Ci^rHEDRAL • DMS
a- tour • in -southern
e:-igl/\nd

ANNA • bowman • DODD

"I give ihtft Baoki'
for the founding nf a. CoHige, oi tM^ Catony'^

Bequest of
EDWARD BEMENT, '70

1932

CATHEDRAL DAYS

Frontispiece.

CATHEDRAL DAYS

A TOUR IN SOUTHERN ENGLAND

BY

ANNA BOWMAN DODD
AUTHOR OF " THREE NORMANDY INNS," " ON THE BROADS,"
"glORINDA," "sTRUTHERS," ETC.

HlustrattB from Sftetcijes anU pijntograirfjs
BY
E. ELDON DEANE

NEW EDITION

BOSTON
LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY
1899

Copyright, 1887,
By Roberts Brothers.
Copyright, 1899,
By Little, Brown, and Company.
Ait rights reserved.

?anibcrsttg J^reas :
John Wilson and Son, Cambridge, U.S.A.

Betiuatfon.

To SiLVIE, OF SOSIEGO,
THE FRIEND FOR HOLIDAYS, AND ALL
OTHER DAYS.

New York, 1899.

NOTE.
The names of the various Inns mentioned in the
text are mainly fanciful, and for obvious reasons.
The frequent changes of both management and name
of hotels or hostelries would make any attempt to
guide a traveller inevitably misleading.
A. B. D.

CONTENTS.

Chaptek Page
I. The Pro.ject  7
II. Arundel .  13
III. Slindon AND Bognor  47
IV. Chichkster  . .68
V. Goodwood  .... 94
VI. Farehaji. — Waltham.~The Valley op
THE ItCHEN  110
VII. Winchester  . 135
VIII. A College and an Almshouse .... 161
IX. HUKSLEY AND ROMSEY AbBEY . . . . 190
X. Salisbury  . 214
XI. Stonehenge. — Warminster. — Longleat.
— Frome . ... 247
XII Bath  . .274
XIII. The Drive to Wells. — An Enchanted
Night ... . . 298
XTV. Wells, an Enchanted City . . 314
XV. To Glastonbury ... ... 344
XVL To Exeter  366
XVII. Farewell to Ballad  386

ILLUSTRATIONS.

Exeter Guildhall  Frontispiece
Arundel Castle  14
Old Parochial Church, Arundel  34
Chichester Cross  74
Chichester Cathedral  82
Old Sculptures, Chichester ... . . 90
Old Houses in Close, Winchester .... 142
Winchester Cathedral. . . .... 144
Chantries, Winchester  156
St. Cross Hospital  i8o
RoMSEY Abbey, Transept and Nave  206
Nun's Door, Romsey Abbey  210
Salisbury .  214
Salisbury Cathedral, from the Cloister . 232
Gateway to Cathedral Close, Salisbury . 244
Stonehenge  254
Longleat House   262
Old Roman Baths, Bath  292
Bishop's Palace, Wells Cathedral  332
Wells Cathedral, from Moat -  338
Wells Cathedral, from the Wells ... . 342
Arch, Glastonbury  357
Tithe Barn, Glastonbury  364
The Nave, Exeter Cathedral  382

CATHEDRAL DAYS.

CHAPTER L
THE PROJECT.
/""ANE night in London, in the crowded latter
^-^^ end of June, a small number of us were
sitting under the quiet stars, in a certain friend's
charming garden, after a long evening of pleasure.
There had been music and talk and laugliter, into
the small hours, in tlie great studio, from whose
open windows a few of us had stepped forth, at
the bidding of our host, into the coolness and
fragrance of the night. We sat under tlie trees
near a trickling fountain, whose liquid voice at
first was the only one which filled the sweet night
air; but soon, through puifs of smoke, others
joined in its babble. The talk drifted into that
closer, more intimate form of conversation which
midnight and summer in conjunction so often in
duce. It was an hour for confidences. Caught

o CATHEDRAL DAYS.
in this embrace of night, with London hushed
and still, and only nature stirring in mysterious
whispers, each of us in turn had been involuntarily
betrayed into an avowal of his personal plans
or desires. The talk, in a word, had come to
have something of the charm and something also
of the intimacy of the confessional. One had
proclaimed his approaching nuptials ; another her
forthcoming book, — almost as great a venture ;
a third had expressed his secret desire to run
away from life and hide himself behind the
Rockies or under the shadow of the Pyramids ;
and still a fourth confessed to his having only
recently signed a Mephistophelian bond to do
that very thing, to go forth into the Great Desert
and to bring back somiething of its desolation
and its grandeur in verse.
Boston and I, having some years ago settled
our mutual destiny, having no book in view and
no tragic sense of unrest, could only add the
comparatively tame and commonplace avowal of
our modest purpose to run away from the world,
but only so far as English lanes and by-paths. This
announcement was the signal for a simultaneous
attack, for an explosion of advice. If there is

THE PROJECT. »
any one thing a friend thinks he can interfere with
righteously, it is another man's plans, — after they
have all been settled and made.
" Of course you '11 coach it," briskly said the
nearest man, in a tone as if to settle the matter.
" Go alone ? Just two of you ! Absurd ! You '11
die of ennui. Make up a party."
" Only, whoever you ask, don't make it a party
of more than six, and don't take more than two
ladies," — this from a deeper tone amid the shad
ows of the foliage.
" You are entirely right," cried a third, under
one of the farther palms. " I never knew more
than six to get through a trip without trouble. One
can get along with two women, but more — "
Then a laugh went round, which died into the
trickle of the splashing fountain. Suddenly some
one else puffed out a great volley of smoke, and
began again.
" And don't take luggage. Send it on by train.
It's a wretched nuisance, always slipping about,
and it fags the horses."
" Why go in for England ? " broke in a new voice ;
" it 's beastly tame. The Tyrol 's the best driving,
and you get at least a bit of drama in your scenery, —

10 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
peasants in costume, and all that. England has n't
any scenery."
" It has cathedrals," I ventured to suggest.
" Oh ! cathedrals — well, so has France. Now,
there's Normandy and Brittany. No one's done
that yet on four wheels, and it 's crammed full of
architecture." "Horrible waste of time, — England ! "
Whereupon Boston assured the company, that,
not being an Englishman, he found it impossible
to agree with them ; that at least before con
demning the country, he proposed to know some
thing of its beauties and defects, and further
courageously avowed our intention of " doing it "
in a much humbler fashion than from the throne
like elevation of a coach. And would it be best to
hire or buy our modest little trap ?
Whereupon there was a chorus of disapproving
comments. " Oil, you'll liave to buy, out and out."
" Horse '11 go lame, sure to, if you have only
one." " If you don't take a servant, who is to look
out for you, — for your horse and your luggage ?
Oh no, the thing is n't feasible. Coaching 's the

THE PROJECT. H
only safe or comfortable way. Now, I know a
man — " And the voice went on, with admirable
zeal and kindliness, to dilate on the advantages to
be derived from an acquaintance with this latter
individual. But better even than this kindly meant zeal was
an invitation from one of the older gentlemen to
run down to his country-house in Kent on the com
ing Sunday, and talk the thing over quietly.
The subject was canvassed to such purpose that
we ended by putting ourselves completely in our
wise friend's hands. He decided that we were to
depend on local traps, taking a horse and carriage
from one town to another. The inns all along
our proposed route, which was to include the
southern cathedral towns, were admirable, and
the roads were perfect. As for scenery, while
lacking perhaps the wider horizons and the ro
mantic character of the Northlands, Southern Eng
land was delightfully diversified along the coast by
sea and land views, and the towns were charm
ingly picturesque. Altogether, our friend having
travelled over his own country, knew it and loved
it. He bade us God-speed with a smile prophetic
of our coming enjoyment. We were to go by train

12 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
from London to Arundel ; and thence, from that
most beautiful of the Sussex towns, we were to
start forth on our six weeks' driving-tour.
Inside of twenty-four hours we were on our way
to the Sussex Downs.

ARUNDEL. 13

CHAPTER IL
ARUXDEL.
A RUNDEL might be, and doubtless was, the
^ most beautiful of the Sussex towns ; but as
we had confided to each other before we left Lon
don, we should only stop there long enough to hire
a horse and trap. It would be a capital place from
which to start.
But Arundel itself had decided quite differently.
It was a charming little town, — a fact of which it
appeared to be almost humanly cognizant. Like
all beauties, conscious of its attractions it resented
being used for purposes of mere utility. Was
Arundel, forsooth, with its grassy banks and its
lovely river, its fascinating old Elizabethan streets,
its splendid castle, and its bran-new cathedral, to
be thus snubbed by two impertinent transatlan
tic travellers ? Was it to be debased to the level
of a livery-stable ? Arundel, fortunately, was a
thousand years older than these young American

14 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
upstarts. She knew a trick or two. She had
not gone on fascinating all England for centu
ries past, without having learned every art that
belongs to a consummate coquette. As for these
young Americans, she would make short work of
them. And she did. First, she presented us at the
railway-station with a huge bouquet. We could
even have our choice of three. There were the
masses of poppies, dyeing the meadows with their
scarlet flames ; there were the fragrant trim hedge
rows, as odorous as a bride's garland; and there
were also the low, sweet-flowering river-banks.
These floral offerings were accompanied by a
smile. She leaned over the hill, and shot it down
at us over the thick-clustering roofs and chimneys,
from the very citadel of the huge and noble castle
itself. Alighting at the neat, bright Arundel station
was, in a word, like being dropped into the midst
of a blooming garden. What with the odors
and honeysuckle perfume, the dashing sparkling
river, the town running up the steep hill to the
castle's turreted walls, the rustic setting of the
outlying farms, the velvety hills covered with

H<
o 3Q
<

ARUNDEL. 15
browsing sheep and brilliant-skinned cattle, — an
enchanting vision of summer and of picturesque
beauty appeared to have stepped forth to greet us.
" I think, perhaps, Boston, we might stop over
one day," I remarked, as we drove through the
streets of the town to our inn.
" Yes ; it would be a pity to miss seeing the place,
now we are here. There seems to be a good deal
in it, after all," Boston replied, quite as if we had
arranged it with our imaginations to find it inter
esting from the outset.
The glimpses which we caught of the town on
our drive up the steep High Street were of the
fragmentary, incomplete order peculiar to such ap
proaches. We had a confused sense of meadows,
of houses closely packed together, of distant vistas
of a vast park with the downs beyond as a back
ground, and of the great castle's turrets, these
latter making admirable bits in perspective along
the crest of the hillside.
Our experiences with the true life of the town
began with the entrance into our inn.
Quite as a matter of course, we had our choice
of two. To have only one inn in a town, and that
one good, would make the path of the traveller too

16 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
smooth. A rival establishment is always started,
apparently, on the principle that one's enjoyment
in this world must be made as difficult and as com
plex as possible. Equally, of course, there being
two inns, whichever one we chose it would follow
that we would regret our choice and repentingly
wish we had gone to the other. The Bridges Inn —
which wc had decided against, moved by the higher-
sounding Norfolk Arms' title — presented, we found
as we passed it, an alluring combination of charms.
It stood in an attitude of bewitching grace on the
river-bank, looking out upon the meadows, the cas
tle, and the downs, through windows embowered in
blooming vines.
But once inside of the Norfolk Arms, we knew
that happily our first choice had been the right
one. The chiefest among the excellences of the
Arms was that it stood in the very centre of
the little town, on High Street. The neighbor
hood was of the most distinguished, as only a
Frenchman knows how to say it. We discovered
at once that the Norfolk Arms was nothing if
not an aristocrat. In assuming the name of the
famous family whose castle walls almost adjoined
those of its ambitious namesake, the Arms had

ARUNDEL. 17
evidently made up its mind to maintain the family
reputation for dignity and virtue. It announced,
at the very outset, a higli-bred indifference to or
nament which was too obvious to be unintentional.
Its external austere simplicity was the protest of
the aristocrat against the plebeian aids of pic
turesque accessories. A single large golden clus
ter of grapes hung, it is true, from the sign-board ;
but this was the only concession to the popular
but vulgar demand for symbolic parade. The in
terior of this most self-respecting inn was in
keeping with its outward meagreness of decora
tive embellishment. The rooms were large and
spacious, but not luxuriously furnished. There
was a conscious air of respectability about the tall
beds, the stiff upright buffets, and the erect dining-
room chairs, as if to assure the inmates of these
dignified apartments that they were in the very
best society.
W^e discovered that the epitome of the conscious
air of aristocratic rectitude which pervaded this ad
mirable inn was embodied in our waiter. He was
more than a person, — he was a personage. He
appeared to be an individual of high-rank ante
cedents. From the first he gave us to understand.

