, and more
commonly still, simple mounds of sand and gravel,
and holes and pits everywhere. Now and then
there is a small stone hut with a walled-in min-
iature kitchen-garden. A wooden shed, some
spindling poles and tottering scaffolding with clus-
ters of huts and larger piles of sand and detritus,
are the unobtrusive and almost unnoticeable evi-
dences of what is perhaps a large and rich mine.
Truro, the capital of Cornwall, is finely situated
on the confluence of two streams, but beauty is
sacrificed to business, and sand-heaps, mounds
of "deads," and all the withering concomitants of
a mining district, make the environs of this ancient
town any thing but attractive. Redruth, some-
what further on, is the very centre of the Cornwall
copper mines, and of savage scenery. The region
392
OLD ENGLAND.
The black
is indescribably bleak and barren.
heights of "Carn Brea," strewed with tempest-
worn blocks or 66
tors" of granite, frown over the
scene. All around the landscape is like that of the
"Cities of the Plain," after the tempest of fire and
brimstone had rained on them. There is nothing
but a continued series of poisonous-looking heaps
of the exuviæ of mines, and a dismal and herbless
expanse for the eye to rest upon. Out of the town
few people or signs of life are seen. The life is
under ground. This is the heart of what is called
"The Gwennap Mining District." It is chiefly
cupriferous, and is the richest in Cornwall. The
little that I have room to say about the Cornwall
mines, might as well be said here. For a fuller
treatment of this theme I refer the reader to a
small book called "Cornwall: its Mines and
Miners."
Copper is found in granite and clay-slate, or
more definitely in what is technically called killas,
or greenish clay-slate, and especially in the line of
the junction of this with granite. The vein varies
in size from the thickness of a sheet of paper to
that of several yards. Sometimes the miner strikes
upon a rich "bunch" of metal with smaller veins
or strings hanging to it, like the root of a vegeta-
ble. This hope of continually coming upon a prize
fires him in his hard and solitary toil. According
to the richness of his gains so is his pay. In the
common method of working mines, the miner re-
ceives a certain percentage on the actual value of
CORNWALL AND PENZANCE.
393
what he digs. It is thus for the interest of the
workmen, or "tributers," to make as much for
their employers as possible; and there are no
strikes among the Cornish miners.
The vast expense and skill requisite in mining
can hardly be estimated by the uninitiated. It
is said that the annual cost of mining operations
in Cornwall is about equal to the annual gains,
though these are immense. Therefore some must
lose heavily, while a few only make money. Min-
ing is a gigantic lottery. It takes the place in
England of our Western land speculations. To
hold a share in a mine is perilous business, because
it is a leasehold which may expire any year, and
because one's liability is unlimited. Yet almost all
Cornish men and women, who have any property,
hold shares in mines. A common-looking, chatty
woman pointed out to me a mine, called, if I re-
member rightly, "Cook's Kitchen," and said she
owned a share there. She got off the car, and
looked about her with the air of a proprietor.
The extent and elaborateness of some of the
older Cornwall mines will account for their ex-
pensiveness. The "Consolidated Mines," which
are perhaps the largest, are calculated to extend
5500 fathoms, or sixty-three miles under ground.
Some twelve miles of perpendicular depth have
been sunk in shafts. The old "Dalcoath Mine
is 1920 feet deep. These vast depths and ramifi-
cations have to be drained and ventilated. For
draining, steam-engines of extraordinary power
""
394
OLD ENGLAND.
must be employed. They are of peculiar con-
struction, economizing power to a wonderful de-
gree, and are made in Cornwall. One of them at
"Austen's Fowey Consols Mine" is thus de-
scribed: "It has an eighty-inch cylinder 10.97
load per square inch on the piston, and a length
of stroke in the cylinder of 10.31, and in the
pump of 9.25, lifting 87,065,000 pounds a foot
high, by the consumption of only one bushel of
coals. It consumes eighty-four pounds of coal in
an hour." It is estimated that at "Huel Abraham
Mine 43,500 hogsheads of water have been pumped
up in twenty-four hours from a depth of 1441
feet." Ventilation is also effected, or at least
aided, by the employment of steam, discharging
foul air and creating circulation. The air of some
mines is oppressively hot. Men have been known
to lose five or six pounds of weight at a single
spell of labor, from profuse perspiration at the bot-
tom of a deep mine, where the temperature is often
nearer 90° than 80°.
""
The hardest work of the poor miner is descend-
ing and ascending such enormous depths by ladders.
After a wearing, toiling day in dungeon air, then
to climb up endless ladders, carrying his tools, full
an hour's journey, "to grass,' or what would
be like climbing a mountain without having the
pure mountain air to breathe, — is almost too much
for human strength. Heart disease and consump-
tion are the inevitable results of such unnatural
toil.
The "man-machine," now introduced to
CORNWALL AND PENZANCE.
395
some extent in the Cornwall mines, has been a
great blessing to miners. It is a long rod con-
nected with a working beam, with a stroke of
twelve feet. Upon this rod are attached shelves,
each large enough for two men to stand upon. Up
goes the rod, lifting the men with it. They then
step from this shelf upon a shelf fixed on the side
of the shaft. There they wait until the rod again
ascends, when they step upon its rising shelf and
are carried up twelve feet. So they gradually
come to grass." An American friend, who ex-
plored several Cornwall mines, told me, that not-
withstanding the apparent ease of this process, it
required nevertheless a quick eye and steady
nerves. His coat-skirt once became entangled
upon a descending shelf, and had it not been for
the quickness of his guide he would have gone
down with it.
66
The life of the miner is not to be envied. He
works in awful silence by dim candle-light at the
bottom of a well, and often in the foul air of a
sewer. His life is in continual peril. And when
he comes to the upper air, it is to expose himself to
keen blasts that cut through his frame. He rarely
lasts more than sixty years. Yet the Cornish
miner is a contented and, generally speaking, re-
ligious man. The labors of Whitefield and Wes-
ley sowed seeds among the rocks here that still
bear rich fruit. Near Redruth there is a large
hollow, or pit, where John Wesley preached to
vast assemblies of miners; it is now sometimes
396
OLD ENGLAND.
used for great religious gatherings and out-door
preaching.
Tin is usually associated in the same localities
with copper, and is found likewise in the granite
and metamorphic rock. It is also procured in
small quantities from alluvial deposites, like gold.
This "stream-tin ” was what the ancient Britons
of Cornwall probably sold to the Phoenicians,
though they may have mined to some little extent.
Since visiting Cornwall, I have thought that the
parable of the man finding "treasure hid in a
field," was not that he found money or jewels, but
a vein of silver or copper, for which he sells all to
buy; and to seek truth as hid treasures, was it not,
in fact, to mine for it with resolution, skill, and
success? The 28th chapter of Job, especially the
3d and 4th verses, literally translated, are a wonder-
fully correct description of mining operations even
at this day. This chapter certainly goes to prove
the exceeding great antiquity of mining.
Tin is found in other parts of the world, but the
grand source of tin is Cornwall. Our New Eng-
land bright tin pans, and flashing Connecticut tin-
peddler's ware, were all once hundreds of fathoms
deep and dark under the Cornish hills. Tin in the
ore is any thing but bright and promising. It has
to undergo a vast deal of crushing, stamping, roll-
ing, puddling, dressing, and smelting, before it
comes out a shining metal. Tin ore must be, by
law, smelted in Cornwall, where there is no coal.
The greatest smelting works are in the neighbor-
CORNWALL AND PENZANCE.
397
hood of Truro. A beefsteak cooked on a red-hot
bar of tin, is the common treat of a visitor after
inspecting a mine.
The same vessels that bring coal from the North,
bear back copper to the North. Copper ore is
smelted mostly out of Cornwall, at Swansea and
Neath, in South Wales. But I am not writing
a book on mining, and my reader can find a
thoroughly scientific treatment of the subject in the
little volume I have recommended. Few subjects
are more curiously interesting from the force of
mind, the will and courage, the ingenuity of inven-
tion, the singular geologic phenomena, and the fresh
and novel facts developed by the every-day work-
ing of the whole stupendous system.
From Redruth, the railway passes by and over
a portion of sandy-shored St. Ives' Bay, at Hayle.
St. Ives is a great point for the " pilchard fishery."
This fishery is almost altogether confined to the
shores of Cornwall. Once a year these little fish
swarm up from the Southern seas to the English
coasts. When they approach land in vast shoals,
they are eagerly watched and taken in great seines.
The net is one hundred and ninety fathoms long,
and costs some £170. The author of "Cornwall
Mines and Miners" says that at the town of St.
Ives, no less than 1000 hogsheads of pilchards were
once secured in three casts of the seine. And in
the little town of Trereen, 600 hogsheads were
taken in a week. As 2400 fish make a hogshead,
no less than 1,400,000 pilchards were caught.
398
OLD ENGLAND.
These are salted and sent to the southern coun-
tries of Europe, to supply good Catholics with fish
in their Lenten season! The pilchard is somewhat
smaller than a herring, and does not compare with
it for eating.
Pilchard fishing is said to be a very picturesque
and stirring sight, especially if it take place at night
by torchlight. The nets then look like masses of
molten silver.
St. Ives in Huntingdonshire, and not St. Ives in
Cornwall, is probably the famous one of the nursery
rhyme. It is strange to think how slender the neck
of England is here; one can almost see across it.
We are fast coming to the end of all things.
The people one meets here in the little one-track
junction railway, are of a very plain, frank, sociable
cast. London superciliousness and reserve have
altogether vanished, and you talk freely with your
neighbor. Everybody is acquainted with every-
body, and a stranger is looked upon as one to
whom all are bound to be polite and entertaining.
I gathered a great number of facts about mining
and pilchards, which, I am sorry to say, I do not re-
tain. The general impression I received was, that
the zeal for mining was on the decline; that it
was too unhealthy, dangerous, and above all pecu-
niarily uncertain business. It was heart-breaking in
its crosses and disappointments. One fact I recall.
An enterprising "adventurer so all are termed
who speculate in mines had spent £94,000 upon
a mine and died of disappointment; while his suc-
""
CORNWALL AND PENZANCE.
399
cessor a few weeks after began to realize - I hold
to this excellent Americanism
tune from the same mine.
an immense for-
A young Episcopal clergyman sat opposite to me,
with the most approved pre-raphaelite cut to his coat
and visage, with whom I fell into conversation and
found him an intelligent and genial man. At
parting he gave me a line of introduction to his
father-in-law, a distinguished clergyman living at
Pendeen, with whom he made me promise that I
would pass the next Sabbath.
The first sight of "St. Michael's Mount" gilded
with the fires of a lurid sunset, and of the foam-
fringed expanse of "Mount's Bay," had to me a
touch of the romantic; for I had ever associated
the "Mount" with a certain dreamy undefined
antiquity, and with Milton's poetry.
It was storm and shine during my stay at Pen-
zance, though the former predominated. There is
a saying that there is a shower every day in Corn-
wall, and two on Sunday. But the temperature in
this autumn season was much milder and softer
than I had experienced further north. The
changes are sudden from dark to bright, from rainy
to clear. This part of England has a Mediterranean
climate. Around Penzance, on its sloping hill-sides,
there was a pleasing girdle of green gardens and
fields, though almost everywhere else sand and
rock, and a scantling of grass, were the monotonous
features of the scenery. The myrtle and hy-
drangea, and other Southern European plants, grow
400
OLD ENGLAND.
freely in the open air. The winter temperature of
Penzance is 42°, while that in the neighborhood of
London is 35°. The summer is cooler and the
winter warmer.
Penzance is also well protected
from the tremendous westerly gales which are the
most severe of any in England; though in the
spring of the year its easterly exposure makes it
somewhat uncomfortable. It is becoming quite a
health-resort. It were worth a visit to make the
evening promenade along the sounding beach, and
to see the Atlantic billows roll into "Mount's Bay,
and the sun sink behind the stern rocks and barren
hills toward Land's End.
""
"Mount's Bay" is a singular example of the
geologic theory, of the comparatively recent sink-
ing of the land to form an ocean floor. Evidences
of the submerged forests frequently make their
appearance.
"St. Michael's Mount " was once,
by tradition, a rock in the midst of a great internal
forest.
One should not forget while in Penzance to
visit the Serpentine Stone Works. This beautiful
igneous stone which takes such an exquisite polish,
is procured mostly from the Lizard near by; it has
for its basis the silicate of magnesia, with oxide
of iron, chromium, and manganese. The silicate.
of aluminum gives it a golden gleam.
a golden gleam. Few an-
tique marbles, such as one picks up amid the ruins
of Rome or Baiæ, may compare with the richness
of this dark red and green variegated stone, as if it
still held the fires that hardened it. The end of
CORNWALL AND PENZANCE.
401
England is ever-pointed. The ocean vainly washes
its everlasting hills.
In the summer time the contrasts of these richly
colored rocks of the Lizard, with the pearly white
sands of the little coves and bays, and the blue
waters of ocean, are said to be exquisitely beautiful
and fairy-like.
There is a good geological museum at Penzance.
The town, of about seven thousand inhabitants, is
a primitive place enough. My chamber window
at the old-fashioned inn looked out on the quiet
yards, ancient chimney-pots, and lonely blue sea be-
yond. I ate my solitary meal in dignified silence.
Walking the streets one feels somewhat like a "pil-
chard" on shore, or a bird that has wandered from
its place. Yet every one is polite and good-na-
tured. Only you are a break, an exception, in the
well-soldered community. You belong to another
than the Cornwall world of things. When you
have seen Penzance and Land's End, go back to
London, to Paris, to the world.