18 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
by a number of disdainful little ways, that his being
a provincial at all was purely a matter of accident.
This transition had evidently not been effected
without disastrous results on his character : it had
made him a pessimist. He took the darkest pos
sible views of life in general, and of the travelling
public in particular. He appeared, from the start,
to have taken a melancholy view of us and of our
luggage. The compactness and limited number of
our boxes seemed to afflict him with dim forebod
ings both of the transiency of our stay and of the
limitations of our purse. At the end of the second
day, however, we noticed that he had become more
cheerful. " It must have been the dinner we ordered last
evening," said Boston. " If a little thing like that
can raise his spirits, why, we will keep it up. But
he is a gloomy specimen, is n't he ? "
The gloom settled down upon him later the same
evening. It was occasioned by a little obtuseness
on Boston's part. Under the impulse of the knowl
edge that there were a number of interesting places
about and in Arundel which must be visited in the
next few days, and not having as yet either guide
book or map at hand, Boston sought to extract a

ARUNDEL. 19
little useful information from Walters. Boston
was too true an American not to see in every
other man a being born for the express purpose
of answering questions.
" Walters, when is the castle open ? "
" The castle, sir, is never open to visitors.
Only the dairy and the keep, sir, are open. The
tickets can be 'ad 'ere, sir." This was deliv
ered with a commendable alacrity of utterance.
The succeeding questions were, however, answered
with less and less readiness. Later there came a
perceptible deepening of the gloom under which
Walters appeared habitually to endure existence.
Then came a pause all at once in both questions
and answers. During the pause Walters gave Bos
ton's pocket a pregnant glance.
" Oh ! " said Boston in an undertone, his fingers
obeying mechanically the meaning conveyed in this
portentous look. He took out a silver coin. After
its contact with Walters' palm the cloud of his
melancholy appeared to lift for a few seconds.
"What nonsense, Boston, to have tipped him!"
I protested as he left the room. " Can't one ask
a question in England without having to pay for
it?'-

20 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
" It appears not. You saw that I only did what
was expected of me."
" That 's because we are Americans. An Eng
lishman would n't have given him a penny."
" It is Englishmen who taught him the habit,
not Americans. Tipping is a national product.
Every one is tipped in England, from the lord to
the beggar. Only, when it gets into the upper
circles it goes by another name."
I noticed, however, that in spite of Boston's
philosophic acceptance of this national custom,
conversation with Walters, even of the most So-
cratian order of dialogue, having been found to
be expensive, became more and more feeble.
On the following morning we saw such a spec
tacle in the courtyard as made us still more
sensible that certain customs in England are tena
ciously rooted. The cook and two assistants were
busily handling a number of huge joints, which
were suspended on hooks from the inner archway.
This archway was the only mode of egress or in
gress from the inn-door to the street without.
The meats were hanging in full view under the
brick arch, as if it had been a butcher's stall
instead of the neat approach to an inn. I can-

ARUNDEL. 21
not say that there was any dripping of gore, but
there was an unpleasant suggestion of recent bleed
ing under the knife.
" The courtyard apparently is the inn's open-air
ice-chest," I remarked to Boston, after our first
start of amazement.
" No ; it is an original and altogether inexpensive
method of announcing the day's metiu," Boston
replied to my suggestion. Subsequent experiences
resulted in our forming even less favorable opin
ions of the innkeeper's designs upon his guests.
The next morning we noticed that the huge quarter
of lamb had disappeared.
" We had best order the beef to-day, or to-morrow
we shall wish that we had."
" It is altogether the most ingenious method
of enforcing speedy consumption of viands that
was ever invented. Talk of Yankee ingenuity,
indeed ! " answered Boston, in a semi-burst of
indignation. There was, in truth, no escape from the fate which
would befall us in case of a too prolonged indiffer
ence to these mute but terrible appeals to our sense
of economy. There came upon us, at the last, the
grewsome habit of fascinated calculation, as we

22 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
eyed the meats day after day. We could not help
conjecturing how the dampness of one day or the
heat of another would affect their complexions, and
then critically surveying them to see whether their
pink and white had suffered.
This was not the only proof we encountered that
the sensibility of English stomachs is of a different
order from that of American organs. No one else
but ourselves appeared even so much as to glance
at the pendent carnivorous array.
Our large sitting-room window opened directly
on the town's main thoroughfare. One little street,
at right angles with the larger, broader High Street,
seemed to have stepped into our windows, so close
did its houses appear. Our sitting-room windows,
we declared, were thus as good as a stage-box. All
the life and the picturesqueness of the town could
be enjoyed without stirring from the depths of our
easy-chairs. The stage, we discovered on the second
day of our arrival, was charmingly set. The brood
ing quiet had given place to lively activity. The
streets were full of noise and bustle, of a true
holiday clatter and buzz. It was Saturdny, — mar
ket-day ; and from early morning carts .md wag
ons had been standing about in the open square.

ARUNDEL. 23
Wagoners and teamsters were soon out shopping.
The tiny shops in a half-hour were so full that
they were spilling over, country-people swarming
out into the open streets and over the narrow
sidewalks. The charming old Elizabethan houses,
with the rich shadows beneath their deep project
ing eaves, the quaint signs, the diamond-shaped
panes, needed just this mass of rustic life moving
beneatli the window-ledges to give to this pictur
esque frontage this last touch of completeness.
The street itself could hardly have happened twice,
I think, even in England. It began its existence, as
we discovered later, with the bridge which crosses
the Arun. Its progress up the hillside had the
wandering, straying irregularity peculiar to old
Streets which have grown up independent of muni
cipal intention. It ended, at the summit of the hill,
with some towers and turrets whose crenellated tops
were green and mossy among the trees, — these
towers and turrets being only a portion of the vast
corona which adorned the castle's fortified walls.
"We were about to start forth on a visit to the
castle when the sound came up to us from the
street, through the open sitting-room window, of
the scraping of a fiddle. A moment later, snatches

24 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
of song broke forth from a low window directly
opposite. We stopped to listen. There was a mo
ment of hesitation before the song came full and
clear ; for voices, like soldiers, must be thoroughly
drilled to fall directly into rhythmic accord. Then
the song burst out, firm and swelling with the
might of the strong male voices. It was a lovely
bit of part-singing, with sweet minor changes and
full deep bass harmonies in it. Then, after a little,
there were pausings and baitings. The singers ap
parently were at something else besides their sing
ing. We could see, as we leaned out, a group of
men in the house opposite, sitting about a long
table. They were playing cards, and there was a
huge tankard of beer at each man's elbow. I de
voutly prayed that the depth of the tankard might
prolong the length of the song ; but in a few
minutes the song was done. The men came out,
twenty or more in number, — strong, lusty-looking
fellows, with the sun's red seal burnt upon their
faces. They climbed into one of the big wagons,
gave a deep-throated cheer to their hostess, and
were off. The landlady stood looking after them,
with both hands in her pockets, smiling a broad
farewell. Then the little door swallowed her up.

ARUNDEL. 25
" What was that singing over the way ? " T asked
the chambermaid as we passed her on the stairs.
The previous .answers of this neat and most re
spectful of her sex to my questions had not im
pressed me with the belief that she also was infected
with the British habit of turning a passing dialogue
into a financial speculation. She had never failed
to enliven her civility with a smile.
" It's a bean feast, mum."
" A bean feast ? And what is that ? "
" It s the workingmen's outings, mum, — a kind
of harvest feast, mum."
So rural England still played and sang a little!
There was a time, I know, when she sang better
than any one else, — when she could beat the world
in her own line. In the old madrigal days Eng
land was a nest of singing-birds. But I had sup
posed that the cruel fate which overtakes all great
singers had come to her : I understood that she
had lost her voice. It was pleasant to know that
her method had been so good it had survived till
now among its grain and bean fields, if abandoned
by the great.
What was not so pleasant was the braying of a
horrible assemblage of instruments called a band.

26 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
This latter was attached to a trick and monkey
show which had taken its place, early on this holi
day Saturday, at the bottom of High Street. Its
hideous blare of sound had kept the village astir
and abroad for five long hours. Where the crowds
came from that kept the dogs performing and the
monkeys playing their monotonous tricks, and how
an otherwise sane and sensible English village could
endure having its peace and quiet disturbed by such
a roar and din as issued from the cracked trumpet
and the squeaky fiddle, surpassed comprehension.
The band and its torturing music had the perva
siveness of all vulgarity ; it filled the village like
an intolerable presence. We shut the windows ;
but the discords, like jubilant furies, screamed at
us through the key-hole. We sought refuge in the
graveyard at the top of the street, — this at ten
at night, when fatigue and desperation had turned
us loose upon the world, seeking where we might
hide our tortured ears ; but through the darkness
of the night came the blare of that terrible trum
pet, like a yell of some devil cheated out of his
prey. At eleven, finally, the last villager had seen
the last trick, and silence fell, like a great peace, on
the still air. The next morning the great hideous

ARUNDEL. 27
cart had disappeared. It had doubtless moved on
to another suffering village.
" Do you suppose it has gone to Chichester ? " I
asked, in despair, of Boston.
"I presume it has. It's probably doing the
towns, — it is taking its summer tour, as we are,"
was Boston's comforting answer.
" Then I stay where I am."
I take pleasure in warning any unwary traveller
against a similar fate. The name of that trick
and monkey show was Whitcomb's. Whenever he
meets i\Ir. Whitcomb I advise him to take the next
train — if it be for Hades.
It was owing to these and other adventures with
the more homely features of Arundel's town-life,
that we found ourselves too late that afternoon for
a visit to the castle. But the hour was perfect for
an inspection of its battlemented walls. To escape
them, in whatever direction one turned in the town,
would have Ijeen difficult. Such a vast architectu
ral mass as Arundel Castle, implanted in Saxon,
Roman, and feudal military necessities, strikes its
roots deep and wide. The town appeared, by com
parison, to be but an accidental projection on the
hillside. The walls grew out of the town as the

28 CA THEDRAL DA YS.
trunks of a great tree shoot forth from the ground, —
of a different growth, but an integral part of it.
Topographically, Arundel had only a few features,
yet they were fine enough to form a rich ensemble.
There was the castle, huge, splendid, impressive, set
like a great gray pearl on the crown of the hill.
On one side spread the town ; on the other, the
tall trees of the castle park begirt its towers and
battlements. At the foot of the hill ran the river, —
a beautiful sinuous stream, which curved its course
between the Down hillsides, out through the plains,
to the sea. Whatever may have been the fate of
the town in former times, held perhaps at a dis
tance far below in the valley, — during troublous
times when the castle must be free for the more seri
ous work of assault or defence, — it no longer lies
at the foot of its great protector. In friendly confi
dence it seems to sit, if not within its arms, at least
beside its knee. But in spite of these changed re
lations, all the good old prejudices, I fancy, are
not done away with. In spite of certain excited
statements from our socialistic brotherhood, the
castle and the village are hardly as yet on visit
ing terms. Nothing appears easier than the fulfil
ment of these and other specious prophecies, away