At the evening hour some horrid noises and
yells rang through the sober little Methodist town.
A squad of beery fishermen, or flush young miners,
were making a demonstration in their congenial
darkness, dangerous business one would think so
near the jumping-off place.
I paid a visit to Marazion, or Market Jew, a walk
of about three miles on the northern shore; it is an
ancient town, where tin was worked by the Jews in
the reign of King John, and even earlier. It is, in
26
402
OLD ENGLAND.
fact, the oldest town in Cornwall. It stands upon a
hill-side which slopes to the north, and contains
some very old houses, furnaces, and relics of the prim-
itive Jewish town. The "Marazion circle " of tin
"of
mines, some twenty-seven in number, have the rep-
utation of being losing and unfortunate concerns.
Just opposite Marazion is "St. Michael's Mount."
It stands either entirely out of the sea as an island,
or as forming the end of a very doubtful and moist
peninsula, according to the time of day you visit it.
That it was the ancient "Ictis," and that the Isle
of Wight was not, in spite of its Latin name, all at
least who visit Cornwall are prepared to defend.
The famous passage from Deodorus, a writer in the
the time of Augustus Cæsar, reads thus: "The in-
habitants of that extremity of Briton which is called
Bolerion" (supposed to be Land's End) "both
excel in hospitality, and also, by reason of their in-
tercourse with foreign merchants, they are civilized
in their mode of life. These prepare the tin, work-
ing very skillfully the earth which produces it.
The ground is rocky but it has in it earthy veins,
the produce of which is brought down and melted
and purified. Then, when they have cast it into
the form of cubes, they carry it to a certain island
adjoining to Britain and called Iktis. During the
recess of the tide the intervening space is left dry,
and they carry over abundance of tin to this place
in their carts; and it is something peculiar that
happens to these islands in those parts lying be-
tween Europe and Britain; for at full tide, the in-
CORNWALL AND PENZANCE.
403
tervening passages being overflowed, they appear
like islands; but when the sea returns a large space
is left dry, and they are seen as peninsulas. From
hence, then, the traders purchase the tin of the na-
tives, and transport it into Gaul, and finally, travel-
ling through Gaul on foot in about thirty days, they
bring their burdens on horseback to the mouth of
the Rhone."
Thus the "Mount" is probably the earliest his-
toric point in England. It is the link that con-
nected Britain with the civilization of Rome and
the East. It afterward assumed an ecclesiastical
character, and was the place of pilgrimages to the
shrine of the angel "Michael," who alighted on
the rock in his flight from heaven. Lady Catherine
Gordon, ("Rose of Scotland,") wife of Perkin
Warbeck, took refuge here. Charles I. visited it
during the wars with the Parliament. The Corn-
ish men were strong royalists.
When I saw the "Mount," it rose majestically
from the bosom of the sea, and the waves dashed
around its base. One could hardly believe that it
was not always an island, for it is some distance
from the shore. Two strong fellows pulled me out
to it, and seemed quite anxious that my visit should
be a short one, for the storm was brewing fast.
Landing on the old slimy stone pier, I found quite
a marine colony there. Fishermen hung about on
the sea-wall, smoking their pipes, and watching the
veering and menacing clouds. I ran up the broken
grassy steep at the foot of the castle, and to my
404
OLD ENGLAND.
surprise was admitted to a beautiful castellated
residence, the property of the St. Aubyn family.
The room called "Chevy-Chace Hall," and the
other apartments, though small, are handsomely
furnished, and are lived in during some months of
the year. The chapel is the chapel of the old
Benedictine Monastery. I went up on the battle-
ments, and had a noble view of the whole extent
of "Mount's Bay " to the Lizard on the north, and
Penzance with its background of green hills and
villas, and the bold black headlands toward Land's
End on the south. The last storm had shaken the
castle to its foundations, and even now the wind
was so strong that it was difficult standing. Here
is the famous stone chair jutting out from the top-
most battlement over the abyss, which secures to
one who first sits in it the authority in the domestic
circle.
On our return we did not have quite so success-
ful a time. The sea had risen considerably, and in
approaching the shore we made two ineffectual
attempts to ride in on a big wave, and were well
drenched; but by skillful management we at length
shot in on top of a long roller.
The "Mount" is an impressive object from the
shore. It rises pyramidically in bold steps or plat-
forms, crowned by the compact though irregular
mass of the castle, which seems to grow out of the
rock. I tried to discover the "lion" that guards
the Mount. A rude mass of granite looking south-
ward, by a lively imagination, might be shaped into
量
​CORNWALL AND PENZANCE.
405
a monstrous lion. While we are (in fancy) look-
ing at the "Mount," lifting itself like a vision of
majestic power through the scud of the whistling
storm, let us hear Milton's lines like a strain of
music above the storm:
แ Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies,
The tufted crow-toe, and pale jessamine,
The white pink, and the pansy freaked with jet,
The glowing violet,
The musk-rose, and the well-attired woodbine,
With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head,
And every flower that sad embroidery wears:
Bid amaranthus all his beauty shed,
And daffodillies fill their cups with tears,
To strew the laureate hearse where Lycid lies
For, so to interpose a little ease,
Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise.
Aye me! whilst thee the shores and sounding seas
Wash far away, where'er thy bones are hurled,
Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides,
Where thou perhaps, under the whelming tide,
Visitest the bottom of the monstrous world;
Or whether thou, to our moist vows denied,
Sleep'st by the fable of Bellerus old,
Where the great vision of the guarded Mount
Looks toward Namancos und Bayona's hold;
Look homeward, angel, now, and melt with ruth;
And O ye dolphins, waft the hapless youth.
Weep no more, woful shepherds, weep no more."
Since I have quoted so much, I will not omit
giving also the fine sonnet of Bowles, (the inspirer
of Coleridge's poetic genius,) upon St. Michael's
Mount:
"Mountain! no pomp of waving woods hast thou,
That deck with varied shade thy hoary brow;
No sunny meadows at thy feet are spread,
No streamlets sparkle o'er their pebbly bed;
406
OLD ENGLAND.
But thou canst boast thy beauties, — ample views
That catch the rapt eye of the pausing Muse:
Headlands around new-lighted; sails, and seas
Now glassy smooth, - now wrinkling to the breeze;
And when the drizzly winter, wrapt in sleet,
Goes by, and winds and rain thy ramparts beat,
Fancy may see thee standing thus aloof,
And frowning, bleak and bare, and tempest-proof,
Look, as with awful confidence, and brave
The howling hurricane; — the dashing wave;
More graceful when the storm's dark vapors frown,
Than when the summer suns in pomp go down."
CHAPTER XXII.
LAND'S END.
THE next morning was a driving storm, but I
determined to see Land's End that day, and was
rather glad that I could see it in all its grandeur.
I started early with a silent but well-mannered
driver, in an open wagon, and with a powerful fast-
trotting bay horse. The wind blew too hard for
an umbrella; so, tucking ourselves in as well as we
could, we made up our minds for a thorough wet-
ting. The drive to Land's End in a direct line is
about eleven miles, though longer by the course we
took. We skirted the bay till the road began to
ascend toward New Lyn, giving us broad views of
Penzance and the harbor. We came at length
upon the high table-land, rocky and dismal, with a
little sprinkling of grass and Cornish fern.
As if determined to get to myself all the dis-
agreeabilities possible that day, I alighted in the
neighborhood of Lemorna Cove, and ran down to
see the rock scenery of that rugged bay, intending
to meet my wagon at another point around some-
where further on. After a scrambling, lonely walk,
over stone and bog, I came out, as I supposed, at
the appointed spot, but no carriage was there. It
408
OLD ENGLAND.
was a desolate place and a wild storm. I was puz-
zled what to do. I thought it best to walk on in
what I conceived to be the direction of Penzance,
thinking that I might come upon a house, or meet
a traveler. After walking some time in this state
of suspense, to my great satisfaction my lone dog-
cart hove in sight at a considerable distance off,
coming in a totally opposite direction from what
I had anticipated. I will not pretend to go into
explanations; but the driver declared that he had
been faithful to his part of the engagement, had
been to the appointed place, and not finding me
there, had come on to seek me. "All's well that
ends well," I thought, especially if it lands me at
Land's End.
We left St. Buryan to the right, with its lofty
old church-tower four hundred and sixty-seven feet
above the sea level, the most conspicuous object on
the moor, and a beacon to ships far out at sea. I
stopped to examine the Druidic circle of the
66
Merry Maidens and Piper," consisting of six-
teen moss grown gray stones ranged in a circular
form. They were once, it is said, frolicsome Cor-
nish maidens, petrified for dancing on Sunday.
But how hard and angular they have grown since
then! In the storm-wind that whistled by them
the ancient piper might be heard to play again,
but their dancing days are over. This circle be-
longs doubtless to the same ancient Celtic system
of burial, or worship, to which Stonehenge be-
longed.
LAND'S END.
409
Cornwall is full of these old circles and crom-
lechs; it is the land of pagan legend and mystery.
It does not look like green, sunny, merry, Christian
England. It has a wild, broken, granitic scenery.
Its very names have strange old heathen sounds
such as Lemorna, Trengothal, Trereen, Lanyon,
Penryn, Madon !
stone cross,
We stopped for a moment to see an antique
a cross within a circle. It was a
remnant of the earliest days of Christianity in
England. How it did rain and blow when I
tramped down from the streaming thatched-roofed
cottages of Trereen, over the rocky meadows to
the sea-side, to take a look at the "Logan Stone."
It was any thing but a comfortable feat to climb
up to it, and still less atop of it, in such a storm.
But I was fairly in for it. I shall always contend
that it was just the season, and just the day of all
days, to see this grand rock-coast scenery. Who
would go to Italy in mid-winter for Italian scenery!
Who would see Land's End in summer sunshine!
The "Logan Stone" is a detached mass of rock,
perched on a lofty promontory jutting out into the
sea, and is about seventeen feet high, and weighs
sixty-five tons. My guide laid his broad shoulders
to it, and made it rock slightly. It was once
thrown over by the freak of an English midship-
man, and was reinstated with great difficulty and
expense. Being originally a cubical mass of
granite, by the action of storm and time its base
had become disintegrated, so that it now rests on a
410
OLD ENGLAND.
separate neck or pivot. The perpendicular rocks
about it, seamed and scarred, with the hollow
scooped out by rain and storm, called "The Giant's
Throne," like the chair in which Göthe's ancient
king sat, when he cast the golden goblet into the
sea, are fully as interesting in themselves as the
"Logan Stone." Treryn Castle, in the days of
the Britons, is said to have stood here. I am in-
clined to think, however, that the castellated con-
formation of the rocks has given rise to this tradi-
tion. Here also is a fine point of view of the
stern coast scenery, the rocky headlands and deep
indented bays, with great caverns dug out by the
waves, and "swilled by the wild and wasteful
ocean."
We went on, turning here and there into cross-
roads, that would have sorely puzzled a stranger.
It seemed as if now that point ahead were Land's
End, and then another point, and then another
still. The scenery grew more desolate and dismal,
this effect being undoubtedly heightened by the
black storm. We passed a cheerless stone house
facing the ocean, upon one side of which was
written "The Last Inn in England," and upon the
other side “The First Inn in England.'
""
When we actually turned down to go out to the
promontory termed Land's End, I will not say that
the wind blew us bodily off the road, if road it
might be called over the moor; but it seemed at
one time doubtful whether we could stem the
storm, or make any headway at all. The blasts
LAND'S END.
411
from the ocean were tremendous.
In such a storm
sweeping around England's coast, Shakspeare must
have written the words that Macbeth spoke to the
witches:
"Though you untie the winds, and let them fight
Against the churches; though the yesty waves
Confound and swallow navigation up;
Though bladed corn be lodged, and trees blown down;
Though castles topple on their warders' heads;
Though palaces and pyramids do slope
Their heads to their foundations; though the treasure
Of Nature's germins tumble all together,
Even till destruction sicken, answer me
To what I ask you."
There is an idea of the all-levelling might of the
ocean blast, in these lines, that one can better ap-
preciate who is mad enough to attempt to face it,
on the barren unprotected slopes that lead out to
the extreme end, or one might say,
the prow
of England, where she plunges into the Atlantic.
A man
When we came at length to actually the last
house in England, a lonely low fisherman's hovel,
standing slightly on one side of the promontory
termed "Land's End," we had to take advantage.
of a slight lull to run from the shed to the house.
There was no seeing it at that moment.
could not well go upon the rocks at the height of
such a tempest. He would have run the risk of
being blown off like a cotton ball. The sea just
below us was in a state of furious agitation. Through
the rain and the flying scud we could just see, with
a glass, the tall white pillar of "Long Ships Light-
house," a mile from shore, to the top of which the
412
OLD ENGLAND.
foam of the billows flew, though it stands one hun-
dred and twelve feet above the level of the sea.
Some coals were smouldering on the rude hearth,
and the old fisherman who inhabits the house
roasted a pilchard, and with a cup of tea and hard
sea-biscuit, we made a famous meal. It was of
little use to attempt to dry our clothes.