ARUNDEL. 29
from the proofs. But somehow, when one looks
up at such a vast and splendid castle as this, im
pregnable as its walls, and contrasts the simple
plebeian little town beside it, one's belief in the
glorious principle of the equality of men dwindles
into pitiful conjecture. One wonders whether, after
all, the castle will not survive these and other agi
tations and agitators, as its very existence is proof
of its power to resist far more formidable sieges.
There is no escaping the conclusion that a duke,
when one is confronted with his castle, does seem a
personage whose state is secure.
The noise and the clatter of the main thorough
fare, and even the long stretch of the castle walls,
we had soon passed, in our walk that afternoon,
reaching the quiet of its upper streets. The princi
pal dwelling-streets of the pretty town run laterally
across the hillside, as if for once even a village
house-builder could prove he knew best how to
stand when he wished to look out upon a picture.
Beneath us, swimming in light, stretched the great
canvas of the open country. Through doorways
and open windows there were enchanting views
framed in old casements and Tudor pilasters. The
eye swept past open doorways into broad halls, with

30 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
their quaint old-time furniture of high-shouldered
chairs and carved settle, straight out to the lovely
Sussex valley, which stretched itself towards the
horizon like an endless carpet, with its inwrought
pattern of waving grain, oaks, and hayricks. With
such pictures to gain, even our best manners were
not proof against the temptation presented by the
tiny diamond-shaped open lattices. The houses
seemed in conspiracy with our impertinence, some
of them standing boldly out on the sidewalk, as if
bent on looking up and down the street. Others
more modest, whose deprecating air of shyness we
respected, retreated behind with demurely drawn
shutters, — timid creatures holding fans before
their pretty faces. There were ancient and modern
stjdes apparent, in the architectural fashions we
passed in review, the gable-roofed Elizabethan and
the broad low Georgian being the most noticeable.
There were also modern reproductions of both, —
very precise and perfect reproductions, which im
posed on no one.
What pleased us even better than the houses
was the human life that they sheltered, and which
looked out at us through the old windows. There
were some fresh, fair faces, that onlv needed ruffs

ARUNDEL. 31
and stomachers to be in admirable keeping with
the ancient architectural setting. Fine last-century
figures, strong-featured, with gentle eyes, ceased
their knitting to glance up, over silver-rimmed
spectacles, at the sound of our voices.
One face we met, which seemed strangely out of
keeping with such surroundings. It was a curi
ously un-English face. It belonged to a man who
was hurrying past us, with a book in his hand, on
the cover of which there was a large gilt cross.
The face was long and dark, clean-shaven, with
deep-set wary eyes, and a sly curve on the full
lips. It needed neither the abba's long fluttering
coat nor its purple lining to tell us it was the face
of a priest. As he neared the great castle gate
way, I saw it open, the keeper within bowing as
the abb^ passed beyond.
I remembered then that the castle was a great
Catholic stronghold, the Dukes of Norfolk being
among the few great families which have remained
faithful, since the Conquest, to the See of Rome.
The present Duke of Norfolk, by reason of the
fervor of his piety, his untiring zeal and magnifi
cent generosity, is recognized as the head of the
Catholic party in England. To learn that he was

32 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
at present on a pilgrimage to Lourdes, and that
such was his yearly custom, seemed to shorten
distance for us. It made the old — its beliefs, its
superstitions, its unquestioning ardor of faith —
strangely new. It invested the castle, which ap
pealed to our consciousness as something remote
and alien, with the reality of its relation to medi
aeval life and manners.
The little cathedral which crowns the hill — the
most prominent object for miles about, after the
castle — is the gift of the present Duke. It is a
pretty structure, pointed Gothic in style, con
scientiously reproduced with all the aids of flying
buttresses, niches, pinnacles, and arches. It was
doubtless a splendid gift. Perhaps in the twenty-
first century, when the weather has done its archi
tectural work on the exterior, and when the interior
has been finely dimmed with burnt incense, when
stained glass and sculptured effigies of saints have
been donated by future dukes, it will be a very
imposing edifice indeed.
But all the beauty of ecclesiastical picturesque
ness lies across the way. Hidden behind the lovely
beech-arched gateway rests the old parochial church.
In spite of restoration the age of six centuries is

ARUNDEL. 33
written unmistakably on the massive square bell-
tower, the thirteenth-century traceries, and the rich
old glass. It is guarded by a high wall from the
adjoining castle-walls, as if the castle still feared
there were something dangerously infectious in the
mere propinquity of such heresies.
It has had its turn at the sieges that have beset
the castle. From the old tower there came a
rattling hail when Waller's artillery flashed forth
its fire upon the Royalist garrison in the cas
tle. The old bells that peal out the Sunday
chimes seem to retain something of the jubilant
spirit of that martial time. There was a brisk
military vigor in their clanging, suggestive of
command rather than of entreaty, as if they were
more at home when summoning fighters than
worshippers. All is peace now. The old church sits in the
midst of its graves, like an old patriarch sur
rounded by the dead whom he has survived.
We were curious to see which church would have
the greater number of worshippers, — how many of
his townsfolk the Duke had managed to hold faith
ful to the Pope. The Ducal influence had, we
found, prevailed over her Majesty's less ancient

34 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
estabhshed church. At the little cathedral there
was, we found on the first Sunday morning of our
stay, a marked Catholic majority. In spite of
the more splendid ceremonial at St. Philip de Neri,
in spite of the pomp of scarlet-robed priests and
the glory of a double choir, in spite of the subtle
intoxication of the incense and the pictorial attrac
tions of burning tapers and flower-decked altars,
it was the simpler, the more earnest worship in
the old church beneath the cypresses that touched
our hearts and made us one with the worshippers.
There was a ring in the responses, and a fervor
in the way the hymns burst forth from the fresh,
strong English throats, drowning the less-meaning
music of the birds twittering at the open door, that
made one know and feel, with full strength of
inherent conviction, just why it is that an English
man is by instinct a Protestant. His religion must
appeal to his understanding ; it must stir his soul.
He is not satisfied with being moved superficially.
He is not poet enough to possess vast perspectives,
or so delicately organized that he can vibrate to
purely sensuous imageries. There is precision
even in the English imagination, as there are
limitations to English sensibilities.

¦¦^sski^ii^fe-;

Old Parochial Church, Arundel.

'age 34.

ARUNDEL. 35
It is good to see, however, that some of the
virtues wliich the Englishman as a Protestant has
prayed for, have come to him. Fresh from London
and the site of Smithficld, it was edifying to see
Catholics and Protestants worshipping, in gentle
amity, within sight of one another. Is it by reason
of the efficacy of their prayers that this grace of
toleration has been borne in upon them, or is it
due to the lesson which the inefficacy of their
mutual roasting has taught them ?
Doubtless both. The prayers made the martyrs,
whose stuff of glorious stubbornness made sizzling
under a slow fire appeal to the economies of the
nation. It must have seemed, at the last, a waste
in kindling-wood. The attempt to roast their re
ligion out of the martyrs was in the end, doubtless,
discovered to be only a more expensive method
of thoroughly baking in their beliefs.
That all the good townsfolk of Arundel had
not been to church on this lovely July morning
might have been inferred from the look of the
sky and the quality of the air, to breathe which
was like sipping perfumed dew.
We ourselves had proof of this backsliding. On
Arundel Bridge there was assembled a congrega-

36 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
tion of open-air worshippers which would have filled
a fairly capacious church.
Arundel Bridge possessed an order of attraction,
we discovered, quite apart from any other feature
of the town. It appeared to be the open-air club-
room, the fashionable promenade, the lounging-place
of the entire population. At whatever hour of the
day one chanced to pass it, there was always to
be found a knot of idlers gathered about its para
pet, leaning on strong elbows, looking out upon
the river life. Even the passers-by stopped, took
a turn at lounging, and chatted for a brief mo
ment ere they went their way. We also had
fallen into this pleasant habit ; as who would not,
with a silver river rippling beneath one, banks
odorous and green above, the town breaking into
charming perspectives, the great castle hanging
overhead, and the Down hillsides rushing tumultu-
ously into the plains ? Besides, close at hand, was
the Bridges Inn. And we liked to be near it, and
watch its prettiiiess and activity, and talk over our
regret at not being there, much as a disappointed
lover nurses his hurt and coquets with his despair.
Perhaps there is more in lounging than the
never-idle dream of. It may be that the idlers

ARUNDEL. 37
form the ideal leisure class, — a class too aristo
cratic to work for knowledge, yet to whom it
comes by sheer force of the long measure of time
at their command. Certain it is, that unless we
had joined these loungers on the bridge we should
never have known so much of the real life and
history of the little town. We should never, for
instance, have discovered, unless our eyes had
proved it to us, that Arundel was a port. Yet
such it is. The river banks are prolific with
signs of unmistakable maritime activity. Ships
we saw, riding in from the sea, looking indeed as
if projected into this inland landscape for purely
operatic purposes of stage grouping. They an
chored along the reedy banks, their cargoes as
gravely unloading as if there were nothing incon
gruous in a full-rigged ship lying at anchor amid
the grasses and poppies of an inland meadow.
It is the river that plays stage-manager. It is
in league with the sea. Old Ocean's strong pulse
throbs its buoyant life through this slender artery.
At noon the river rests, barely breathing in its
swoon of sleep. At morn and evening it rises,
swelling with tidal fury, rushing past its banks
with the zest of an athlete.

38 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
Wherever there is a ship, there are always any
number of men with their hands in their pockets,
and with no visible occupation in life except that of
watching her. Why is it that a man never wearies
of looking at a ship, — as he does, for instance, of
contemplating liis wife or his house or his horse ?
Is it because a ship possesses the ideal feminine
charm, — is never quite to be counted upon, — is
fugitive, illusive, a creature of the winds and the
tides, ever ready to open her white wings and to
sail away from him ? In the eyes of the men
who are given to watching ships and ship-life, one
can detect a peculiar look of intentness, an air
of alertness, as if they were perpetually on the
lookout for the ship which will surely come in.
It is the sea which brings with it this element
of expectancy. It is everywhere the breeder of
expectation and the renewer of hope, as it is the
great mother of energy and ambition.
On this particular morning of our half-hour's
lounging, a little incident occurred to enliven the
quiet and the stillness. A boat was coming up
river with tremendous swiftness. The tide was
flowing inward with the rush of a torrent. The
boat with its four oarsmen was borne along on

ARUNDEL. 39
the wings of the wind as if it had been a feather.
There was no rowing, the men letting the tide do
their work for them. Opposite the Bridges Inn
some skilful steering was done, the boat being
brought up in workmanlike style. For two of the
men to clamber up the iron ladder into an open
window of the hotel, while the other two shot the
boat out, shoving it into the weeds along the banks,
from which it was lifted as if it had been a thing
of paper, and carried up the bank, was but the
work of a few seconds.
" They 're come to breakfast," was the knowing
remark of my next neighbor, a stout villager of
florid aspect, addressing no one in particular.
From the fringe of on-lookers there was no re
sponse, except that the smoking went on a little
more vigorously. After a pause another voice said :
" They '11 be going up stream presently."
There was again a pause, longer than the first.
Then, " It '11 be sport to see 'um," came from a
thin little man with a whistling voice, the whistle
tliat comes through broken or absent teeth.
Another five minutes' silence was finally broken
by a coarser, stronger tone, with solemn accent, as
if there were something grim in the coming fun, —

40 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
" Yes, it will be thot."
Silence fell again upon the little group. Each
man's gaze sank into the flowing river, as if to
plunge anew into the depths of his own reverie.
"How a group of French peasants would have
gabbled!" I said to Boston, as we strolled away
to take a turn in the fields, determining, however,
to return in time for the " sport."
" Yes ; and how they would have spoilt it all !
Their eagerness would have anticipated everything.
Now we have something to look forward to. An
Englishman's silence is dramatic ; it is full of
potentialities," replied Boston, sententiously.
When we returned, in an hour, the knot of vil
lagers had not, apparently, so much as moved. No
one stirred, or even turned his head, as we took
our places silently, — no one, that is, except the
thin little tanner, who readjusted his pipe to the
end of his mouth farthest away from me, in
the fear, presumably, that smoke might be used as
a conversational medium.
In the river below, however, there was life and
stir enough. The oarsmen were busy filling their
boat with baskets of beer and luncheon. It re
quired great care to adjust the baskets rightly ; for

ARUNDEL. 41
the boat was tossing beneath them uneasily, as if
in haste to be gone. In another moment the men
were seated ; a turn of the oars, and they were off.
" The other artch, sur, — the other artch," came
from our neighbors lustily enough now, and al
most in chorus ; for the oarsmen had attempted
to go in under the nearer one. In trying to obey
instructions, they had struck against the stone
abutment. "Your hoar, sur, — your hoar," was again shouted
from the bridge. But the oar was gone ; and so
were they, nearly, for the strength of the stream
was crashing them against the abutment again
and again.
" They hall does that, every one ; they never
gets clear, down yonder," was the complacent com
ment of my neighbor.
" Why not warn them in time ? " I asked, a
trifle indignantly, my sympathies stirred by the
spectacle of the struggling crew.
" Why, mum, they likes it ; it 's what they comes
for, to work a bit." And a laugh went down the
fringe of on-lookers.
Well, if they liked it, they were having enough
of it. All the pulling like madmen was not

42 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
helping to clear them into mid-stream. Finally, as
all pulled together with the force of young giants,
out the boat flew, free and clear. The clever
steering was resumed ; they shot under the arch
like a fljing bird ; there was a vision of a strong
young arm waving a red cap in triumph, of a tawny
mustache bristling in the sunlight, and they were
far off and out of sight.
We ourselves crossed the bridge to gain the
farther side of the river. In a few brief moments
we were among the grain-fields and the farms.
The object of our walk was to get a really satis
factory view of the castle. In our former walks
about the town we had had numberless views of its
walls, turret and tower studded, of bits of its huge
fa9ade and its venerable keep, fitting into the
street corners or rearing their beauty above the
low gal)led roof-tops. But in the town, through
the medium of enclosed streets or through acci
dental openings between chimney-pots, there had
been no chance of seeing the whole in perspec
tive, — as essential for a right viewing of such a
vast architectural mass as Arundel Castle as it is
wise, as a rule, to look on human greatness from
an historical distance.

ARUNDEL. 43
In looking up at the castle from the river, as
a foreground, one has a lovely breastwork of trees,
the castle resting on the crown of the hill like
some splendid jewel. Its grayness makes its
strong, bold outlines appear the more distinct
against the melting background of the faint blue
and white English sky and the shifting sky scenery.
In the river that morning there were brilliant
touches of color, — reflections of the houses, the
castle towers, and the brown and gold of the
meadow, here and there lit up with the flame of
the poppies lining the banks. Beyond, toward the
sea, was the long green line of the plain, the one
line of rest and repose in the landscape. Over all
was the rosy, calm, virile bloom of English health.
The bloom looked out at one through a faint
mist, like a rosy child in the midst of its bath.
The entire scene was suffused with that delicate,
vague, misty veil of light, which imparts to all
English landscape a certain aqueous quality. It
is this moist, ethereal aspect which gives to this
scenery its note of individuality. Earth appears
to be a more soluble fluid than elsewhere, its
outlines melting more easily into the ether of the
atmosphere.

44 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
The earliest Saxon who built his stronghold
where the castle now stands must have had an
eye for situation, pictorially considered, as well
as that keen martial foresight which told him
that the warrior who commanded the first hill
from the sea, with that bastion of natural forti
fications behind him, the Downs, had the God of
battle already ranged on his side. The God of
battle has been called on, in times past, to preside
over a number of military engagements which
have come off on this now peaceful hillside.
There have been few stirring events in English
history in which Arundel Castle has not had its
share. As Norman barons, the Earls of Arundel
could not do less than the other barons of their
time, and so quarrelled with their king. When
the ilagiia Charta was going about to gain sign
ers, these feudal Arundel gentlemen figured in
the bill, so to speak. The fine Barons' Hall, which
commemorates this memorable signing, in the cas
tle yonder, was built in honor of those remote but
far-sighted ancestors. The Englishman, of course,
has neither the vanity of the Frenchman nor the
pride of the Spaniard. But, for a modest people, it
is astonishing what a number of monuments are

ARUNDEL. 45
built to tell the rest of the world how free England
is. The other events which have in turn destroyed
or rent the castle — its siege and surrender to
Henry I., the second siege by King Stephen, and
later the struggle of the Cavaliers and Roundheads
for its possession, during the absence abroad of
the then reigning Earl — have been recorded with
less boastful emphasis. The recent restorations,
rebuildings, and enlargements have obliterated all
traces of these rude shocks. It has since risen a
hundred times more beautiful from its ruins. It
is due to these modern renovations that the castle
presents such a superb appearance. It has the air
of careful preservation which distinguishes some of
the great royal residences, — such as Windsor, for
instance, to which it has often been compared.
Its finish and completeness suggest the modern
chisel. It is this aspect of completeness, as well
as the unity of its fine architectural features, which
makes such a great castle as this so impressive.
As a feudal stronghold it can hardly fail to ap
peal to the imagination. As the modern palatial
home of an English nobleman, it appeals to some
thing more virile, — to the sense that behind the
mediaeval walls the life of its occupants is still

46 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
representative, is still deep and national in im
portance and significance. Pictorially, there is
nothing — unless it be a great cathedral, which
brings up quite a different order of impressions
and sensations — that gives to the landscape such
pictorial effect as a castle. It adds the crowning
element of the picturesque, — that of elegance
combined with grandeur. It also invests the land
with the emphasis and the dignity of a purpose.
English landscape, especially, owes much to its
castles. The land, from its high degree of finish
and the perfection of its detail, would produce, in
the end, the effect of a certain monotony. There
might come the sense of tameness, of too perfect
a prettiness. But its castles are to its dainty
beauty what the figure of a human being is in a
parterre of flowers. The castle is the knight, mail-
clad and with visor drawn, standing amid the
rose-gardens of England. It adds the crowning
dignity of a majestic historical completeness.

SLINDON AND BOGNOR. 47

CHAPTER III.
SLIITDOX AND BOGNOR.
" 1 "HE exact distance between the giving of ad-
vice and the possibility of following it has
never, I think, been properly measured. I presume
one of the reasons why the experienced only ask
counsel in order to reject it is because they have
tested the truth of the axiom that everything goes
by contraries in this world.
How simple a matter, for instance, had it seemed
to our charming friend in Kent, to say, with persua
sive zeal and the assurance born of inexperience, —
" The best and easiest way is for you to depend
on the local traps. There will thus be no respon
sibility, no going lame, and you will have no worn-
out beast on your hands."
How could a man, whose own stables were always
full, know anything of " local traps," indeed, except
from the optimist's point of view, regarding them

48 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
chiefly in the light of the roadster's facile conquest,
as vehicles both easy and pleasant to pass on the
road ? But the driver and owner of the " local
trap " naturally takes a much more serious attitude.
Mankind, from his point of view, is divided into two
classes, — the men who own horses, and those who
don't. The latter are to be numbered among the
dangerous elements of society. The logical infer
ence deduced from the theory of the inherent total
depravity of men not owning horse-flesh is so con
clusive as to be irrefutable. The man who does not
own a horse will quite naturally wish to hire one.
He who hires, secretly hopes to steal. Every man
therefore has in him the instincts of the horse-
thief ; hence ceaseless watchfulness is necessary
on the part of the horse-owner. This is one of
those cases in which it behooves every man to
be his own vigilance committee, policeman, de
tective, judge, and executioner. Civilization has
done much, but in the matter of horse-thieving
the world may be said to be still in the dark
ages. Such were the conclusions forced upon us by our
brief but vigorous attack on the hostlers and stable-
owners of Arundel.

SLINDON AND BOGNOR. 49
Boston returned from two or three interviews
with the livery-men in town with the discouraging
announcement that none of them would trust him
with a horse and carriage. " We never lets out
traps without drivers, sir," he reported as having
been the universal but equally firm answer to his
request for a trap without one. The unanimity of
the response, he admitted, had alone prevented its
wearing the front of a personal reflection.
Here was a difficulty no one had foreseen, yet it
was one which threatened the very life and pleasure
of our little trip.
Take a driver ! Why not take the train and
have done with it ? With a driver, how could we
be sure of having the tamest of adventures, — of
losing our way, for instance, or of asking it of the
people we met along the road, and hearing, instead,
of the crops or the voting? Besides, the driver
would do all the talking. He always does. (Both of
us had secretly sworn to have a monopoly of that
privilege.) A driver, in fact, represented everything
from which we had fled, — the common-place, the
conventional, the world, the flesh, and — that fiend
called discord, that hated third in a duet of harmony.
As we were standing confronting the owner of a

50 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
pony and wagonette in the open square, — one who
really gave signs of distress at not being able to
oblige us, but who was as firm as he was apologet
ically civil, — an inspiration dawned on me.
" You, of course, or your man must go as far as
Chichester by train to bring home the carriage.
You shall take our trunks on with you, and that
will be sufficient guarantee that we have no inten
tion of running away with your horse and trap,
will it not ? "
The man laughingly confessed that it would.
But before entirely committing himself, he con
sulted with half the town, who had come from the
bridge to watch the proceedings. The town had
evidently formed an estimate of our character, —
to our advantage.
In less than an hour the trap stood in view
within the inn courtyard. Our luggage, a few
seconds later, was comfortably packed in the rum
ble, and we were off. The town idlers were still
on watch, as if conscious of having vouched for our
honesty and not entirely willing to lose sight of us.
In view of the distribution of a few discriminating
shillings, they relented their watchfulness, and
melted a little later into the adjacent side-streets.