After waiting an hour or so, there seemed to be
some abatement of the storm, or there was, at
least, a perceptible interval between the blasts. In
one of these comparative lulls, the fisherman said
we might make a run for it. We had to traverse
quite a tract or hollow, and then climb over the
crown of a hill. The fisherman and I started at a
rapid run. Before we reached the top of the
promontory, the gust came on again, and I had to
depend upon my guide's strong arm to stagger
against the violence of the side-blast, and to get
over the hill into a more sheltered spot. Great
flakes of blinding foam flew like a snow-storm over
and around. When we had struggled over the hill,
we crept along its side under the lee of some cliffs,
though the bank of slippery turf slopes off here
quite abruptly. Proceeding carefully, and clinging
to the summit of the cliffs, we picked our way
down, shelf after shelf, worming through and over
the crags, till we came to a jutting mass of rock
beyond which there was nothing, and holding me
in his iron grasp, the guide and I stepped upon this
outstanding rock, and looking over its edge into
the foaming abyss below, stood upon "Land's
End."
LAND'S END.
413
I stayed long enough to knock off a bit of
granite, and then retired a few steps to a more
sheltered position, where I might take a deliberate
view of the scene. Just above us were the dark
and storm-scarred fronts of the granite cliffs, rising
in some kind of columnar regularity, as if they
were the gigantic advance-guard of England, sta-
tioned here to receive the first shock of tempests.
""
Off the crest to our left was the long and singu-
larly shaped rock, called "The Armed Knight;
and a few more black and formidable crags stretched
from the end of the promontory, though buried at
moments amid the boiling waves.
How grand, beyond description, was the sight of
the roused Atlantic hurling its maddened strength
upon the rocks, which bore the marks of a thou-
sand such conflicts, and were there still, firm and
unshaken, where God had placed them, to guard
the land!
I watched the great billows pouring swiftly in
upon the land, unconscious that they had come to
the end of their course, and then suddenly, furi-
ously, flinging themselves on high, as if in astonish-
ment at meeting resistance, covering the tallest
cliffs with their rage and foam.
In creeping back over the crags, I found we had
come over a natural arch, which links the ex-
tremity of the promontory to the main land. By
stretching one's self upon a ledge, and looking
around a corner, one sees clean through the vault.
beneath into which the ocean rushes and roars as
if in play.
414
OLD ENGLAND.
We saw a mast with tangled cordage still hang-
ing to it, rolling and tumbling about in the foam,
which my guide said must have been a part of a
very recent wreck.
Of course I did not see the Scilly Islands in
such weather. They may be seen, however, if I
mistake not, in clear weather, from this point.
The tradition is that they were once connected
with the main land; and fable and mystery still
enwrap them, lying as they do in the very eye of
the sunset far out on the lonely wastes of the
ocean. There are to be found in these islands,
it is said, spots of greenery and beauty that are
truly delicious.
Regaining the house, and waiting some time.
longer for the storm to subside a little, we made a
start for Sennen and the Botallack mines; and
amid a driving tempest of rain we went on to the
north, over a bleak moorland, passing by very few
villages or signs of habitations, leaving the frown-
ing headland of Cape Cornwall on our left, and in
the latter part of the afternoon reached Botallack.
There are few things in the works of man more
daring or wonderful than the Botallack mines; for
where the veins of copper and tin run off into the
ocean, there man has stationed himself to inter-
cept them, and has not only followed them to the
edge of the land, but has pursued them far under
the sea.
Along the face of a lofty precipice which de-
scends sheer into the ocean, and is exposed to all
LAND'S END.
415
the fury of the Atlantic, mining works, tramways,
and ladders, have been constructed, so that they
dangle down over the face of the enormous cliff in
the most extraordinary and appalling way. Half
down the precipice a steam-engine is stationed,
which serenely pumps away in spite of wind and
storm. Far up above it on the edge of the rock
are other works; for the ore is carried up the face
of the cliff to the upper sheds, as if men were lit-
erally living and working over the steepest side of
Gibraltar. I went to the mouth of the midway
shaft with the intention of descending into the
mine; but it was Saturday afternoon, paying-time,
and the mines were not in operation.
This mine, I have said, runs under the ocean ;
and it comes up in one place where the miners
have pursued a vein to within five or six feet of the
floor of the ocean, so that in a storm, the rolling
and grinding of the great rocks and pebbles on
the bed of the ocean overhead may be distinctly
heard; and always the solemn thunder of the sea
is faintly audible.
The Botallack mines are now chiefly worked
for copper, although they have yielded in former
times very richly in tin; and they are said to have
afforded a profit at one time of £300,000.
On the edge of the evening we reached Pen-
deen; and we drove up in the midst of the still
violent tempest to the door of Rev. Mr. A.'s house,
the clergyman to whom I had a note of introduc-
tion. His house was situated in a large yard, with
416
OLD ENGLAND.
a high wall around it, containing his church and
house, in fact a kind of modern "conventual
establishment" on a small scale. A large, com-
manding-looking, elderly gentleman, in a long black
cassock, or dressing-gown, received me at the door
with great cordiality; and soon I was drying my
dripping clothes, and warming my chilled limbs be-
fore a glowing grate, in a room which was the
very picture of ecclesiastical repose and gravity.
"
"The vicar was of bulk and thews,
Six feet he stood within his shoes,
And every inch of all a man;
Ecclesiast on the ancient plan,
Unforced by any party rule
His native character to school;
In ancient learning not unread,
But had few doctrines in his head;
Dissenters truly he abhorred,
They never had his gracious word.
He ne'er was bitter or unkind,
But positively spoke his mind.
Their piety he could not bear,
A sneaking, snivelling set they were:
Their tricks and meanness fired his blood;
Up for his Church he stoutly stood.
No worldly aim had he in life
To set him with himself at strife."
The description of Arthur Hugh Clough's, might
in essentials apply to the bulky and dignified man
who had thus received me out of the wild storm
into his hospitable house. It was indeed a sudden
transition. The comfortable though austere par-
lor, in which my entertainer and myself sat during
the evening, while the tempest raved without, was
hung with pictures of old Catholic subjects and
LAND'S END.
417
saints; a mediæval brass-bound coffer stood on the
centre-table to hold valuable papers; bits of painted
glass, and plans for church architecture, were upon
the mantel-piece and scattered about the room;
and a large case of books filled up one end. Most
of these books were the works of the French Jan-
senists, and came from the original Port Royal
library. They were bequeathed to Mr. A., as I
understood him to say, by Mrs. Schimmelpenninck,
the biographer of the Port Royalists. Such little
marks would at once indicate something of the re-
ligious status and character of my excellent host,
but they would by no means tell all; nor do I feel
myself permitted to tell all; and yet I do not think
a man like Mr. A. would be annoyed by the men-
tion of some of his peculiar ecclesiastical views,
which are well known, and which illustrate one
phase of the religious condition of England at the
present time.
A man of high culture and powerful mind he had
aspired to something more than intellectual emi-
nence. He aimed at a life of exclusive devotion to
the higher truths of Faith and the Divine life.
There was a strong infusion of the mystic, and
even ascetic element, coloring and shading his
hearty religious sympathies. He believed in widely
different and progressive spheres of spiritual attain-
ment; that all men were not capable of the highest
spirituality, and that perhaps this distinction would
forever exist. There were some who were called
to a life of exclusive consecration to, and of
purer
27
418
OLD ENGLAND.
union with the All-Perfect. They were chosen
spirits, men who, like Paul, despised their material
nature, denied themselves the delights of taste,
and whose spirits were continual temples of God;
they were the select priests of God; they were
the peculiar media of His transmitted Spirit. He
believed in this true Apostolic succession, and
was an earnest supporter of the Tractarian view
of the Church, the order of its ministry, the com-
prehensiveness of its service, and the vital efficacy
of its sacraments. He declared decidedly, that the
only hope of the Church of England, and of Eng-
land in a religious point of view, lay in the Puseyite
wing of the Church; not in the unconverted por-
tion of it, who only formed the skeleton and dry
bones, but in those whom God's Spirit had renewed.
They were fitted, he said, by their legal education,
their lives of self-denial and self-mastery, to en-
dure hardness, as good soldiers of Jesus Christ,
and were like John the Baptist, coming up out
of the wilderness, to proclaim the advent of the
true Light. They were men, hardy, single-eyed,
and able to do men's work And they held the
only true conception of the Church of God. He
had learned this truth through much strife and
affliction. He had once been an evangelist, going
here and there, preaching as he pleased and
where he pleased. He had thought that all men
shared equally God's Spirit. But he had been
drawn to the truth of the visible unity of the
Church, that it must be somewhere. If it were
LAND'S END.
419
in Rome, he determined to go there. It was, he
found by searching and prayer, where one Spirit is
given in baptism by the hands of one chosen body
of anointed ministers, forming one visible Church of
Christ in the world. He then turned to the Eng-
lish Church, speaking of it with enthusiasm as a
Church of the true order, as in fact the Apostolic
Church, having an organic life from the earliest
times, and possessing the true signs of a primitive
foundation of God: but I will not continue this
particular conversation, excepting to say that while
abhorring schismatics of all denominations, he held
strongly to the Methodist theory of reformations
or revivals of religion. He went to the extreme
lengths of the most earnest Methodist in this re-
spect; indeed he seemed to be a mixture of
Pusey and Wesley. Yet one word more as to his
religious opinions
for the man and his conversa-
tion awoke in me an absorbing interest.
The English Prayer-Book, he considered, pre-
supposed conversion, and the Sacraments fed the
life begun at conversion. He was a stanch sacra-
mentarian, but ever in a high and spiritual sense.
He thought it to be his special work to convert the
High Church party of England to a more spir
itual view of divine things; and he had solemnly
devoted to this work his two sons, noble young
men, with one of whom I became acquainted, the
other being in Scotland on a preaching tour, though
still an undergraduate at Oxford. These self-
denying preachers of righteousness coming up out
420
OLD ENGLAND.
of the desert and grasping the kingdom of Heaven
with power, they were the ones who would shake
England, and arouse her from her sins to a higher
life.
The next Sabbath morning I was awakened by
the stentorian voices of the Cornwall miners, and
of the humble people of his congregation, who were
assembled in a lower room to pray; and certainly
such prayers I have never heard before or since.
It was like the roaring of lions; it was storming
the throne of grace; it was wrestling, pleading
before the hills, agonizing, crying, almost shouting
to God, that He might come and help them. —
The little church where Divine service was held
was built after the model of the one at Iona. Its
bare white internal walls were decorated by draw-
ings roughly executed, though with some spirit, by
young Puseyite clergymen, as Mr. A. told me, who
had from time to time visited him
there were
copies of Albrecht Dürer's "Christ in the Wil-
derness; Ary Scheffer's "Christ rescuing the
Lamb;" Bruno's "St. Peter; &c. Texts of
Scripture, and symbolical scrolls and ornaments,
were also added, and the whole aspect of the
church, the draped altar, the intoning of the Lit-
urgy, the kneeling of the priest at the altar, were
almost, if not quite, in the Roman Catholic fashion.
Mr. A. preached two powerful sermons, the one
in the morning upon the Marriage Supper,"
which feast, he said, was Spiritual Joy, of which
all should strive to partake, and it was not Justi-
""
LAND'S END.
421
fication or Righteousness, which many would make
of it. During the preaching in the afternoon, as
the storm grew more furious without and the
church more gloomy within, and the deep tones
of the preacher's voice, rising sometimes into start-
ling loudness, mingled with the tremendous blasts
of the wind, and with the sobs and groans of
the poor miners, who sometimes threw up their
arms wildly into the air in the ecstasy of their
emotion, it was assuredly a strange and solemn
scene. Mr. A., speaking of the church itself,
called it the spiritual birthplace of many noble
and distinguished persons; and he pointed out the
very seats they had occupied when their hearts
were touched. He appeared to me a kind of Eng-
lish Louis Harms, in his rugged individuality and
imperious dogmatism, mingled as they were with
deep, simple, primitive piety. He ruled his rocky
vicarate at Land's End with a monarch's sway.
The generous hospitality of Mr. A. and his family
to myself, a perfect stranger, was something which
seemed to me beautiful, and which I can never for-
get. He is certainly a man whose earnestness and
profound consecration to his Master's work cannot
be doubted, if one cannot agree with him in all
his views. He repudiates with scorn the idea of
being considered to be the leader of a sect in the
English Church, as there has been some attempt
on the part of his admirers and disciples to make
of him. But my good host was, I think, at fault
in his confident estimate of the power of the High
422
OLD ENGLAND.
Church movement. Tractarianism has spent its
force. At one time, inspired by the genius of New-
man, the learning of Pusey, and the sweet music
of Keble's song, it was mighty, but it has already
had its day, and now lives only in the puerilities of
Ritualism. That which was true in it has been
dragged down and overwhelmed by that which
was false. It has failed to Orientalize the English
Church, or to change England into a happy medieval
land, rejoicing in the sound of the convent bell.
We would not say that it has done no good, but
it has striven to set up the dead form of the Church,
before the living Christ; it has denied the rights
of individual conscience and reason, and it cannot
thus hope to control and lead English mind. The
reaction of this, in the main untrue, though in some
respects learned and refined ecclesiasticism mani-
festing many traits of the noblest unselfishness, is
rending anew the English Church, and armed
powers, strong to contend against the truth, and
the very life of the Christian faith, have sprung up
from the sowing of the dragon's teeth. I believe,
however, in the essential truth of Mr. A.'s idea of
the visible unity of the Christian Church. The
best minds in Christendom have always pleaded for
unity; but it is not in the form in which Mr. A.
puts it. It is not in uniformity of order, government,
or worship, but in this, that the true Church is the
true brotherhood of man, and all who love Christ,
who hold to the Head, shall love one another, and
shall know one another, not theoretically and invis-
LAND'S END.