SLINDON AND BOGNOR. 51
Our route lay first along the river, up into the
hills at the back of the castle, then down again
into the valley to Slindon, and thence toward the
sea to Bognor. In all, the distance was not more
than fifteen miles, and we had before us a perfect
August afternoon.
After a half-hour's drive along the charming
little Aran's banks, we turned with reluctance into
the cool shade and greenness of the hillside road.
Who ever likes to leave a river ? A river in a
landscape is its pulse, its arterial throb of life, the
nearest approach to that ceaseless law of motion
which informs man's own body with vitality. A
landscape, however glorious, without a flowing
river, always seems a bit of nature morte, — a kind
of still-life nature, with no real life in its veins ;
it is a headless, heartless bit of creation, with no
stir of pulseful energy which makes it a part of the
active living forces of the universe. When a river
has the order of attraction which this buoyant,
coursing, turbulent little stream of Arun possessed,
darting like a silver flame into the Down valleys,
or leaping with the audacity of a full-fledged river
into the very bosom of the ocean, it is little won
der that we stopped again and again before we

52 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
parted irrevocably with its changeful aspects, its
flowery banks, its castle-crowned heights, and its
tall hillsides.
The instinctive reluctance with which a man
exchanges even one delight for another, be it ever
so lovely, argues well, I think, for the inherent
constancy of human nature.
Aftei- a steep climb along the crest of a long and
beautiful hillside, from which there was an en
chanting series of delightful views, we came to an
iron gate. Our pony came to an iron stand-still.
Neither whipping nor coaxing proved of any avail.
She was a sturdy little beast, — a " wee brute, sur,
but strong, strong in the legs," her owner had said
at parting, when I had expressed a doubt as to her
capacity for speed under the heavy load she was to
carry. The " wee brute " was strong in something
else besides her legs. She evidently belonged
among the strong-minded of her sex. That fine
decision of character possessed by the owners of
horse-flesh in Arundel appeared, by some occult
means, to have been communicated to the horses
as well.
" Perhaps she is used to the feminine spur,"
I said, as Boston laid aside the whip in despair. I

SLINDON AND BOGNOR. 53
took the reins, and administered that form of en
couragement to the bit familiarly known as " nag
ging." But on this self-willed little creature this
usually most effective method produced no more
satisfactory result than, on occasions, has the
same system when applied to the most perverse
of men.
" She has such an air of being right, it almost
seems as if we must be in the wrong," I argued at
last. " Suppose this gate does lead somewhere, —
where we ought to be going ? "
" The gate was not in our list of directions,"
Boston replied.
" But since we are in search of adventures, why
not see where it will lead us ? " And we did. It
led us into the prettiest bit of road we had yet
seen in Arundel. The road was through the upper,
remoter regions of the park known as the Deer
Park. Tliis particular portion of the vast estate
lay at a distance from the castle. It was a great
open, formed of a series of short hills, covered
with thickets and noble trees and long stretches
of grazing-ground. Herds of deer, hundreds in
number, stood grouped under the trees, or, startled
by our voices, bounded over the grass.

54 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
Distant as were these glades and silent bits of
wood from the garden loveliness of the grounds
immediately about the castle, the impression which
the aspect of the landscape produced was unmis
takably that of its being a great nobleman's park.
There was visible none of that rank and lawless
wildness and disorder one sees in our own great
untrimmed, untressed fields and forests. There
was about us the most penetrating solitude, but
there was no touch of desolation in the loneliness.
There could be no sadness where on every field
and bush the evidences were so obvious of man's
persistent efforts. Nature, in this remote and un
frequented region, had been carefully pencilled into
beauty during the long centuries. The grass was
still a lawn, although the castle was a mile or two
away. It was, in other words, a king's possession,
where even uninhabited and disused lands were
kept as trim as a garden, lest by chance the mon
arch's eye should light upon it, and discover it en
dealiahiUe. The deer were the only unconscious, entirely nat
ural element about us. These delicate creatures
preserve, even in captivity, their instinct of isola
tion and independence. Their solitude they con-

SLINDON AND BOGNOR. 55
sider is to be respected. There were hundreds of
the slim, beautiful creatures, carrying aloft their
coronal of branching horns, entirely at home in
the companionship of the great trees and the
solitude of the wind-swept Downs.
Leaving the Duke's park was only to pass from
one nobleman's estate to another. Our road to
Slindon took us past a procession of great gate
ways and stone-built porters' lodges. Now and
then we caught a glimpse of a Queen Aniie gabled
facade or of a broad, low Georgian mansion. So
jealously does the Englishman guard his privacy,
that we had to content ourselves for the most
part with glimpses, through the high liedge-rows,
of the lawns and the flower-beds. Nature in Eng
land has been fashioned into a mask, behind which
English reserve can conceal its features. When
the convent wall was pulled down, the hedge-row
replaced it. The latter is quite as high, and on
the whole even more impenetrable.
At last, however, we were up on the hills, with
neither hedge-row nor escutcheoned gateway to bar
Nature out. The turf beneath our feet was as soft
as velvet. It had, we found, on trying it, — a par
ticularly fine and open hillside having tempted us

66 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
to prolong the beauty of the view by walking, —
that delightful quality of elasticity pecuhar to Eng
lish grass. It was both soft and firm beneath the
foot. In our faces such an air was blowing over
the hills as only winds that pass over a hill-country
ever yield. These Down breezes have a particu
larly high reputation for softness. But they were
blowing that afternoon as if they wanted to prove
to two aboriginal Americans accustomed to the
brutality of transatlantic winds, — winds that stab
and sting and bite, — what a really well-behaved
English wind could do when it had a mind to show
off its paces. It even caressed us a little, as if in
pity for tlie beatings we had to take at home.
Who is not cheered by being petted a little ?
Under the soft, caressing touch of that tender
hearted summer breeze we walked on and on. The
more we walked, the better we liked it.
Nature is a coy creature. She is as hopeless a
plebeian as she is difficult of approach- She insists
on equality as the first essential of a true friend
ship with her. The walker, therefore, has a better
chance than any one else of being, so to speak,
on a footing of intimacy with her. She resents
being looked down upon, from even so humble an

SLINDON AND BOGNOR. 67
eminence as the box-seat of a wagonette. For our
pains she let us into several delightful little secrets
that afternoon. She bade us stop and listen to the
stillness, if one can listen to a thing which is not.
How still it was ! — so still that some sheep grazing
two fields away made the only sound there was.
We could hear their soft nibbling, and even the
noiseless movement of their feet against the grass.
A bell, a few moments later, deep-throated and
richly sonorous, pealed out a chime or two at some
far distance, coming up the valley from Slindon.
The vibrations in the air seemed to stir the daisies
anew, — tiny bells ringing in unison. The tasselled
tops of the oaks above our heads made a rustle
in the air that had something feminine about
it. It was like the flutter of a woman's silken
gown. A brisk trot of two miles or more brought the
roofs of Slindon within sight.
At Slindon we had been promised the spectacle
of a model English village, with a model specimen
of a Saxon-Norman church.
Slindon was even better than its promise. It
was an ideal little village. It was the most beau
tiful collection of thatched houses, vine-covered,

68 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
garden-enclosed, and dimity-curtained, we saw any
where in England. The houses were so perfect,
we suspected them of being on show for purely dec
orative purposes, rather than designed for human
habitations. " Slindon may be a rustic, but she is also a con
summate coquette," exclaimed Boston.
The thatched houses had indeed taken on end
less airs of refinement and knowing ways of adorn
ment. The roofs were of just the right color, a
warm gray turning to silver, — the color of all
others to go with pink and white. The houses were
built of brick, and then stuccoed a dazzling white.
They had a complexion to make the eyes blink.
But what with the rose-vines, the creepers, and the
clematis, their white faces were as jealously guarded
as a beauty's tender skin. Of pink there was abun
dance. Every tiny diamond pane was filled with
roses and rose-geraniums, their petals all the pinker
for being enclosed between spotless bits of white
curtains. Each little cottage stood, besides, in the midst
of a blooming garden, a rose within a rose. What
with the honeysuckle, the azaleas, the great East
ern lilies, the rose-vines, and the window-pots, the

SLINDON AND BOGNOR. 59
air was thick and luscious with the fragrance and
perfume. Nothing at once more flowery, dainty,
softly brilliant, and yet charmingly and harmoni
ously rustic, could be imagined than these two
streets running at right angles up a hillside, which
made all there was of the perfect little village of
Slindon. " If this be England, and I had been a Pilgrim
Father, I don't think I should have troubled myself
to move," exclaimed Boston, as he let the reins fall
on the pony's motionless haunches.
" I doubt if even before they moved, the Pilgrim
Fathers had a pronounced taste for gardening."
Then we both laughed a little ; for instinctively we
contrasted the bleak, bold, barren New England
farmhouse, its slovenly vegetation, and its hideous
color, with this collection before us of ideal little
cottages and thatched huts, all as daintily robed as
a maiden in spring. Indeed, what did become of
the Englishman's instinct for beauty when he trans
planted himself across the seas ? Was it the biting
frost of Puritanism that killed his native taste ?
Or is it that even in two centuries the struggle to
subdue a great continent to his needs and necessi
ties has not yet given him time to set out the little

60 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
garden in which he can take his ease ? Together
with the taste for gardening which the Pilgrim
Father left behind him, we noticed other qualities
this little village possessed, which it might have
been wise to have exported, — its air of content, for
one thing, thrift and a kind of mild-eyed prosperity
seeming to look out of the window at us as we
passed. This appearance of well-being may have
had some indirect relation to the fact that the cat
tle seemed sleeker and the sheep fatter in the adja
cent fields than those we had seen on the uplands.
The church we found to be less entirely satis
factory. It had certainly once been Saxon, and
later on, N(jrman. There were two round-headed
little windows a Norman would have scorned to
build, and an early Norman doorway in the porch
which the later early-English architects would have
pronounced equally inelegant. But the entire little
edifice wore a thoroughly modern and recently reno
vated appearance ; so that it was no surprise to come
upon the disenchanting and familiar date 1866, to
attest the fact of its nineteenth-century rebuilding.
As we turned from the village towards the plain,
there was a meeting of four roads.
" Which road to the Royal Oaks ? " Boston asked.

SLINDON AND BOGNOR. 61
in his dilemma, of a slim rustic who was leaning
against a gate, with his eyes glued upon us as he
feasted his curiosity.
" Straight ahead, sur, till yer come ter the mill,
and then there 's sign-posts," the boy had answered,
and readily enough ; but he remained motionless.
" He is n't genuine. A true rustic would have
pointed," I said.
For his " straight ahead " left us bewildered ;
before us there were three " straight aheads."
However, we plunged recklessly into the straight-
est. We were rewarded by soon seeing the four
great white arms of the mill waving unblushingly
in the sunlight. Beneath them the sign-post, with
less manners but better judgment than our rustic,
pointed the direction of our destination.
For several miles now our road lay through
the plains, — flat, fruitful lowlands towards the sea.
There was a succession of pretty hamlets and of
numberless detached farmhouses, but no sign of
human life, except the farmers who were busy in
the fields carting or pitching hay. The huge hay
ricks, cone-shaped and green, were the only rivals,
in these flat fields, of the hills beyond, now hazy in
the dimness of distance.

62 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
We were in Bognor before we knew it. The
fields led us directly into rows of neat, tidy little
houses, and clean, well-swept streets.
A man in knickerbockers with a tennis racket,
and a lady wearing a thin white muslin gown and
a thick fur cape, announced to us that the season
at Bognor had already begun.-
Other signs of its activity greeted us as we pro
ceeded on our way. Tennis was being played, with
a zeal that made it appear to be a serious battle
rather than a harmless contest about balls, in every
square inch of green large enough to hold a court.
The familiar London sign, " Apartments to let,"
hung above the tiny, dazzlingly clean doors of the
little houses. The number of these signS was con
clusive proof that Bognor's season was not as yet
at its height. So frequent were these modest ap
peals to the unlodged, as to prepare us for the
comparative quiet we found brooding over the little
town. At its best, however, Bognor could never, I think,
have been anything but a dull little town. It was
so decorous, so painfully clean, so oppressively self-
conscious a prude, that dulness must have been as
much a part of its being as were its demure little

SLINDON AND BOGNOR. 63
airs of conventional propriety. What has the sea
to do with conventionality ? Its merest ripplet is
Nature's indignant protest against too clean and
well-swept a beach. Here there was no beach at
all. Instead there was a brick sea-wall, which kept
the sea at a proper offish distance. The waves
broke a hundred yards out, as an English sea
should do when it is to serve as the tame and tepid
bath for an Englishman's wife and children.
The houses that fronted the water might have
been London houses, suburban London ; there was
no holiday air pervading them. There was noth
ing even of the flowery, pretty picturesqueness
which had charmed us in some of the country inns
and taverns we had passed along our road. These
dull-brown and brick fa9ades were the epitome of
British decorum. Even when off on a holiday, it
appears that the Englishman feels he must build
him a prison in which he can lock himself in and
otliers out.
" The Englishman can't throw off his social
straight-jacket even when he puts on his bathing-
suit," I said in a fit of disgust to Boston. " Have
you noticed the bath-houses ? The notices on the
doors are little chapters of autobiography."