423
ibly, but visibly and openly; they shall not oppose
and wound each other; they shall be as in the
primitive times one in deed and truth, working to-
gether with gladness to recover the world to God.
"There is one body and one Spirit.". This great
truth is superior to Protestantism, or Catholicism,
or any other Churchism. There is an ideal unity,
toward which all should ever tend and strive, but
that this ideal unity will ever be perfectly and
concretely realized on earth, we have more doubt
about, and can hardly believe. After all we would
be chary to condemn the earnest strivings and
methods of any who sincerely profess to love and
serve Christ on earth; and I must confess that the
few "High Church" clergymen in whose society I
have happened to be thrown, though I could not
agree with them at all in their views, were person-
ally by far the most scholar-like, refined, and inter-
esting men of all the English clergymen whom I
met.
Having now reached the "Land's End" of
England, both physical and spiritual, let us turn
around and retrace our course northward, until in
the neighborhood of Bristol we come upon our
former steps, and thus will have completed the cir-
cuit of this little land, little in area, but vast
in crowded interest and power.
CHAPTER XXIII.
NORTH DEVON AND WELLS.
FROM Exeter I crossed over to Barnstaple, on
the North Devon coast, going from water to water,
or from the river Exe to the Torridge, in about
two hours. An old Cornish rebel once threatened
to cut England through by a channel here, and to
make South Devon and Cornwall an island; this
would have been a "Dutch Gap
"Dutch Gap" with a ven-
geance. But forty miles or less of canal, through
a country presenting few difficulties, were no such
great thing after all. The ride was through a
thoroughly pastoral country, with great numbers
of sheep and red Devon cattle feeding in the mead-
Ows. The first sight of the river, bridge, and tall
tower of Barnstaple was pleasing; and I found it
to be a lively little town, with the invariable one
long street, and the two hotels of the "Golden
Lion" and the "Fortescue Arms," side by side, in
spirited but harmonious rivalry.
Bideford, eight miles and a half from Barnstaple,
looked even now, as Kingsley has so vividly de-
scribed it in his "Westward Ho!" and I really
seemed myself to have seen it before, and to have
strolled on its long quay. It is one of those old
NORTH DEVON AND WELLS.
425
gray sea-coast towns that do not essentially change,
reminding one somewhat of Ayr in Scotland. The
tide comes pouring in magnificently up the wide
estuary of the Torridge River, and churning through
the many-arched stone bridge, whose builders, ac-
cording to the chronicler of Sir Amyas, gained
from the good bishop Grandison of Exeter, “par-
ticipation in all spiritual blessings forever." This
famous bridge is an eighth of a mile long, with
twenty-four arches, solid and without ornament.
The town clusters in the form of an amphitheatre
upon the steep hillside, from the summit of which
is a wide river and sea-view; and one might easily
fancy he saw in some ship melting into the bright
sunset light, the good ship Rose, as she was setting
forth on her long voyage to the golden regions of
the Western Main. The river, the sea, the sun,
"Westward Ho!'
all here say
I rode to Clovelly, around through Yeovale, by
"Northam Tower" and "Pebble Ridge," at
which last place Ocean has done what Brunel could
hardly have done under the same conditions, -
built a straight wall of rounded pebble-stones, reg-
ularly laid with a flat top, two miles long, which
serves as an effectual bar to her encroachments, at
the same time immovable and permeable,
"the
labor of an age in piled stones." It is strange that
this hint which Ocean has given of constructing
sea-walls of round pebble or paving stones, simply
heaped together in a compact form, has not been
copied by man.
426
OLD ENGLAND.
The road to Clovelly was a flowery pathway,
fringed with the sweet honeysuckle, and all varie-
ties of ferns, the foxglove, the key-flox, the canker
bramble, the blossoming furze, the wild straw-
berry, and many other wild flowers and shrubs, that
continually attract the attention by their beauty
and profusion. And what splendid posting roads!
How smoothly we bowled along, up hill and down,
passing farmers in their small wagons, driving with
the same free rein, with an air of substance and
solid independence about their whole establishment.
As we rose upon the hills and neared the edge of
the coast, fine views of the wide, foam-fringed ex-
panse of Bideford Bay opened to us; and I recall
the view especially from "Buck's Cross," where
the sight of the bright blue sea beyond the dark
cliffs, gives that strong contrast of colors, which is
peculiar to Devon. We turned into a private road
called "The Hobby," which, as far as it goes, is
the most beautiful in England, or indeed in the
world. It runs for more than three miles along
the edge of the cliffs, and through the oak forests
with splendid sea-views, carpeted on either side
by crimson heather-bells, crossing deep ravines
wooded entirely down to the sea, and abounding
in sharp angles and sudden glimpses of won-
drous beauty, until the little village of Clovelly is
reached, perched like a bird's-nest in the notch of
the high sea-wall, to which one descends by a steep
path, which is continued through the village to
the shore by a flight of irregular, break-neck,
NORTH DEVON AND WELLS.
427
slippery steps. The woods hang darkly over this
curious street, or crevice in the rocks, where these
human "hanging-birds" have built their habita-
tion. One can hear at night the song of the night-
birds out of the dense forest overhead, and the
roll of the sea far under one's feet.
""
I stopped at the "Heart of Oak" Inn, and had
a dinner of fine fresh fish and "clouted cream."
I talked with the fishermen drying or mending
their nets, along down the narrow rough street or
"Jacob's Ladder ” to the sea. One old " trawler
said to me,
"It will be wet weather soon, sir ; we
see the coast of Wales too clear." The view from
the village stairs, of the sea, with the long, angular
mass of "Lundy Island" blue in the distance, and
the British Channel away even to the coast of
Wales, is grand; and the sight is equally fine from
the sea-beach below, looking up at the huge wall-
like precipices jutting out magnificently into the
sea. I then walked to "Clovelly Court," anciently
owned by the Cary family, and now in possession
of Sir J. H. Williams. One enters it by the
"Yellaries Gate" above the village, and the way
is on the clean springy turf under the shadow of
the oaks, through one of those noble and reposeful
English parks from which all that is unsightly has
been removed, and all that Nature has to do is, to
grow more and more beautiful year by year, or, one
might say, century by century. "Clovelly Court"
itself is a substantial mansion, but nothing remark-
able architecturally. In the old garden I asked
428
OLD ENGLAND.
""
permission to pluck two red roses, which I did in
remembrance of Sir Amyas and of sweet Rose Sal-
terne. Indeed it were useless to attempt to de-
scribe this place, and the romantic region about,
and above all the cliffs, that sweep up by long,
green curves to the edge of the coast, and then
break off by a sheer perpendicular descent of from
five hundred to a thousand feet into the sea, and
stand to receive the force of the Atlantic; screen-
ing behind their mighty barriers the loveliest,
warmest, greenest vales and nooks; for Kingsley,
in his romance, which palpitates with the life and
poetry of the great Elizabethan age, and also in that
wonderful piece of word-painting in "Fraser's
on "North Devon," has done this once for all, and
has made this region his own forever, just as truly
as Sir Walter Scott has set his signet upon Loch
Lomond, and the highlands of Scotland. Others
come and view these scenes as it were through
them and by their grace. Genius makes all things
it loves its own forever. I was shown among the
woods, the house where Charles Kingsley lived as
a boy, and was brought up to be a rover in these
forests, exploring the sombre ravines, haunts of
the red deer, — fishing the streams, and delighting
in this turbulent ocean that rolls beyond all. I
cannot conceive of a fitter spot to nourish a poet.
How different from meagre Haworth, or flat,
marshy, uninteresting Olney! One part of our
ride back to Bideford was through a deep lane,
where the bank and hedge on either side rose high
NORTH DEVON AND WELLS.
429
above our heads, and the trees fairly overarched
the narrow road. We passed the house of a Mr.
Yeo of Appledore, now a successful retired mer-
chant, who had once been a poor apprentice boy.
Was he of the family of "Salvation Yeo"?
Ilfracombe is the North Devon Newport; but it
is more like Marblehead in Massachusetts, in its
curious rocks and irregular formation. The moun-
tainous rocks, black, twisted, upheaved, and knife-
edged, inclose a small, square, completely land-
locked harbor, where the masts of tiny craft lie
thick together, and into which fumes the sturdy
little coasting steamer, which, with the boats dart-
ing around, make it a lively scene.
The frowning hills about are sharply escarped,
rugged, and broken. Off the rocks the water is
deep sea-green, roaring and breaking with the full
force of the open sea. There is one handsome
villa across the harbor and a pretty modern stone
church; the houses cluster around wherever they
can, dodging the rocks. A picturesque old light-
house, which in ancient Catholic days was a shrine
of St. Nicholas, is a resort of visitors. The "Cap-
stan-road," as it is called, is a noble promenade,
cut around the face of a high precipice, command-
ing an expansive sea-view, and a bold coast-view
of rugged and splintered rocks. Here ladies sit in
snug corners, wrapped up in shawls, while young
gentlemen, equally enveloped and comfortable, read
aloud to them, like a veritable picture of John
Leech. One could never tire of these rocks and
this sea-view.
430
OLD ENGLAND.
The ride from Ilfracombe to Lynton also abounds
in fine views of the ocean opening suddenly be-
tween the green hills; and never more than on
this North Devon coast does one realize the beauty
of the old British name of England-"the sea-
defended green earth." The sea asserts here its
personality it makes itself felt as an element
of Old England's character and history; and
it is everywhere present as a mighty and all-
encircling power, holding England in its em-
brace, claiming it as a child, and shaping by its
ever-present influence the destiny of the English
people.
The road to Lynton is a lonely one, abounding
in deep, short valleys, and, as one approaches the
town, has a character of romantic wildness and
beauty.
Lynton, which is another much frequented place,
is on the top of a huge green cliff, or, it might be
called, mountain, while Lynmouth lies immediately
below at the entrance of the gorge of the Lyn,
where it empties into the sea. I walked down
about the time of sunset into this gorge of the Lyn,
where the sound of the little torrent mingles with
the sea.
The scenery here has been called by
Southey "alpine." The vast bulk of the Lyn cliff,
clad with gloomy firs at the base, caught the bronzed
light of the setting sun, which came out at last
with intense brightness, painting itself in the most
gorgeous colors on the stormy clouds; in front lay
the wildly tossing sea, softening somewhat as the
NORTH DEVON AND WELLS.
431
sun went down, and toward the north west was the
opposite Welsh coast, growing fainter and fainter
in the distance; the strip of pebbly beach at the
mouth of the river sparkled under the great red
rock, and immediately beneath the cliff was moored
a small vessel whose sail hanging idly also caught
the deep crimson light; fishing-stakes ran out into
the water in a wide semi-circular sweep, and an old
square marine tower completed the picture.
This torrent of the Lyn is made of the streams
of the East and West Lyn, which a little further
back make a junction, forming the beautiful rapids
of “ Watersmeet," in the estate belonging to Lady
Herries. The water pouring over innumerable
rocks, makes so many separate jets of milk-white
foam, which is contrasted with the dark luxuriance.
of the overhanging trees, and the profusion of rich
and delicate ferns; every leaf is wet and polished;
rustic bridges here and there help you to ascend
the wild little stream. I followed up the West
Lyn for some way, until the gorge widens, and I
came out under the great Lyn cliff, which on the
west side of the stream is one dense mass of foliage.
Here is a fine clear fall, and gray rocks strewed
about, making the very temple of solitude and of
natural beauty. On returning, one gets a glimpse
of the sea, rimmed in between the sharp slopes of
the ravine.
I will not speak of other excursions which I
made out of Lynton, further into the hills lying
on the edge of the "Exmoor forest" region, and
432
OLD ENGLAND.
about the desolate rocks of this romantic coast; but
no one knows what English coast-scenery is until
he has seen the North Devon shore. It is far bolder
and grander than the opposite southern Devonshire
coast, which is the usual resort of English tourists.
The colors are richer, the cliffs higher and more
grandly precipitous, the sea of a deeper ocean
green, and all the forms of Nature are on a much
larger scale. The hills pile up here in enormous
parapets as they break off suddenly seaward, mak-
ing a long wall of stupendous precipices. And yet
the inland sides of these cliffs, as has been said, are
beautifully rounded with steep slopes and vales of
the richest green. The village of Lynton hangs
suspended on one of these round steep hill-sides,
and the view from the grounds of Castle Hotel is
charming over the long sweeps of steeply sloping
meadows dotted with neat white farm-houses.
What is called the "North Walk" about the
"Lyn-cliff" has been laid out with the boldest skill
and taste. The walk winds around the face of the
crag so perpendicular in places that if one should
fall over he would sink I know not how many
fathoms deep in the green ocean depths. The sea-
gulls wheel fiercely about you as if you were an
intruder in their solitary dominions, and there is
nothing beyond or in sight but the lonely sea.
There are some steep pitches in the road shortly
after leaving Lynton up which one wonders how
even spirited English coach-horses could ever drag
a mail-coach. One passes over the huge slopes of
NORTH DEVON AND WELLS.
433
the Exmoor hill region, abounding in sombre wooded
ravines, with those wonderful glimpses of the sea
every now and then at their narrow openings. The
scenery about the valley of Porlock, in the neigh-
borhood of the wild heathery forest region of
"Dunkery Beacon" mountain, is peculiarly strik-
ing. Dunster Castle is a picturesque village, with
an ancient many-gabled market-house, and the
castle embosomed in foliage. As we passed into
Somersetshire the region grew broader and less
picturesque, but was still very beautiful, with its
green meadows and farm-lands. It is a rich agri-
cultural region. This is the headquarters of the
English gypsies; we encountered a gypsy wagon
and small encampment. We also met a large pack
of hounds belonging to some gentleman of the neigh-
borhood, on their way to or from the field. There
were several "Podgers" and "Todgers" upon the
coach in checked clothes and jockey hats, each with
a little glass in the corner of his eye, and all very
similar, the one to the other, who talked know-
ingly of hounds and hunting; but from something
in the outer man, or the skeptical flings of Kingsley
and the comical suggestions of Leech, one could
not help having his suspicions about the profundity
of their experience as bold followers of "St. Hu-
bert," on the combes and wilds of Exmoor.
At Bridgewater we struck the Exeter and Bris-
tol Railway. At this town of Bridgewater, the
unfortunate Duke of Monmouth was proclaimed
king, and met his defeat at Sedgmoor, three miles
28
434
OLD ENGLAND.
:
distant. A little higher up I took the branch road
off to Glastonbury and Wells.
The city of Wells, which we now visit, has a ro-
mantic situation on the southern slope of Mendip
Hills, twenty miles equi-distant from Bath, Bristol,
and Bridgewater. It takes its name from the an-
cient well dedicated to St. Andrew, which rises.
within the Episcopal grounds, and runs through
the city down the sides of the principal streets in
clear sparkling streams.
There is no place which, taken altogether, pre-
serves a more antique air of tranquil seclusion than
Wells. In the precincts of Chester Cathedral, and
at many other points in England, there broods the
same antique calm, but here the whole place is per-
vaded by this reposeful spirit of the past; and this
culminates in the neighborhood of St. Andrews'
Cathedral, the Bishop's palace, the old moat, the
conventual buildings, and the three venerable gates,
or "eyes," as they are called, of the Cathedral
yard. The moat about the Bishop's palace, over-
hung by a thick curtain of aged elms mingled with
ivy, growing like a warrior's crest upon the high
turreted interior walls, and reflected in deep shadows
in the smooth dark mirror of the water, has a thor-
oughly feudal look, which is heightened by the
drawbridge over the moat, and the frowning castel-
lated gateway. How strange the state of society
when a Christian bishop lived in such jealously
armed seclusion, behind moated walls and embat-
tled towers! What a commentary, this very name
NORTH DEVON AND WELLS.
435
of "the close!" One of these old bishops was
himself a famous fighting character, who, at the
age of sixty-four, commanded the king's artillery
at the battle of Sedgmoor. Among the bishops of
Bath and Wells were Thomas Wolsey, William
Laud, Thomas Kerr, and George Hooper. Bishop
Beckington seems to have been the great architect-
ural benefactor of the city itself. He built the two
great gateways, the Bishop's palace, the “Pennyless
Porch," which still bears his arms of the beacon and
tun, and the market hall, in which the infamous
Jeffries sat, and pronounced sentence upon the
wretched followers of the defeated Duke of Mon-
mouth. Within the quiet area of the "Bishop's
close" are the ruined and lordly remains of the
"Old Hall." One tall, slender, turreted fragment
stands entirely by itself, and is wound tightly around
by the clasping arms of the ivy that strive to hide
its loneliness and decay. In the garden are shrubs
and trees of "curling acacia," "Glastonbury thorn,"
cypress, and Turkish oak; while great clumps of
lilies perfumed the air. The view from the walls
of the broad meadows in front of the "close
on which cattle were feeding, and laborers making
hay, and the green wavy Mendip Hills with the
Glastonbury Tor and the Dalcot Hill in the distance,
was more than prettily English and rural, — it was
beautiful, in the rich light of that glowing autumn
afternoon. And there, too, near by, were the three
great square towers and the ornamented bulk of the
Cathedral.
""
436
OLD ENGLAND.
The Cathedral of St. Andrew was built upon the
site of a still more ancient church founded by Ina,
king of the West Saxons in 704. It also goes
back to a remote antiquity, for its choir and nave
were rebuilt in the middle of the twelfth century.
The central tower, which is the noblest and most
finished part of the structure, is of the early Eng-
lish style to the roof; the upper part is of the Dec-
orated, with a mixture of the early Perpendicular
styles. It has an elegant appearance from its rich
pinnacles, and is of a softened and gray tint. Be-
ginning to show signs of sinking, it was raised in
the fourteenth century, and was strengthened by
the introduction beneath it of inverted buttressing
arches, which give to the interior a strange effect.
These arches, architecturally considered, are un-
doubtedly blemishes, but they are on such a vast
scale, and so bold in their forms, and yet so simple,
that they do not take away from the plain gran-
deur of the interior. They are quite Oriental or
Saracenic. The top of the eastern window is seen
bright and glowing over the lower part of the upper
arch. The west front, two hundred and thirty-
five feet in length, has two square towers, with a
central screen terminated by minarets, and is di-
vided into distinct compartments of eight project-
ing buttresses; all of these projections and recessed
parts are covered with rich sculpture and statu-
ary, of which there are one hundred and fifty-three
figures of life-size, and more than four hundred
and fifty smaller figures. In the nine ascending
*
NORTH DEVON AND WELLS.
437
tiers of sculpture pieces, one may trace, it is said,
the successive order of subjects in the "Te Deum"
of St. Ambrose: "The glorious company of the
apostles praise Thee. The goodly army of the
prophets praise Thee. The noble army of mar-
tyrs praise Thee," &c. The last tiers end with
the representation of the Resurrection and Final
Judgment. These statues, contemporaneous with
the time of Nicholas Pisano, and the early pre-
raphaelite artists, have the same purity and eleva-
tion of expression, and the same simple unadorned
majesty, that belong to that period of sacred art.
It was an earnest, childish, but sublime way of
praising God, by attempting thus, step by step,
with laborious and unwearied effort, to carve in en-
during stone the ascending plan of human redemp-
tion. Let us not deride this simple expression of
ancient faith which served doubtless for ages to help
ignorant minds to spell out Divine truth on this
great rough stone primer, while the living Word of
God was kept from the people through misplaced
awe, or worse, spiritual despotism. The doors of
this magnificent west front are universally consid-
ered to be too small, and this is the chief fault
of the building. The other most striking features
of Wells Cathedral are the Chapter House and
the Ladye Chapel. The first of these, on the rear
of the church, is an octagonal structure with pin-
nacled buttresses at each angle. It is approached
from the interior by a worn staircase of twenty
steps of noble architectural design. Among the
438
OLD ENGLAND.
grotesque carvings that line the staircase, I remem-
ber in particular one queer old figure with a staff,
or rather crutch, thrust in a dragon's mouth, sup-
porting a column. While thus holding up the Ca-
thedral with his head and hand above, and choking
a writhing dragon beneath, he looks smiling and
unconcerned as if it were an every-day affair with
him, as indeed it is. The whole church abounds in
these old sculptures, little demoniac figures with big
heads, faces with enormous fish mouths, old men
with packs on their backs, and angels with huge
armfuls of flowers. They seem to let one into the
interior chambers of fancy, the imaginative work-
ings of the human mind in the dark ages. All these
forms and faces, even to the stern "gargoyles" on
the roof, have a simple earnestness, as if they were
not meant to be frivolous or irreverent, but were the
glimpses of natural fancies, protesting doubts, vain
fears and poetic hopes, thrusting themselves through
the awful rigid system of religious terrorism under
which the mind was crushed. I have no doubt the
carvers and masons worked on each according to
his own mind, without much definite guidance or
pattern-drawing from the superior architect, except
in the general plan. Here one man has left the
record of his remorse, and another of his aspiration,
and another of his homely English wit and shrewd
common-sense morality. The Chapter House is
unexcelled for splendor, lightness, and simple maj-
esty. From the central clustered column spring
the series of intricate but harmonious traceried lines
NORTH DEVON AND WELLS.
439
of the ceiling, each meeting in the ball-flower orna-
ment overhead.
From its eight painted windows, this room is
flooded with richly colored lights. The Ladye
Chapel affords a fine perspective of pillars near its
entrance, though it is not so remarkable as the
Chapter House for beauty and boldness. The ceil-
ing is newly gilded, and the choir, too, has a fresh
new look with its modern tiles and brasses.
Wells Cathedral, on the whole, is distinguished
for a dignified but rich simplicity, arising from its
plain large surfaces, mingled and edged here and
there with fine-cut and elegant ornamentation.
The court and buildings of the Wells Theological
College have a thoroughly quaint, old-fashioned
look, quiet, rigid, and mediæval; as if the students
reared there could not but be Churchmen of the
"brother Ignatius" stamp, gentlemen, scholars, and
- priests. I cannot leave Wells without speaking
of the two splendid "cedars of Lebanon" stand-
ing in the environs of the church. They are not
very tall, but they sweep the ground majestically,
and grow in a series of broad heavy masses of foli-
age, gracefully undulating in their outline. Would
that I might carry away from this ancient city and
from its noble temple of Praise, something of the
high and angelical spirit which is breathed in the
good Bishop Ken's familiar "morning hymn:
"Awake, lift up thyself, my heart,
And with the angels bear thy part,
Who all night long unwearied sing
High praises to th' eternal King.
440
OLD ENGLAND.
"Lord, I my vows to Thee renew:
Scatter my sins as morning dew;
Guard my first springs of thought and will,
And with Thyself my spirit fill.
"Direct, control, suggest this day,
All I design, or do, or say;
That all my powers, with all their might,
In Thy sole glory may unite.”
CHAPTER XXIV.
GLASTONBURY AND THE WYF.
WE come now to the legendary portion of Old
England, where it is enveloped in the dim mists
of mingled ecclesiastical and heroic fables. The
region about Glastonbury is the seat of the earliest
traditions of the English Church, going back almost
to apostolic days; and with these, the armed heroic
forms of King Arthur and his " Knights of the
Round Table," are strangely blended, with half
childish and half poetic glory upon the picture.
Glastonbury meant originally, it is said, "Isle
of the Glassy Water;" and it was also called
"Avalon," or "Avilion," thus alluded to by Ten-
nyson in the "Morte d'Arthur: "
"To the island-valley of the Avilion;
Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow,
Nor ever wind blows loudly; but it lies
Deep-meadowed, happy, fair with orchard-lawns,
And bowery hollows, crowned with summer sea."
To this peaceful Eden of rest King Arthur was
gently borne over the lake, after his grievous
wound in fighting with the traitor; and, lost for
ages to the sight of men, he is here at length to
reappear among men, for the glory of his native
land.
442
OLD ENGLAND.
Here, in all probability, was really the scene of
the earliest home of Christianity in England, al-
though myth and fable make it difficult to come at
the truth of history.
The story is, that while Glastonbury was still an
island, hidden amid the marshes and thickets of a
vast morass, a company of pilgrims from the Holy
Land, led by " Joseph of Arimathea,” landed on
the western shore of England, somewhere in North
Wales; and journeying on south, through the wild
and rugged land, they at length stopped here, and
established themselves as a religious community.
Mrs. Jameson thus relates the legend: "Some
hold that when Philip, one of the twelve Apostles,
came to France, he sent Joseph of Arimathea with
Joseph his son, and eleven more of his disciples
hither, who with great zeal and undaunted courage
preached the true and lively faith of Christ, and
when King Arviragus considered the difficulties
that attended their long and dangerous journey
from the Holy Land, beheld their civil and inno-
cent lives, and observed their sanctity and the
severities of their religion, he gave them a certain
island in the west part of his dominions for their
habitation, called Avalon, containing twelve hides.
of land, where they built a church of wreathen
wands, and set a place apart for the burial of their
servants. These holy men were devoted to a
religious solitude, confined themselves to the num-
ber of twelve, lived there after the manner of
Christ and his Apostles, and by preaching con-
+
GLASTONBURY AND THE WYE.
443
verted a great number of the Britons who became
Christians."
Joseph planted his staff as a sign that they had
reached a place of fixed abode after their weary
wanderings; the staff immediately took root, and
like Aaron's rod budded and flowered. The vis-
itor is still shown stocks descended from the "Holy
Thorn" of Joseph of Arimathea, which is said to
differ from the common hawthorn but in one re-
spect, that it blossoms amid the snows of winter
at Christmas time!
Succeeding the humble wattled dwellings of the
earliest missionaries, and the ruder Saxon struct-
ures, at length a great abbey arose, one of the
most complete, wealthy, and famous in all Eng-
land, as its present ruins amply testify. It was in
its prime a religious establishment of magnificent
power and riches. It acknowledged no jurisdiction
to Rome, but looked solely to its own metropolitan
bishop of Caerdon-on-Uske, claiming that its au-
thority was derived direct from the Holy Land
and the Apostles. The remains of its edifices, for
solidity and majesty, are assuredly unsurpassed by
any of the ruined abbeys of England. Tintern
Abbey is more beautiful, and Fountains Abbey
has possibly more of its walls still standing, but
Glastonbury Abbey is superior to all in massive
grandeur. Some of its walls are very high and
solid still. The original church, whose outlines
are distinctly marked, measured from the end of
St. Joseph's Chapel on the west, to the Retro or
444
OLD ENGLAND.