64 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
" They are of a piece with all the rest," was
Boston's answer. On the doors of several of the
little houses were signs in large printed letters of
" Elizabeth Primrose, aged fifty, bather from Teign-
mouth, where she had been bather for over thirty-
five years."
" Even one's bath-woman must have a pedigree ! "
we said, and then we laughed.
But we were the only laughers. No one else was
gay. Holidaying at the seaside, it appears, is a
serious amusement over here, to be enjoyed in a
measured spirit of conscientious dulness. Even
the children, who with their governesses were
gravely walking along the sea-wall, were evidently
far too well brought up to look upon the sea
in the light of a playfellow. Other promenaders
there were whose expression was familiar ; it was
the look we had grown to know in London, in the
Row, — that of being bored according to the most
correct methods of a well-bred ennui. A few very
upright young ladies were sitting, alone or in
pairs, under huge white parasols, on the little iron
benches. They were looking out at the sea, star
ing at it as if they expected, if there was to be any
conversation, the ocean would begin it. The only

SLINDON AND BOGNOR. 65
talking there was, was being done by several stately
old ladies in bath-chairs. They were each accom
panied by their upright handsome husbands, — or
such we took them to be, from their air of indiffer
ence to the ladies' chatter and from their general
appearance of command. Why is it that in Eng
land it is only the woman who grows old hideously ?
These fine old gentlemen were pictures of blooming
old age, with their pink cheeks, white hair, and
well-knit, erect, and graceful figures. It appears
that one must cross the Channel to find the se
cret which woman holds there of growing old both
wittily and handsomely.
It was with but little regret that we passed
out of the long, stiff, straight little streets, no
ting, as we passed, the fact of how cheerfully
many of the houses gave up half their fagade to
the great business of proclaiming their names.
Where else except in a land of cockneys would a
residence twelve by ten be dignified by a name,
ostentatiously paraded, suitable only for a palatial
dwelling ? " The Elms," the " Albert Villa," the
" Richmond Mansion," — such were the pretentious
signs painted in great flaring letters over every
other house-door which we passed. For a modest

66 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
people the English break out into astonishing
vagaries of vanity.
It was a relief to turn away from the stiff, vain
little town into the country road once more. It
was a flat road. But there was no monotony in
its flatness. Arms and branchlets of the sea swept
up into the fields and meadows, making bright
pools of light. In the air there was a delicious
mingling of salty vigor and sweet earthy smells,
and it was the loveliest, tenderest hour of the day.
The work of the day for man and beast, and for
the sun as well, was done. All three were going
to their evening rest. Men with rakes over their
shoulders were following wagons so plenteously
laden with hay that they generously left tithes
along the roadside for stray sheep. A boy with a
sickle over his straight young back walked near
us, whistling a gay little air. The sickle was re
peated in silver in the sky, the dawning crescent
of the young moon cleaving the eastern horizon.-
Cows in groups were moving slowly, in calm con
tentment with the day's bounty. Earth and sky,
under the dying light, were changing from the
gold of sunset to the violets and deeper purples
of twilight ; it was the feet of coming Night press-

SLINDON AND BOGNOR. 67
ing out the rich wine of color from the fruitful
land. But the gift of sensibility to the beauties of na
ture had not been given to all three of our party ;
to our pony the charms of twilight proved no sub
stitute for a good supper. The Chichester Cathe
dral spire, which had guided us inland with its
tapering spiral beauty, appeared to grow no nearer
for all our frequent use of the whip. Another hour
of whipping, of desperate spurts of energy on the
part of the worn and weary pony, of manifold losing
of our way amid the tortuous streets of Chichester,
which was a far larger city than we had expected
to find, and behold us rattling within the brick
com'tyard of " The Bird and the Swallow."

CATHEDRAL DAYS.

CHAPTER IV.
CHICHESTER.
" '"T^HE Bird and the Swallow " was a wise little
-*- inn. It had known just where to place
itself when there was a cathedral in town to
be looked at. The next morning we awoke to
encounter the charm of a surprise. Our win
dows, we found, opened directly on the cathedral.
The whole of the beautiful western fagade rose
in noble dignity beyond the trees in the green
close, whose branches almost rustled against our
windows. Our breakfast, that morning, promised to prolong
itself into an indefinite feast. The mise-en-scene
in our cosey little sitting-room was altogether per
fect. " The Bird and the Swallow," we confided to
each other over the crisp toast, was to be num
bered among the ideal inns. That conclusion had
been reached the night before, when a particularly
pretty barmaid and the stout and matronly inn-

CHICHESTER. 69
keeper's wife had preceded us to our rooms with
flaring candles and a pot of hot tea.
" It'll warm ye, ma'am, and ease ye after yer long
drive, ma'am ; but the gentleman '11 have a toddy,
now, won't he ? — a drop of hot Scotch ? "
Such delicate discrimination merited its just re
ward. Is it necessary to add that the stout landlady
won our hearts at once ? She had been the first
innkeeper who had really appeared glad to see us.
The " Norfolk Arms " was much too splendid an es
tablishment to be moved by the coming or the going
of travellers. Our waiter had preserved to the last
an impassive composure and indifference, seeming
to be fully conscious of what was expected of one
who lived so near to the best society. But the
Chichester inn was provincial, - — uncompromisingly,
unblushingl}', avowedly provincial. The landlady
was not above showing her pleasure at the coming
of travellers the size of whose trunks and whose
general air of fatigue promised a more or less
lengthy stay in the dull season. She had bustled
about our rooms as if she were doing the honors
of her own house, — giving a twitch to the white
chintz curtains, rearranging chairs to take the stiff
look out of the room, and altogether behaving as a

70 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
human being should whose business in life it was
to make travellers comfortable and to make money
out of them.
" I presume it will be charged in the bill, all
this extra pains and extra cordiality, but I don't
mind. One gets at least what one pays for ; and,
besides, she really works for it. See how hot and
puffy she is getting ! "
She was purple as she tried to lift one of
the heavy hand-bags on the rack ; but she was
smiling as if she were enjoying it. The real
misery would have been to be a degree less hot
and less officious. Then we tried to jMcture to
ourselves any American boarding-house keeper
working herself into that crimson heat of active
zeal. " No American woman could, you know. Either
she would be so thin and tired, she would n't have
muscular energy to spare, or else she would be
above it, — above waiting on her 'guests.' She
would ring a bell, which no one would answer,
and it would end in your carrying your own bag.
There is nothing like a democracy for inuring the
upper classes into doing their own work. I prefer
a monarchy myself, where there is somebody left

CHICHESTER. 71
in the class below you who is willing, for a con
sideration, to wait on you."
Boston only laughed. He was too weary just
then to reply. But I could see that the excellen
ces of the English system produced their effect
when, the next morning, we descended to our sit
ting-room to find a snowy table laid with bits of
old china and silver, set close to a window, through
which the sun was shining cheerily, with the gray
and mottled cathedral mass uplifting its greatness
beyond the tree-tops. We finished our meal, only
to discover, as we leaned farther out of the window
to gain a freer view of the spire, that beyond, at
the right of the cathedral, rose a beautiful square
tower. It was the campanile, — the only detached
bell-tower adjoining a cathedral now existing in
England. It was a rugged, massive structure, as
different as possible from the slender, graceful
campaniles that rise into the melting Italian skies ;
but its gray stones were full of color, and were
peculiarly rich in shadows, which we found were
perpetually haunting its fine octagonal crown and
girdling its turrets.
At the other end of the street, placed at just
the right angle to make it a perfect pendant to

72 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
the campanile, was another structure, — one so
unique, so unusual, and so altogether lovely as to
send us forth into the street that we might gain a
nearer view.
Was Chichester to be a series of surprises ?
Was the little city a museum of architectural mas
terpieces ? We had expected the cathedral, but had
been told that the town was dull. Yet here were
three buildings, brought within the focus of our sit
ting-room windows, which merely to look upon would
repay one for many miles of travel. Who are those
ingenious ignoramuses who write the guide-books,
whose dexterity for telling us the things we don't
want to know about is only equalled by their
criminal incapacity when dealing with the things
which are really worth while ? Perhaps, however,
we really are more deeply in the debt of these
self-constituted misleaders than we willingly own.
How truly dull would travel be if all travellers
were wise ! If it be true that happiness lies more
in acquisition than in possession, the truism must
hold that in travel the chief charm is to be found in
the act of discovery rather than in the enjoyment
of the thing discovered. Ergo, a well-written guide
book would defeat the chief end of one's journey.

CHICHESTER. 73
The name of the beautiful structure we found,
on consulting the Chichester guide-book, to be the
Market Cross. There was certainly no appear
ance of any salable merchandise ; nor, at a first
glance, did there seem to be any signs to mark its
remote resemblance to a cross. It was a perfect
octagon, whose eight-arched openings made a cir
cular arcade. In the centre of the little building
was a massive pillar, from which, as branches grow
out of a palm, the finely groined roof shot forth its
thick ribs. Its exterior blossomed with ornaments,
flowering into richly decorated finials and flying
buttresses, and budding into a wealth of cusps.
About the whole little structure there was a de
lightful luxuriance and efflorescence. It had evi
dently bloomed into beauty at a wonderfully perfect
moment of the later Gothic inspiration.
The Cross being placed at the juncture of the
four principal streets of the little city, its arcade
formed the natural crossing for the street passen
gers. Beneath the vaulted roof there was a cease
less patter and echo of passing footsteps, of broken
speech and laughter, — the noise of people meeting,
talking, and parting. It was as if a huge umbrella
had been opened, beneath which all the townsfolk

74 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
had come to take refuge for a moment of time
away from the dazzle of the sunshine and the
noonday glare.
It now serves, doubtless, as wise and admirable
an end, we said to each other, as the original pur
pose which its founder had in view. It had been
given to the city, in the latter part of the fifteenth
century, by one of the artist-bishops of the cathe
dral, to the end that it might delight his own eyes
by its beauty and relieve the city from an extor
tionate tax. The poor farmers of the neighbor
hood were here provided with a shelter where
they might sell their produce — their eggs, butter,
and other articles — free from toll.
We have changed all that in these days. The
poor still pay toll, but we call it by a loftier
name ; and so the Cross is a market no longer,
but the open-air lounging-chair of every weary or
idle soul who cares to give his leisure an airing.
We were neither weary nor willingly idle ; but
we sat there, and still continued to sit, finding it
too perfect a point of observation to leave. All
the life and hubbub of the little city were about us.
At least half a dozen streets were in full view.
Instead of a dull city, as we looked out upon

Chichester Cross.

Page 74.

CHICHESTER. 75
its busy life, we found it uncommonly sprightly.
There was a brisk commercial stir and life bus
tling up and down its streets. There were so
many shops, one was not surprised at the multi
plicity of buyers. The women had the eager air
common to the sex when there are plenty of shop-
windows bristling with novelties. There was a
modishness in their attire, suggestive of the sig
nificant conclusion that some of those tempting
London fashions were being worn by the happy
buyers with a genteel consciousness of an ele
gance superior to the prevailing provincial st\'les.
There was another cause which awakened our
suspicions that something else besides the natural
instinct of the sex for wearing only the latest
conceits of fashion may have inspired the smart
costumes with which the streets abounded. Chi
chester, true to its ancient Roman origin, is still a
camp. We had passed the barracks of the regi
ment now quartered here, the night before. There
were brilliant dashes of color abroad this morning, —
brave scarlets, and jaunty red caps, the latter tilted
at the most extraordinary angle compatible with
adhesiveness, worn by dashing young braves, who
walked with the step of young giants off on a stroll.

76 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
The direct relation between a military button
and the corresponding activity of a woman's vanity
has never yet been satisfactorily explained. But
we all know that the appearance of a single mili
tary coat has been known to change the millinery
of an entire town from a condition of stagnation to
one of frenzied animation.
Besides the red coats and the pretty, fresh faces,
the streets were filled with numbers of traps and car
riages, many of them, from the plethoric baskets
strapped at the back, evidently having been driven
in from the surrounding country. Gentlemen from
box-seats Avere giving orders to fruiterers. Stout
ladies were handed down from drags by their foot
men, with an air of serious concern, to the level of
the shop windows. One charmingly pretty girl rode
up with her groom to a book-shop near us, and dis
mounted. She stood for a brief moment, holding
her habit over her arm, as she looked in at the
window over the titles of some new books. Her
sweet, fine profile, her straight, firm figure, with its
air of breeding and refinement, made a charming
picture in the midst of the old street and among
the motley crowd of passers-by.
Altogether, we repeated to each other, Chi-

CHICHESTER. 77
Chester was a charming little town ; were this to
be taken as a typical English provincial town, the
spectacle of its stirring life makes the secret
of England's greatness the more understandable.
Even these remote little English towns and cities,
it appears, are centres of life and movement.
Throughout the whole extent of this wonderful
island there is the flow of quick arterial blood;
its very extremities are replete with nervous life.
There are no stagnant places, no paralyzed mem
bers, in its compact little frame. London is not
the only head or the sole heart of this admirably
organized kingdom. The pulse and throb of active
life thrills to its remotest finger-tips.
From the pictureeque point of view, the beauty
of Chichester appeared to have been focussed in
the buildings about us. The town wore a suffi
ciently venerable appearance to be in keeping with
the gray and mossy fronts of the cathedral, the
campanile, and the Cross. The houses were for
the most part uninteresting. Commerce is as bru
tal as war, and defaces as wantonly as the latter
destroys ; and Chichester was, and is, distinctively
commercial. It has been for many generations
the great wool-fair of the kingdom.

78 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
From the historical standpoint Chichester may
be said to have had a career replete with vicissi
tudes. For so small a city it has amassed a good
deal of historical experience. Its origin was, of
course, Saxon. No English city which respects
itself but points with pride to its heathen an
cestry, when its barbarous ancestors fiercely wor
shipped Thor and Odin. Chichester was Roman
before it was Saxon, being one of the chief Roman
settlements, known as Regnum. All these south
ern cities were for the most part Norman camps.
They were on the high-road to the sea, and
were the natural halting-places of the enemy or
of the brave defenders of the soil. There is a
temple just out of the city, at Goodwood, erected
by the Duke of Richmond, containing a slab which
brings Roman paganism wonderfully near. It
bears the inscription : " The college or company of
artificers, and they who preside over the sacred
rites or hold office by the authority of King Cogi-
dubnus, the legatee of Tiberius Claudius Augustus,
in Britain, dedicated this temple to Neptune and
Minerva, for the welfare of the Imperial Family ;
Pudens, the son of Pudentinus, giving the ground."
Minerva and Neptune next gave way to Thor and

CHICHESTER. 79
Odin ; for gods succeeded one another, as dynas
ties did, on these ancient battle-grounds. The
shrine was erected by the victorious, that they
might have a deity to pray to after they had done
with the killing. If all the warriors turned wor
shippers, the temples about Chichester must always
have been full ; for those old warriors had an ap
petite for blood which makes a modern soldier
seem a very feeble production.
When ^lle and his son Cissa took Regnum from
theRoman Britons, they " slew all that dwelt therein,
nor was there thenceforth one Brit left," says the
old chronicler. When there were no others left to
kill, they slew themselves. After a long period of
famine, the hungry Saxons, linking themselves in
companies of forties and fifties, sought to put an
end to their sufferings by throwing themselves into
the sea. What a spectacle must that wild horde
of undisciplined passions have been, dancing their
fearless dance to the sea ! Even in suicide, it ap
pears, they chose to march bravely, in battalions, to
this voluntary death. They knew not how to en
dure, but they still preserved their instinct of
bravery. Christianity came at last to teach this
brute force its own strength.

80 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
Hence the cathedral. The battle-axe was laid
aside for the chisel. It is impossible, I think, to
compute the tremendous influence which the build
ing of these great cathedrals must have exercised
on the mediaeval character. Much stress has
been laid on the enlarging and civilizing uses of
the Crusades. The Crusades unquestionably made
experienced travellers of the mediaeval ascetics;
but a cathedral was a finer experience than a cru
sade. It developed the humanities. It kept men
at home, and taught them the sweet uses of sympa
thy, of interest in a common object, and brought
near to them the experiences of self-sacrifice. It
developed the yearning faculties, the longing for the
exercise of taste and skill, into trained talents which
could be consecrated to the highest achievement.
What a stirring fire of enthusiasm, for instance,
kindled the builders of the great Chartres Cathe
dral ! Powerful men, proud of their riches and
accustomed to a delicate and luxurious life, har
nessed themselves to the shafts of carts to con
vey stones, lime, wood, and every necessary ma
terial for the construction of the sacred edifice.
" Sometimes a thousand persons, men and women,
are harnessed to the same cart, so heavy is the

CHICHESTER. 81
load ; nevertheless such a profound silence reigns,
that not the least whisper is heard. When they
stop on the road, they speak only of their sins,
which they confess with tears and prayers. Then
the priests make them promise to stifle all hatred
and forgive all debts. Should any one be found
who is so hardened as to be unwilling to forgive
his enemies and refuse to submit to the pious ex
hortations, he is at once unharnessed from the cart,
and driven out of the holy band." This is quoted
from an extremely interesting history of Notre
Dame de Chartres, written by Abb^ Bulteau.
No record brings to us any such account of the
pious banding together of English nobles and
peasants for the dual purpose of purging their
souls by penance and hastening the completion
of their grand cathedral. The Englishman's en
thusiasm is colder, even when under the influence
of the deepest emotion. His piety is never a sen
sational debauch ; he is under no such dramatic
necessity for the display of his sensibilities as
animates the excitable Gaul, to whom the experi
ence of emotion is misery unless it can be enacted
before an audience, however small. And thus, I
fancy, the patience and self-denial and the hard-won

82 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
triumphs over rebellious spirits and haughty souls
lie buried in the silence of the sculptured stones,
whose enduring beauty is the nobler record.
As an eloquent instance of perseverance, Chi
chester Cathedral may be said to be unequalled.
Its existence is proof of the indomitable energy
of man in restoring what the elements destroy.
Heaven itself appeared to be in league with the
force of the winds and the fury of the flames.
What fire did not consume, the winds wrecked.
When the battalions of the skies had ceased their
pillaging, the soldiers of the Commonwealth took
possession with their swords. But in spite of
revolutions, of wind-storms, and the scorching
breath of fire, the beautiful cathedral, with its
lovely spire, wore a wonderfully complete and
serene front as we walked towards it on that
bright summer morning. It is set in the midst
of its close, a little apart from the main thorough
fare. A fringe of trees separates the brisk step
of the passer-by from the silent footsteps, forever
stilled, wliich lie beneath the old gravestones.
Once within the iron gates, one feels the influence
of that peculiar hush which the nearness of God's
temple alwaj'S brings.

CHICHESTER, 83
Who has not felt this peace and quiet in the air
as he has stepped aside from the bustle of the
busy world into the still, calm burial-ground
surrounding some old church ? It is only a dis
tance of a few yards, and yet how remote the
world seems, after a few moments alone there !
One may be neither Christian nor believer, neither
communicant nor worshipper ; and yet such is the
deep tranquillity of the place, such the sweet and
restful peace beneath those cool aisles of the over
shadowing trees, that unconsciously the heart be
comes stilled, the soul is eased of its burden, and
life, for a brief moment's space at least, is lived
softly, peacefully, lovingly. A blessing seems to
be abroad in the air, and to have alighted for a
second's space in our bosoms.
This feeling is intensified iu English church
yards. A beautiful fashion of appropriating a
large space of green is one of the peculiar charms
of English cathedral buildings. The velvety lawn
and the grove of trees are an essential part of the
English builder's plan, in the arrangement of his
architectural effects. The cathedral is thus pre
served against accidental surroundings. It is set
apart, away from the disturbing influences of in-

84 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
congruous buildings. Unlike the great continental
cathedrals, an English cathedral is neither hidden
among the slums of an old market-place nor bar
barously exposed to the inclemencies of the weather
on a barren hill-top. Sheltered amid its well-
wooded paths, the entire mass of the beautiful
structure rises unencumbered and unobstructed.
Apart from the admirable advantages gained by
such a wise combination of the beauties of nature
and of art, there is an added charm, — the ca
thedral appears to have an ideal poetic isolation,
the effect of its separateness as a temple being
thus the more fully emphasized.
It would have been impossible, for instance, for
]ust the effect which the exterior of this cathedral
produced on us, as we approaclied it, to have been
wrought by any continental cathedral. The deep
shade of the trees, the thick sweet grass, the quiet
pathways, and the shadows resting on the grave
stones were the prelude to the deeper sensations
the interior of the church itself was to awaken.
We were keyed into an emotional feeling before Ave
entered the temple. It is scarcely a matter of
wonderment that men in the worst times of Anne
and the Georges, when the most exquisite Gothic

CHICHESTER. 85
carvings and altar-pieces were destroyed, should
have spared the grass and the trees. An Eng
lishman is a nature-lover even when he turns
iconoclast. Entering the low portal, we discovered with de
light that we had the interior of the church to
ourselves. Not even the flutter of a verger's gown
was to be discerned. We could sit down unmo
lested on the little rush-bottomed chairs, and enjoy
the beauty about us without feeling that our sensa
tions were to be summoned up to order.
Our first impression was one of bewilderment.
The interior of Chichester appeared to be three or
four churches made one ; not because of its size,
but because of its extraordinary architectural vari
ety of design. Imagine a Norman nave, so massive
that it appears to grow out of the earth, witli
square-capped columns and round arches rearing
tlieir sturdy strength up into the roof beyond, tier
on tier. This massive nave is flanked on either
side by two slender, graceful Gothic aisles, as light
and delicate in their lines as the branches of so
many young trees. As if this, as an architectural
shock, were not sufficient to have satisfied builders
in pursuit of novelties, a walk toward the south

86

CATHEDRAL DAYS.

transept and the Lady Chapel introduced us to the
fantastic elaborations and rich traceries of the four
teenth-century workers. Beyond, out among the
trees and grass of the cloisters, the upright per
pendicular lines of the still later Gothic showed
that in this most curious and interesting little
cathedral one could trace the growth and flower
ing of the English taste in architecture during
those five hundred years when the pre-eminent
qualities of its excellence and beauty made Eng
land take its place among the two or three great
and original masters in the art. In no other
English cathedral, perhaps, can the transition in
styles be so distinctly traced. Chichester, con
sidered from this point of view, may be said to
be a mosaic of English experiments in cathedral
building. The result as a whole is more interesting than
beautiful. The absence of a distinct unity of plan
or design makes one tremendously conscious of the
effort there has been in it all. The Norman bishops
planned one thing, which the Early English and
later Perpendicular architects did their best either
to obliterate or to destroy. But strength is more
persistent than grace ; and so all through the