Ladye Chapel on the east, is five hundred and
ninety-four feet in length. Two of the piers which
supported the central tower of the nave are stand-
ing, with parts of the great arch, towering ragged
and weed-fringed against the sky. There is some
beautiful carving of oak leaves about one of the
side-doors of the choir. The walls of "St. Joseph's
Chapel" are almost entire, strong Norman work
of the time of Henry II. at the end of the twelfth
century. Two of the small square towers that
stood at the angles are still almost perfect. With
their vertical lines and pyramidal pinnacles, they
have an elegant look. The exterior walls of the
chapel, with their simple round mullioned windows,
projecting piers, and vertical side lines, ending in
bow-kneed intersecting arches, together with the
deeply recessed and rich portal adorned with the
chevron moulding, have that austere majesty which
despises feeble external ornament, and which is so
characteristic of the masculine Norman style.
the grandfather
Many kings were buried here,
of Constantine the Great, Edmund the First, Ed-
gar and Edmund Ironsides; and here, if ancient
chronicles are true, King Arthur himself was
buried. Camden says that Arthur's tomb was dis-
covered with a leaden tablet above it in the shape
of a cross, with this inscription :
"Hic jacet se-
pultus Rex Arthurus in insula Avaloniæ."
other English chronicler (Fabyan's Chronicle, p.
81,) gives this account of his death and burial :
"Whenne relacion came to Arthur of all this trea-
An-
GLASTONBURY AND THE WYE.
445
•
son wrought by his neuewe Mordred, he in all
haste made towarde Brytaine, as it is redde in the
Englysshe Cronycle, and landed at Sandwyche,
where he was mette of Mordred and his people,
which gaue vnto hym stronge batyll in tyme of his
landyng, and loste there many of his knyghtes, as
the famous knyght Garvain and others; but yet
this notwithstandynge Arthure at length wonne
the lande, and chaysed his enemyes, and after the
enteryng of his cosyn Gawyn and other of his
knyghtes there slayne, he sette forwarde his hoost
to pursue his enemyes.. Mordred thus beying
ouerst of his vncle at the see side, withdrew hym
to Wynchester, where he beying furnysshed of
newe sowdyours, gaue vnto Arthure, as saith Gau-
fride, the second fyght; wherein also Mordred
was put to the worse and constrayned to flee.
Thirdly and lastly, the sayd Mordred faught with
his vncle Arthure beside Glastynberry, where after
a longe and daūgerous fyght Mordred was slayne,
and the victoryous Arthure wounded vnto the
deth, and after buryed in the vale of Aualon, be-
side Glastynberry beforesaid."
This same chronicler thus speaks of his exploits :
“Arthure faught xii. notable bataylles agayn the
Saxons, and of theym all was victoure. This noble
warayour, aś wytnesseth holy Gilda, slewe with his
owne hande in one daye, by the helpe of oure Lady
Seynt Mary, whose Picture he bare peynted on
his shelde, c. and. xi. Saxons; whiche shelde he
called Pridwen, his sworde was called Caliboure,
446
OLD ENGLAND.
and his spere was called Rone after the Brettysshe
tunge or speche.'
>>
Still another old writer, Geraldus Cambrensis,
speaks with great particularity of the opening of
Arthur's tomb in the reign of Henry II.; the cof-
fin itself was made of the hollowed trunk of a tree;
the bones were of great size; and the skull bore
marks of the fatal wound. In 1189, the tradition
is, that the tomb of Queen Guinever was also
opened, and that her yellow hair, nicely braided,
was found unchanged. True or false, these tradi-
tions are exceedingly interesting, and seem to give
some ground of substance to the shadowy legend-
ary age of England's British kings. Nowhere are
the myths more beautiful, nowhere more simply
heroic, nowhere more sweetly tinged with the ro-
seate light of a dawning Christianity, before which
the gloom of Druidic Paganism was beginning to
flee away, than those which cluster about Glaston-
bury, and this ancient vale of Avalon. In these
walls, King Arthur with his "pendragon-crest,
often entered, weary and worn from "roving the
trackless realms of Lyonesse." Here he was met
and entertained with solemn ceremonies, grave
courtesy, and learned discourse of holy men, telling
him of more glorious wars, and of the way to win
a higher crown. So, at least, we will think. Yes,
to us, Arthur is "flos regum gloria regni." Other
great kings and. heroes there have been, but he it
was who founded the mighty Table : —
:
GLASTONBURY AND THE WYE.
447
"But I was first of all the kings who drew
The knighthood-errant of this realm and all
The realms together under me, their Head,
In that fair order of my Table Round,
A glorious company, the flower of men,
To serve as model for the mighty world
And be the fair beginning of a time.
I made them lay their hands in mine and swear
To reverence the King, as if he were
Their conscience, and their conscience as their King,
To break the heathen and uphold the Christ,
To ride abroad redressing human wrongs,
To speak no slander, no, nor listen to it,
To lead sweet lives in purest chastity,
To love one maiden only, cleave to her,
And worship her by years of noble deeds,
Until they won her; for indeed I knew
Of no more subtle master under Heaven
Than is the maiden passion for a maid
Not only to keep down the base in man,
But teach high thought and amiable words,
And courtlinesse and the desire of fame,
And love of truth, and all that makes a man.'
A figure far more distinct and no less powerful,
though of an earthlier and more passionate mould,
is the formidable shape of St. Dunstan, who lived
in the reign of King Athelstane, grandson of Al-
fred, in the tenth century. He was a monk of
Glastonbury Abbey. In his lonely cell, his harp,
touched by invisible fingers for his solace, breathed
the hymn, "Gaudete animi."
He also (so goes
the ancient chronicle) once heard the angels sing,
"Peace to the lande of Englysshemen.
He had moreover at Glastonbury his famous tussle
with the arch-fiend, and by a sharp cauterizing pro-
cess quickly routed him. He rebuked kings boldly
448
OLD ENGLAND.
for their vices, and brandished before the unsubmis-
sive the lightnings of the Church. He was ora-
tor, poet, artist, painter, skillful artificer in metals,
making great improvements and additions to the
organ. He became Primate of the English nation,
and died in Canterbury, A. D. 988.
Glastonbury Abbey was a Benedictine brother-
hood. The Benedictines, the best of all the mo-
nastic orders, established themselves in England
about fifty years after the death of their founder in
543. Oddly enough, nothing now survives to tes-
tify to their higher virtues or more important
achievements, but the Abbot's Kitchen, a singu-
lar structure with high octagonal, pyramidal roof,
crowned with a double lanthorn, and the Abbot's
Stable, with some interesting carvings still clinging
to it; these are the only buildings that now remain
entire. In the kitchen are four huge fire-places at
the four angles. Pigs and cattle roam unmolested
about it, and sometimes go grunting into it, troubled
with no sense of alarm, or with ghosts of ancestral
martyrdoms.
I went to the summit of Tor Hill, a remarkable
eminence of steep rounded green, surmounted by
the tower of ruined St. Michael's Church. Upon
this hill the last abbot of Glastonbury, Abbot Whit-
ing, was hung for resisting the authority of Henry
VIII.; and the proud Abbey of Glastonbury, with
other great religious houses, fell with him. At the
foot of this hill is a mineral spring, now almost
GLASTONBURY AND THE WYE.
449
choked up and deserted, which was celebrated for
its healing qualities from the earliest antiquity. To
this venerable spring, according to Hollingshed,
King Arthur was brought to be healed of his
wounds; and during the greatness of the monas-
tery for ages, the sick from all parts of the king-
dom resorted hither for cure.
In this region of Somersetshire, wandering amid
its woods and caves, a veritable royal hero, who
belongs to authentic history, the English Alfred,
spent the days of his darkness and exile when
he was driven from his throne by the Danes.
Legends also cluster about him. One day in the
depths of a forest, while his scanty followers were
absent in search of food, as he was engaged in
reading a book, a pilgrim met him, and asked alms
of him in God's name. The king lifted up his
hands toward heaven and said, "I thank God, who
of His grace assisteth this poor man this day by an-
other poor man." He then called his only remain-
ing servant, who had but one loaf and a little sip
of wine, and bade him give half to the poor man.
This poor man partook of the refreshment and sud-
denly vanished. The night following, the same
man appeared to him in a vision clad in full bish-
op's robes, and said: "I am Cuthbert, the pilgrim
to whom yesterday you gave both bread and wine.
I am busy for thee. Remember this of me when
it shall be well with thee. To-morrow strong help-
ers shall come to thee; by whose help thou shalt
subdue thine enemies.' This was the same Saint
""
29
450
OLD ENGLAND.
Cuthbert, to whom Alfred afterward gave posses-
sions in land and money, for the founding of Dur-
ham Church, which was dedicated to this saint.
Shortly after this event men flocked to Alfred from
the regions round about. He himself entered the
Danish camp in the garb of a minstrel, discovered
the weak points of his enemy, and with his little
host of Somersetshire, Wiltshire, and Dorsetshire.
men, routed the Danes in battle, and began his
victorious course to the recovery of his kingdom.¹
Alfred's division of time is worthy of our contem-
plation at this day. He divided the day and night
into three parts, if not interrupted by war or busi-
ness. Eight hours he spent in study; the other
eight he spent in prayer and deeds of charity; and
the other eight hours he spent in sleep, nourish-
ment of his body, and the affairs of his realm.
This order he kept by waxen tapers tended by
persons appointed for this purpose.
""
Returning to Bridgewater, I went from thence
on to Bristol to spend the Sabbath. I attended
divine service the next day, as I had done many
months before, at the "Brethren Chapel of
Messrs. Müller and Craik, in a neat but unpre-
tending stone edifice, very plain within, with broad
galleries occupied mostly by the children of the
1 The familiar story of the spoiled cakes belongs also to this place
and period. The old Latin verse in which it is embalmed has been
translated into genuine Somersetshire dialect: -
"Carn thee mind the keaks, man, an doosen zee 'em burn,
I'm boun thee 's eat 'em vast enough az soon az tiz the turn."
GLASTONBURY AND THE WYE.
451
"House of Faith," dressed simply, but not in a
manner to make them look so distressingly plain,
as does the homely uniform of some English be-
nevolent institutions. Mr. Craik the preacher, the
"alter ego" of Müller, a man with a fine intellect-
ual face, spoke extemporaneously to a devout con-
gregation, all following his Scriptural allusions in
their Bibles, and all singing fervently together.
Mr. Craik's sermon was upon 66
Joseph, as the
type of Christ." No type, he said, was an exact
counterpart of what it typified, but presented con-
trasts as well as correspondences. He dwelt upon
one of these contrasts in particular, that Jacob
did not know what would befall his son when he
sent him forth on his errand; nor did Joseph
himself know what was in the future when he
went to seek his brethren in the wilderness with
a message of peace; but our Almighty Father
knew perfectly, and still ordained in love, what
would befall his Son, when he went forth from his
bosom to suffer for the redemption and peace of
men. In the course of his remarks he had occa-
sion to speak of each event of life, the most minute,
being under the guidance of God. Here his faith
broke out in an earnest and elevated strain.
represented all things as bound together in one
framework of harmony; that the smallest part
had its place and fitness in a mighty whole of ar-
chitectural order and magnificence; every thing
touched upon, balanced, and sustained its neighbor,
in this great plan of God which soared far out of
He
452
OLD ENGLAND.
our feeble sight. In every trial and temptation let
us remember this, and the time would come when
we should see the order and the perfection of the
finished whole. His language was plain and nat-
ural, adapted to the understanding of children. I
heard no finer single sermon in England, more orig-
inal, beautiful, or spiritual. It is pleasant to me to
carry away from a foreign land these mementos,
these golden fragments. They seem precious be-
cause we have gathered them on another soil, and
found the same truth at Athens, at Rome, in Eng-
land, in America.
The Communion Service was administered in the
simplest way, and was not overstrained but affec-
tionate and free, without losing its sacredness. A
brother arose after the communion, and recalling
two or three of the most affecting parts of the dis-
course, gave out a hymn. Mr. Craik then spoke
of a woman who had died the previous week, draw-
ing with a few happy strokes a fine Christian char-
acter, and then asked all to unite in prayer to
thank God that he had given his faithful one rest
and the crown. There was, as it seemed to me,
something of the simplicity of the old apostolic
times, in all the services; no scenic effects, but a
true Christian pastor feeding the people with the
bread of life, and finding a loving response to every
word he spoke in the faces of his flock, especially
in those of the children. The Spirit of Christ was
surely in that place.
I have had the privilege of joining in prayer and
GLASTONBURY AND THE WYE.
458
praise with all kinds of Christians, with High and
Low Churchmen, with German Lutherans, with
Moravians and "Plymouth Brethren," with Ameri-
can Methodists, with Independents and Baptists,
with Irvingites and those who look for the second
coming of Christ, with Quakers and Roman Cath-
olics, with Greek and Armenian Christians, with
men of many different languages and races, with
Copts and Syrians, with some whom I consider in
the main errorists, and I may say that with much
of human vanity and error in them all, I have
found in all that in which I could heartily unite,
and more real piety and faith than I was worthy tô
participate in; and I will enjoy the thought, that
there is more of the Spirit of Christ on earth than
many good men think; more of the truth of the
one living Lord sown deep in the sorrowful hearts
of men, which shall at some time spring up in im-
mortal light from the dark earth. Let us at least
so hope.
Mr. Müller preached in the afternoon a dis-
course upon the 5th chapter of Luke. He gave
great life to the explanation of Scripture. He was
a rich and thoughtful exegete. "Depart from me,
for I am a sinful man," was an expression, he said,
not of true faith. The good man, Peter, learned
better afterward. The Saviour pushed off in a
boat from the shore in order to be better heard.
He did not do a miracle when it was unnecessary.
The net brake, but it was only to denote the mul-
titude of fishes, not to show that any should be lost.
454
OLD ENGLAND.
The disciples caught nothing before, because they
did not work under the direction of Jesus; they
did not put down where he commanded. Every
occupation, plan, and work of man, to be truly
successful, must be done under the direction of
Christ, in union with his will, from love to him,
depending upon his power. Nothing was too small
for this, not even fishing. How much more in
trying to do good to the poor, ignorant, and
vile, — in trying to be fishers of men.
The most careless must have been struck with
the calm and transparent purity of his thoughts;
they seemed to flow forth from a heart that was
in union with God's Spirit and Word.
Chepstow, in Monmouthshire, near the mouth
of the Wye, just across the head of the British
Channel from Bristol, is the starting-point for tour-
ists who visit Tintern Abbey, and other points
of interest in this lovely part of Wales. It is a
neat town picturesquely situated on the abrupt
bank of the river, with the ruined castle of the
famous Clare and Pembroke families still tower-
ing above it, though now but a mere shell and
shadow of its former strength. Strongbow, Earl
of Pembroke, was the real founder of this family,
and was the first Englishman who succeeded in
making permanent conquest in Ireland. He made
himself for a while an independent monarch of a
considerable portion of Ireland, and ruled by the
right of the stronger.
The castle wears even now a massive and defi-
GLASTONBURY AND THE WYE.
455
ant look, somewhat in the Alnwick Castle style,
especially its frowning front, flanked by two lofty
towers. The chapel, in almost utter ruins, has
still some good carving. A little to the west of the
castle there is a noble view of the valley of the
Wye, and of the curve of the river holding in its
arm the beautiful Piercefield estate, with its ro-
mantic scenery and walks. In this castle one of
the regicide judges, Harry Marten, was confined
twenty years; and Jeremy Taylor was, for a short
time, kept here as prisoner of state. One of its
lords in the time of the wars of the Rebellion,
man of thought in those times of action, was the
Earl of Worcester, who was the author of “The
Century of Scantlings," and whose original and
penetrative genius anticipated many of the most
important inventions of modern times.
a
The scenery of the Wye, though not so bold as
some regions, is to my mind as lovely as any to be
found in England, and indeed in some respects it is
of surpassing loveliness. The rugged grandeur
of the Welsh mountain landscape is here quite
softened down, but it still forms a high and shad-
owy background of the picture. The wooded hills
on either side are of lofty rounded forms breaking
off in high cliffs upon the stream, though here and
there receding and affording space for broad green
meadows along the banks of the river, which winds
with rapid flow among the hills, solitary and yet
not lonely.
The scenery of England, compared with that of
456
OLD ENGLAND.
Italy, has been rightly called "sober," but it is a
soberness in which there are touches and gleams
of high ornamental beauty. It is like the soberness
of a Doric temple with its decorated frieze and in-
tervals of rich exquisite sculpture. This delicious
scenery of the Wye, with here and there in every
part of the kingdom such little silver-footed streams
as the Dove, the Wharfe, the Trent, the Fowey,
the Tamar, the waving and gentle outline of the
hills, the unparalleled sheen of the grass, the bright
northern lakes and the bosky combes of Devon-
shire, and everywhere the low cottage and village
church hid in foliage and flowers, with the gray
ruin clothed in green, and now and then a great
park of venerable oaks, some of them a thou-
sand years old, with sweeping glades of clean-
est and smoothest lawn, and thrown about all a
delicate veil of continual mist that softens and
heightens each noble feature, this makes Old
England a strong and chaste home of freemen, a
beautiful northern temple, which we would ever
honor as the home and shrine of our ancestral
virtue.
There are few villages upon the banks of the
Wye, but there is everywhere a charming rural
sweetness and quietness, with great variety of
scenery, now broad stretches of shining river
reflecting the tinted woods, and now narrow vales
embosomed in high walls of richest green. The
view from Wyndcliff rock is indeed something
more than simply beautiful; and, as an exceptional
feature, it merits almost the epithet of sublime.
GLASTONBURY AND THE WYE.
457
It commands a view of nine counties. Nearly a
thousand feet below is the rushing stream, with the
rich vale and lovely Piercefield meadows, and at a
distance to the south and west clear across the
Gloucestershire peninsula the sea-like Severn is
seen high on the horizon, as if it were suspended
midway in the heavens; while to the north are
rolling hill and thick forest, and the dim mountains
of Glamorganshire. The scene has been called
tropical, as if it were upon some great African
river with its vast stretches of distance. This is
partly just. There is certainly something pecul-
iarly magnificent both in its land and water pros-
pect. It forms a splendid introduction, or natural
frontispiece, to the pensive glories of Tintern
Abbey.
This fine ruin stands in a valley, or nearly at
the foot of a side hill, at a curve of the river. Its
situation is beautiful, and it appears far more per-
fect at a distance than it really is, for it is in fact
but the vast frame of a building, rather than a
building itself. It is now a temple wholly open to
the elements, and paved with the greensward.
Four of its high sharp-pointed gables remain, over
and around which the ivy has gathered in opulent
profusion. Indeed, nowhere, with the exception
of Kenilworth, have I seen such an enormous
growth of ivy, such huge knots and tree-like
trunks, resembling the clustered pillars that they
climb up, sending out their serpentine arms that
wind over the loftiest wall, and hold the whole
458
OLD ENGLAND.
ruin in tight embrace. Especially about the in-
terior north window, and the west end on the
outside, are great masses of ivy, bulging and pend-
ulous, covering entirely with folds of dark drapery
the rugged sides of the old masonry. The ivy has
left, or been trained to leave, the noble west
window clear, so that its delicately traceried lines
stand out in relief against the sky. The carving
here and there is as sharp as if done yesterday. In
the open nave, of two hundred and twenty-eight
feet in length, most of the clustered columns are
standing, and the two east and west windows, twice
as large as the windows of Melrose Abbey, and
nearly perfect in their stone-work, make one mourn
that so much is left, and yet that all is hopeless
ruin.
But, as I have said before, these old English
abbeys could not be more beautiful in their prime
than in their decay. Nature has claimed them
and tried all her art to possess them entirely. She
has wound her mantle about them, and hung her
banners over them, as if to say, "Though man has
left you I make you mine, and adorn you with
my best." The broken shadows of window, sharp
peak, and jagged wall, the immense fragments of
columns and masonry, the massive drapery of ivy,
the long architectural perspectives of nave and cross
aisles, the sombre recesses, the gleams of pathetic
beauty in this stern decay, the tender blue sky
above and the green natural turf beneath, the
spirit of repose that breathes through this desolate
GLASTONBURY AND THE WYE.
459
abode of an older faith, form a poem of subtle
power.
One of the gems of the building is the door of
the cloisters on the left of the north aisle, its
wonderfully preserved mouldings showing what
Tintern Abbey once was. It was a monastery of
the Cistercian or White Monks, founded by Walter
de Clare, a relation of the Conqueror, in 1132, in
expiation, it is said, of great crimes and a wicked
life. Probably most, if not all, of the present
structure was erected later, by Roger Bigod, Earl
of Norfolk, in the last part of the thirteenth
century.
Tintern Abbey is, by the road, five miles from
Chepstow, and about the same distance from Mon-
mouth.
In the town-house at Monmouth stands the
statue of Henry V., and in the ruined castle near
by he was born. This is one of the worst pre-
served ruins in the kingdom. When I saw it, it
was used as a vegetable store-house, and part of it
was a pigsty. There was a pile of dirty straw in
the grand fire-place, and heaps of turnips in another
recess. But it is still a formidable looking old
Norman keep, with a water-gate on the river.
St. Thomas' Church, while small in size, yet
with its recessed doorway, round windows, and
curious diamond-tiled bell-tower, impressed me by
its picturesque quaintness. Geoffry of Monmouth's
study window is shown, overlooking the church-
yard. It is he who gives us the story of King
460
OLD ENGLAND.
Arthur-the English Herodotus, whose simple
and confiding genius leads him beyond the bounda-
ries of sober history.
The hills lie around encircling the plain which
widens out quite commandingly here, forming the
place where two streams meet. On the whole,
Monmouth pleased and surprised me, and is fit
to be the birthplace of the hero of the "flaming
beacon" lighting on to great deeds; though the
fact is a surprising one, that his fellow-towns-
men seem to prize good turnips better than past
renown.
At the "Beaufort Arms Hotel," I met with two
English gentlemen who aided me greatly in my
touring investigations, and I must say, that as a
tourist I have always obtained from English fellow-
travelers the most courteous response, and every
aid that could well be given, leading sometimes
to considerable personal inconvenience on their
part.
Having sated my reader of late with ruins, I
will leave Raglan Castle without wearying them
with much additional description. Its heavy mac-
chiolated towers and antique gateway, on the beau-
tiful morning that I saw it, with the fine and
delicate air, answered exquisitely, to my thinking,
to the entrance of Macbeth's Castle. The red-
breasted birds hopped around almost tame. It was
lonely and silent. The dried leaves of autumn
dropped noiseless in the moat. With the exception
of the janitor, the only life seemed to be the birds
GLASTONBURY AND THE WYE.
461
and swans. The walls of the ruined keep are
enormous. The view from its top down into the
hollow shell of the castle, and the great cavernous
spaces, was worth going far to see; and he who
visits England without seeing Raglan Castle, Tin-
tern Abbey, and the river Wye, does not know
what beauty there is in Old England.
From Monmouth I went on by coach ten miles
to Ross, the road following the river, which was for
the most part shut in by high hills, passing the
Leys House estate, charmingly situated on a broad
straight stretch of the Wye, and then losing sight
of the river for a while until a little beyond Good-
rich Castle, we came upon it again at Goodrich
Hope Ferry, four miles or so from Ross.
The farms here were very fine, splendidly culti-
vated, and dotted over with great symmetrical hay-
ricks. This is said to be the best wheat land in all
England.
Ross is situated on a hill-side overhanging a
broad meadow, and so completely intersected by
the winding Wye, like a crescent or letter C, that
the town could not have possibly stood in the val-
ley if it had been desired to place it there. Here,
in the principal church, the "Man of Ross is
buried; and the old market - house which he
founded stands just opposite the house, not now
existing, where he lived.
“Behold the market-place, with poor o'erspread,
The Man of Ross divides the weekly bread."
""
This is a pleasant, comfortable, agricultural town,
462
OLD ENGLAND.
a place where it would seem, if anywhere, plenty
and contentment might perpetually dwell; and
with this happy and home-like vision on the banks
of the silvery Wye, mingled with the thoughts of
charity and peace, I bid my reader a hearty Eng-
lish "Good-by."
INDEX.
A.
Alfred, and St. Cuthbert, 449; his
division of time, 450.
Alnwick, town of, 220; castle of,
220, seq.
America, and England, 141, seq.
Arnold, Dr., his home at Rugby,
84; as an educator, 88, 91; me-
morial window at Rugby school
chapel, 91; monument of, at
same, 91; his home at Fox How,
193, 194.
Arreton, 355.
Art, in London, 42, seq.
Arthur, King, burial-place of, 444.
Augustine, Apostle of England,
315.
B.
Bakewell church, 174.
Bangor, 4, seq.
Barnstaple, 424.
"Battle Abbey,” 224.
Battlefield church, 16.
Beckenham, 305.
Becket, Thomas à, 313.
Bemerton church, 350, 351.
Berry Head, 379.
Berwick-on-Tweed, 219.
Berwyn Hills, 14.
Bettwys-y-Coed, 13.
Bideford, 424; bridge of, 425;
pebble-ridge" at, 425.
Bilton Hall, 85, 86.
Bolton Priory, 232.
Bonchurch, cemetery, 340.
Botallack mines, 414, 415.
Bowness, 189.
Bradford, Gov., 249.
Brading, 337, 338.
Brewster, Elder, 244, seq.
Bridgwater, 433.
Bright, John, 37, 38.
Brighton, 326, 327; climate of, 328,
329.
Bristol, 118; Sunday at, 450.
British Museum, 41.
Britannia Tubular Bridge, 7, 8.
Brixham, 378, 379.
Broadmead chapel in Bristol, 120,
121.
Brontë, Charlotte, home of, 237,
238; genius of, 239.
Brontë, Rev. Patrick, sermon by,
238.
Brougham, Lord, 39, 40.
Brunel, his genius, 373.
Butler, Bishop, tomb of, 119.
Bushy Park, 77.
Buxton, 177, 179.
Byron, Lord, at Matlock, 165;
where he wrote "The Corsair,'
118; recollection of, 258; tomb
of, 258; England slow to re-
adopt his memory, 260; statue of
at Trinity college, Cambridge,
269.
C.
Birmingham, entrance to, 17; Caernarvon Castle, 8, 9.
"Punch in, 19.
Blenheim, 111, 112.
Cambridge University, its situa-
tion compared with Oxford, 266;
464
INDEX.
Trinity col., 266, seq.; St. John's
col., 270, seq.; Trinity Hall col.,
273; Caius col., 273; Clare Hall
col., 274; King's col., 275;
Queen's col., 275, 276; St.
Peter's col., 276; Pembroke col.,
277; St. Katharine's col., 278;
Corpus Christi col., 278; Mag-
dalene col., 278; Jesus col., 278,
279; Sidney Sussex col., 279,
280; Christ's col., 282, seq.; Im-
manuel col., 284; Downing col.,
285.
Canterbury, 312; cathedral of, 313,
seq.; charities of, 316; "catch-
club" of, 317, 318.
Canute, at Ely, 262.
Capel Cerrig, 12.
Carisbrooke castle, 334.
Castleton, 180.
Cathedrals, English, number of,
124; lowness of, 160.
Chad's, St., walk at Shrewsbury,
15.
Chalk, region, 319, 320.
Chatterton, 119, 120.
Chaucer, house of at Woodstock,
112.
Cheltenham, 115.
Chepstow, 454.
Chester, 1.
Cinque Ports, 224.
Clovelly, village of, 426; " Hobby
road" at, 426; Court, 427.
Coal, in England, 150; probability
of its exhaustion, 147, 148.
Coleridge, his room in Jesus col-
lege, 279; his home at Keswick,
212; his alleged plagiarisms,
213, 214; his tomb at Highgate,
215, 216.
Colliers, 145, 150, 151.
"Commercial travelers," 345.
Commons, House of, 34, seq.
Copper mines, 392.
Cornwall, little visited, 389; scen-
ery of, 390, 391; primitive peo-
ple of, 398; land of pagan relics
and legends, 409; mines, 392,
seq.; miners, 394, 395; prayers
of Cornwall miners, 420.
Corwen, 13.
Cotton, John, 250.
Coventry, 23, 24.
Cowper, William, his house at Ol-
ney, 94, 95; memories of, 96,
97.
Craik, Rev. Mr., sermon by, 451.
Crich, 172.
Cricket, playing, 78.
Cromwell, Oliver, at Cambridge
University, 280; portrait of at
Sidney Sussex college, 281.
Crosthwaite church, 217.
Cumming, Dr., 66, 67.
Cumnor Hall, 113.
Cuthbert, St., shrine of at Dur-
ham, 225.
D.
Darling, Grace, 219.
Dawlish, 373, 374.
"Decorated style" of architecture,
158, 160.
Dee, river, 3, 14.
De Quincy, charges against Cole-
ridge, 213.
Derby, 162.
Derbyshire scenery, 161, 163.
Derwentwater, lake, 208, 211.
Devonshire cattle, 362, 363.
D'Israeli, 38, 39.
Dorchester, 361.
Dover, 321, 322.
Dudley Castle, 144.
Dunmail Raise, 205.
Dunstan, St., 447, 448.
Dunster Castle, 433.
Durham, 223; cathedral of, 224,
seq.
E.
"Early English," style of archi-
tecture, 133, seq.
Edward, the Black Prince, his
tomb at Canterbury, 314.
Elegy in a country churchyard,"
70, 71.
Ely, cathedral, 262, seq.
England, scenery of, 455; Sunday
in, 185, seq.; intemperance in,
23, 24; reform in, 140, 141; holy
ground, 293; influence of the
sea upon, 430.
INDEX.
465
English railways, 1, 2; hotels, 4,
5; cities, finished character of,
19; unsociability, 26; garden,
76; muscle, 78; character, 100,
seq.; suspicion, 105, 106; hedge,
110, 111; cemeteries, 113; farms,
113; piety, cheerful type of, 167;
preaching, 61, 63, 187; inns,
names of, 318; pronunciation,
318; fox-hunting, 363; horses,
364.
Established Church, present posi-
tion and influence of the, 68, 69;
worship of the, 69.
Esthwaite, lake, 191.
Exeter, 364; High Street of, 365;
cathedral of, 366, seq.; services
in cathedral, 368; bishop of, 371;
scenery about, 372.
F.
Farn Islands, 219.
Farringford, 342.
Folkestone, 323.
Fonthill Abbey, 354.
Fountains Abbey, 231, 232.
Fox How, 193.
G.
Glastonbury, its original meaning,
441; early home of Christianity,
442; "holy thorn" of, 443; ab-
bey of, 443, 444, 448; burial-
place of Arthur, 444, seq.
Gloucester, 128, 129; cathedral of,
124, 126.
Godiva, Lady, 24.
Grasmere, 202.
Gray, Thomas, at Cambridge,
70.
"Greta Hall," 211, 212.
H.
"Haddon Hall," 172, seq.
Hall, Rev. Newman, his preach-
ing, 66.
Hall, Robert, 121, 122.
Hampton Court, 72, seq.
Harrowgate, 229, 230.
Haworth, 233, seq.
Helvellyn, 207.
Herbert, George, story of, 350;
tomb of, at Bemerton, 351.
High Church, movement, 421, 422.
Holman Hunt, his picture of
"Finding Christ in the Tem-
ple," 51.
Hooper, Bishop, scene of his mar-
tyrdom, 129.
Hop-growing, 310, 311.
I.
Ilfracombe, 429.
Ives, St., in Cornwall, 398.
J.
John, King, his tomb at Worces-
ter, 136.
Keighley, 233.
K.
Ken, Bp., his "Morning Hymn,"
439.
Kenilworth, 23.
Keswick, vale of, 208; town of,
211, 212.
Kew Gardens, 81, seq.
Kingsley, Charles, his home at
Eversley, 308; his church at
Eversley, 310; spirit of his writ-
ings, 309; painter of North
Devon scenery, 428.
L.
Lake country, 189, seq.
Lamb, Charles, memories of, at
East India House, 33, 34.
Landscape painting, in England,
46, 47.
Landseer, Sir Edwin, 48.
Land's End, drive to from Pen-
zance, 407, seq.; appearance of
in a storm, 412; scene from, 413;
"vicar of," 416, seq.
30
466
INDEX.
Lea Hurst, home of Florence.
Nightingale, 168.
Leamington, 20.
Leslie, Charles Robert, qualities as
a painter, 48, 49.
Lichfield, 152; cathedral of, 156;
seq.
Lincoln, 282; cathedral of, 252,
seq.
Lincolnshire, its Dutch scenery,
252.
Liverpool, 1.
Llangollen, 14.
Llugwy, vale of, 13.
Lodore, falls of, 210, 211.
Logan stone, 409, 410.
London, overpowering at first
sight, 25; parks of, 26; paradise
of literary men, 27; view from a
London bridge, 28; old churches
of, 29, 30; points of special in-
terest in, 31, seq.; "East India
House" in, 33, 34; the best way
to see. 40.
Longfellow, estimation of, in Eng-
land, 131, 132.
Lyn, cliff of, 430; "water's meet"
of the Lyn torrents, 431.
Lynton, 430.
M.
Malvern hills, 136.
Marazion, 401.
Market Drayton, 15.
Marsh, Miss, home of, 305; her
appearance, 306; her source of
influence, 306.
"Martyr's memorial," 293.
Matlock Bath, 163, 166; prices at
Matlock Bath Hotels, 164.
Maurice, Rev. F. D., his preaching
and theology, 64, seq.
Melville, Rev. Henry, 63, 64.
Menai Strait, 6, 7.
Michael's Mount. St., 399; the
ancient Ictis, 402, 403; earliest
historic point in England, 403;
view from, 404; allusion to, in
"Lycidas," 405; Bowles' sonnet
upon, 405.
Milton, John, at Christ's college,
Cambridge, 282, seq.; monu-
ment of, in St. Giles' church,
London, 29.
Monmouth, 459.
Mount's Bay, 400.
Müller, George, sketch of, at Bris-
tol, 122, 193; sermon by, 453.
N.
Names, in hill countries, 192.
Newark, 255.
Newcastle-upon-Tyne, 223.
Newman, Dr., his convent at Bir-
mingham, 17, seq.
Newstead Abbey, 260.
Newton, John, his church at
Olney, 96.
Noblemen's estates, 138.
Norman architecture, 126, seq.
North Devon, scenery of, 432.
Northwick, Lord, his picture-gal-
lery at Cheltenham, 115, seq.
Olney, 93, seq.
0.
"Old Sarum," 356, 357.
Ouse, river, 94, 95.
Oxford, 285; "Commemoration
Day" at, 285, seq.; buildings
of, 289: New col., 290; Exeter
col., 290; Brasenose col., 290,
291; Oriel col., 291; Queen's
col., 292; Christ Church col.,
292; education at, 294, 295.
P.
Paley, Dr., birthplace of, 261.
Pendeen, 415.
Penmaen-bach, 4.
Penmaen-mawr, 4.
Penzance, climate of, 399; serpen-
tine stone works at, 400; prim-
itive character of, 401.
"Perpendicular style," of archi-
tecture, 275.
Peterboro', cathedral of, 261.
"Peveril of the Peak;" 179; castle
of, 181.
Pilchard-fishery, 397.
INDEX.
467
"Pilgrim Fathers," who they
were, 247.
Plymouth, its harbor, 382; Royal
Hotel at, 388.
Portsmouth, 332, 333.
Primogeniture, English law of,
139, 140.
"Punch," in Birmingham, 19.
Puritanism, 250.
R.
Raglan Castle, 460.
Raikes, Robert, 129.
Railway literature, 132, seq.
Redruth, 391.
Ripon, 230.
Richard III., 128.
Richmond Hill, 81.
Richmond, Leigh, at Isle of Wight,
338.
Robertson, Rev. F. W., at Brigh-
ton, 329, 330; memorial window
of at Oxford, 291.
Robinson, John, 246, 247; his words
at Delft Haven, 248; writings
of, 249.
Rome, ancient, rule of in Britain,
321.
Romsey, 344.
Ross, 461, 462.
Shakspeare's Cliff," 322.
Sherwood Forest, 257.
Shrewsbury, 15.
Singing, congregational, in Eng-
lish churches, 69.
Skiddaw, Mt. 208, 211, 212.
Snowdon, Mt. 10, 11.
Somersetshire, land of legends,
448.
Southampton, 333.
Southey, Robert, his home, 212;
his grave, 218.
Spurgeon, Rev. Charles, his char-
acteristics as a preacher, 51, seq.
Staffordshire, coal-region of, 17.
Stillingfleet, burial-place of, 136.
Stoke Pogis, 70, seq.
Stonehenge, 357, seq.
Stowell, canon Hugh, 187.
"Strawberry Hill," 79.
Sunday-school, festivities, 166,
167.
Swallow, cataract of the, 13.
T.
Tennyson, his home at Farring-
Teignmouth, 375.
ford, 342.
Thames, fountain - head of the,
118.
Rugby, town of, 84; school of, 87, Thirlemere, lake of, 206.
90.
Russel, Lord John, 37.
Rydal Mount, 194.
Rydal Water, 201.
S.
Tin-mines, 396.
Tintern Abbey, 457, seq.
Torbay, 378.
Torquay, 375, seq.
Trent, valley and river of the,
255.
Troutbeck vale, 192.
Salisbury, 346; cathedral of, 347, Tunbridge Wells, 325.
seq.
Saltash, 385.
"Sanford and Merton," author of,
154.
Scott, Dr. Thomas, his house, 99,
100.
Scrooby, 241; manor - house of,
242; church of, model of N. E.
churches, 246.
Severn, river, 15, 16.
Shakspeare, scene in his church,
20, 21; authorship of his plays,
22.
Turner, J. M. W., as a painter, 43,
seq.; first mountain drawing of
233; at Mt. Edgcumbe, 385.
Twickenham, 80.
Tyndale, William, canon of Christ
Church college, Oxford, 293.
U.
University, the English, vital
principle of, 296: scholarship at,
297; moral tone of, 298; genial
468
INDEX.
spirit of, 298, 299; government
of, 300, 301; Fellowships in, 302,
303.
V.
Vane, Sir Henry, 281.
Venerable Bede, 225.
W.
Warkworth Hermitage, 222.
"Water-colors," painting in, a
peculiarly English art, 49, 50.
Watling street, 311, 319.
"Wealden Beds," 325.
Wells, situation of, 434; tranquil
air of, 434; bishops of, 435; ca-
thedral of, 436, seq.
Welsh, mountain scenery, 10, seq.
West, Benjamin, 48.
Weston Underwood, 96, 97.
Wharfe, river, 232.
White, Henry Kirke, 256, 257.
Wichnor Park, 153.
Wight, Isle of, 334, seq.; Caris-
brook castle, 334; Arreton
church, 335; home of "Dairy-
man's Daughter," 336; San-
down, 336; Brading, 337, 338;
Undercliff, 339; Bonchurch,
340; Ventnor, 339; St. Law-
rence church, 341; Farringford,
342.
William, the Conqueror, his wast-
ing of the land in Yorkshire, 228;
his remorse, 228.
Winchester, 331; cathedral of,
331.
Windermere, lake of, 189, 190.
Wingfield Manor, 171.
Wilton, 355, church of, 354.
Wilton House, 352, seq.
Wolsey, Cardinal, at Hampton
court, 73; at Scrooby, 242.
Worcester, cathedral of, 132, 133,
136.
Wordsworth, William, his appear-
ance, 195; his indignation at
American repudiation, 195: his
sister, 195; his egotism, 196; the
priest of Nature, 196; a Christian
man, 197; his philosophy of Na-
ture, 198; his love of humanity,
199, 200; a poet of progress,
201; his grave, 204.
Wye, river in Derbyshire, 172;
river in Monmouthshire, scenery
of the, 455.
Wyndcliff, view from the, 456.
Yeovil, 361.
Y.
York, 228, 229; cathedral of, 229.
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