CHICHESTER. 87
charming geometric lace-work the rugged massive
ribs and round-arched vertebrse of the Norman
structure protrude their giant strength.
A certain coldness and want of color, and also
a sense of the loss of that contrast that comes
with prismatic light, made these effects and this
architectural diversity even more conspicuous.
The whole interior was as gray as a convent.
There was none of that beautiful, mysterious clois
tral twilight which pervades the atmosphere in con
tinental cathedrals, — an atmosphere that makes
their dim aisles as shadowy as if enveloped in
some delicately tinted fog. Here the pale sunlight
brought the colorless pallor of this interior into
almost cruel relief. The absence of glass would
account for something of this defect, there being
only a few modern stained-glass windows in the
entire edifice. But even where deep shadows were
made by some architectural feature, the contrast
they brought to the whole was sombre. In the
Norman triforium the shadows were black ; it was
the blackness of the dungeon rather than the rich
depth of blended shade.
We did not escape the verger, after all. He dis
covered us just in time to prevent our making the

oo CATHEDRAL DAYS.
complete tour of the cathedral. We had not seen
the tombs, of course, having neglected them for
the above less important features. But the little
verger was a man of determination. He had had to
deal with indifferent and rebellious tourists before.
He soon brought us round to the correct sepulchral
attitude ; not a mortuary urn Avas allowed to pass
unnoticed. He presented us first to the bishops,
as they lay in state, with mitre and crozier and
archiepiscopal hat. Bach had his history, of which
only the commendable features had evidently been
confided to the A'erger. One must go to Fronde's
profane pages for the scandals which made the
lives of some of these blameless gentlemen such a
curious mixture of piety and immorality. Their
frailties live on in history ; their virtues appear
to liaA'e been infolded within their august robes of
state. The recumbent figures of the knights in full
armor were more to our taste ; there is some
thing honest in men who go to heaven armed cap-
a-pie, as if they meant to fight for their rights even
at Saint Peter's gate. By the side of one of these
warriors, apparelled in the stiff narrow goAvns of
the fourteenth century, lay the effigy of his lady.
The knight had taken off his glove, and held in his

CHICHESTER. 89
OAvn the slim, tapering fingers of his calm-broAved
spouse. The couple are Richard Fitzalan, Earl of
Arundel, and his Countess. The former was be
headed by reason of too great fidelity to the Duke
of Gloucester, in King Richard's reign. King
Richard was not a man to be stopped by too nice a
feeling if he had a purpose to accomplish. After
the EaiTs interment, "it having been bruited
around for a miracle that his head had grown
to his body again," that thorough-going monarch
ordered the tomb opened. Little wonder that the
poor gentleman wanted the cold comfort of holding
his wife's hand down through the ages, after such
a double indignity !
Our verger was filled with grief over the fact
of the loss of the fine old brasswork, — the crosses
and the shields inserted into the stone slabs.
They had all been stolen or destroyed by the
soldiers of the Commonwealth. The pillaging and
desecration in this little cathedral were riotous dur
ing the Revolution. Sir William Waller's troops
" ran up and down with their swords, defacing the
monuments of the dead, and hacking the seats and
the stalls." These Puritan warriors must have
been connoisseurs as well as iconoclasts. They

90 CATHEDRAL DAYS
knew just what to smash and to steal. They
stripped the cathedral as bare as only an educated
eye could have directed.
" Yes, ma'am, they smashed all the old glass, and
they stole all our brasses. The jewels in the sculp
tures, did you notice, ma'am, they AA^as stole, I
fancy," was our guide's mournfully resentful sum
mary of those old days of pious pillaging. He
could not haA'e been more indignantly melancholy
had he held his office during the Puritan raid. The
sculpture to which he referred was some most in
teresting old Norman work, of which we were to
see more at Salisbury. The stolen jewels, which
formed the eye-sockets in the faces of the rude
figures, had left holes that looked like deep wounds.
This early Norman sculpture is strangely like
early Assyrian and Indian work. All archaic work
has a more or less close resemblance ; for it corre
sponds to the primitive art impulse, to the period
of the beginning of a nation's art. The A'erger, we
noticed, drew his finger over the stiff draperies
lovingly, as if he wished to smooth out some of
their rigidity. It was when the sad-faced little
man, however, came to the recital of the falling of
the spire, that he touched the apogee of his dra-

X
o

CHICHESTER. 91
matic capabilities. He drew us into the choir, above
which soars the present loA-ely and modern spire.
He assured us that long before any one else had
suspected the old spire of weakness he knew that
it was doomed.
" Why, ma'am, the fissures was in the walls as
big as crevices. The sides 'ere of this 'ere arch
Avas as wrinkled as an old shoe. It was n't any
use patchin' of such Avails as that. No spire Avas
goin' to set firm on them rickety legs. All the
workmen in the country could n't make an old man
stand straight ; and that was what these Avails was,
hold men that 'ad got tired. They could n't 'old
themselves hup, much less a big tall spire. Well,
the cathedral was full of workmen who done their
best. They was a-workin' and a-workin' ; they
done their best, I will say, and when the storm
came, they was like giants, — they never gaA-e hup
night nor day. It was an April storm, and every
time the wind 'owled every man in Chichester
trembled. There was n't a closed hi in Chichester
that night. Why ! every one on us, men and
boys, 'ad groAvn hup under that hold spire. We
loA'ed it as we did our own. But it 'ad to go.
When mornin' broke, the storm was a tempest.

92 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
We could almost 'ear the great spire a-rockin' in
the Avind. And then it fell. We was all out in the
streets, bareheaded, when it caved. It fell, sur,
just like it was a telescope, a-falling into itself.
It did n't do no harm to nobody nor nothin' but
just itself. It Avas just God's mercy that watched
over it, and when it was gone a prayer was on
every lip, and a tear in every hi ; and, sur, oh, sur,
but Avas n't the dust awful ? It was AA-eeks and
weeks before we was clean and to rights." And
the little man began furtively to dust a near choir-
stall, as if the memory of that time had brought
up the old habit.
The cathedral guide-books tell the story of this
famous falling in of the old spire in 1861 with
more elaborateness of detail, but the old verger's
account we found quite as accurate and far more
picturesque. After the debris had been cleared
away, designs for the rebuilding, based on the old
models, were immediately begun. Tlie result is
the present beautiful structure. Many authorities
prefer it to its famous Salisbury rival ; and, indeed,
in its aerial lightness and grace and its perfection
of proportion, it would be difficult to conceive a
spire more pleasing. It possesses that genuine

CHICHESTER. 93
soaring quality Avithout which a spire always
seems to miss its intended effect. It is little won
der that the inhabitants of Chichester loved their
spire ; for Chichester, a flat city in a flat country,
would be as unnoticed as featureless plainness ever
is. This lovely arrow shot into the sky makes
the city as conspicuous as some old A-eteran AAdio,
ere he launches his Aveapon, takes a fine and noble
attitude.

94 CATHEDRAL DAYS.

CHAPTER V.
GOODWOOD.
'' I "HE next day an important transaction was to
take place. We were to hire another horse.
This ordinarily simple matter had come to assume
serious proportions. The Chichester mind we found
even more obtuse in the recognition of honesty
— that apparently rare virtue in rural England —
than Arundel. The town, as one man, had re
fused to trust us with even so much as a she-ass
outside its gates. Three carriages and as many
horses had been stolen within the memory of the
oldest inhabitant. The most credulous believer in
mankind among the Chichester inhabitants refused
to add a fourth to such a list.
Clearly something must be done. We could
hardly proceed on our tour subject to such re
peated suspicions of our honesty, and continue,
conscientiously, to call it a pleasure-trip. It would
be almost better to elope with a horse and a

GOODWOOD. 95
suitable trap, and have done with honest dealing.
I wonder if such be not the origin of half the Avick-
edness of the world ! Every one suspects every one
else ; and some among us, not being able to make a
stand against public opinion, end by becoming that
which it is expected we in reality are.
We bethought ourselves, however, of a compro
mise with villany. A London friend had given us
a letter to a gentleman living in Chichester ; we
would present it in the hope that he would help
us in our dilemma. He did better ; he solved the
whole difficulty.
" Why not hire a trap out and out ? You will be
far more comfortable, and then you won't be having
this wretched bother," he suggested. " I know an
excellent man."
The man, we discovered on a visit to his stables,
had an excellent horse. Such at least we divined
the latter to be from a rather fragmentary review of
his hind quarters and his glossy coat, as he stood
quietly in his stall during our brief inspection. It
was only Avhen he appeared, an hour later, in the
brave livery of a bright new harness, with fine gold
mountings, that his admirable thorough-bred ances
try, though somewhat remote, declared itself in the

96 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
tapering legs, the small sensitive ears, the intelli
gent head, and the straight horizontal back. He
was a beauty, in a word. The only doubt which a
survey of his apparent perfections suggested was
whether he would be quite up to his work. Could
he carry the weight for six successive weeks of the
pretty T-cart, brilliant in its fresh green and yellow
varnish ; of ourselves, who were not cast in a lili-
putian mould ; and of our luggage, consisting of two
small trunks, two valises, and several hand-bags ?
" No fear of that, sir. He 's up to twenty miles
a day, week in and week out. And it's mostly
parties we take, sir, and he never minds how many
it is." If the owner didn't doubt his steed's capacity
and endurance, why should Ave ? So the bargain
was concluded, with the reserA'ation, however, that
if, after reaching Winchester, we were not entirely
pleased, we were to return the trap by train. This
would give us several days' trial of the qualities of
our new companion.
Happily unconscious that he was under inspec
tion, our new steed in the subsequent two days'
drive made a most frank betrayal of his character.
I am not sure, on the Avhole, however, that he had

GOODWOOD. 97
as much character as he had nature. The pony,
for instance, had possessed in an eminent degree
those qualities which distinguish the former, but
she was lamentably deficient in the latter essential.
This horse, on the contrary, had more temperament
than character. He possessed less mind and far
more intelligence than his predecessor, — two qual
ities only too rarely seen in combination in either
men or animals. He had too much intelligence
and not enough mind, for instance, to oppose to
our own. He responded to command with the do
cility born of an enlightened acquiescence in the
right. With such high qualities he Avould have
been really insuff'erable, if only by sheer force of
contrast, had he not been veined with a certain
feminine timidity ; his shying made him human
and endurable. As this fault appeared to be a
latent susceptibility to what may be termed the ac
cidentals of travel rather than an active habit, it
could hardly be looked upon in the light of a seri
ous objection. He possessed one admirable quali
fication we discovered, Avhich was of inestimable
value to us, with more than a month's driving
ahead: he was one of the best walkers we had
ever seen. His was a long, even, slightly quickened
7

98 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
step, that got him over the ground in capital time,
making him a really exhilarating companion. Al
together our star of luck had been in the ascen
dant when he joined the party. At Winchester we
promptly proceeded to engage him by telegraph for
the remainder of our journey.
" What shall we call him ? We ought to have
asked the hostler his name. A horse without a
name is as bad as an unchristeiied infant. We
can't go on calling him plain ' horse ' for six
weeks." " Why not call him Ballad ? That was his
owner's name. It strikes me as an eminently
proper one too. We 're off a-holidaying, and Bal
lad is suggestive ; it is suggestive of glees and
things, of the poetry we shan't write and the songs
we can't sing. Besides, he is a merry creature,
and deserves a merry name."
And so Ballad it was. Inside of a week he knew
his new name quite as well as we.
From Chichester we were to go early the next
morning to GoodAvood, the famous race-course
grounds which lie within the Duke of Richmond's
estate. Later on, toAvards the afternoon, Ave were
to start ou our regular route as far as Fareham,

GOODWOOD. 99
a little village half-way between Chichester and
Winchester. In all, the day's journey would in
clude about twenty-five miles, in Avhich Ballad
might show us his metal.
Hardly two miles out of Chichester, and we were
within the grounds of the great estate. Once with
in the park gates, and we were again struck with
the fact of how the character of the land changes
in England when it ceases to be the property of the
people and becomes the property of one man. It is
like exchanging the plough for the senate. Every
great estate, no matter how vast, has an adminis
tered look, as if it had ceased to be vulgarly used
for purely agricultural purposes and had passed
into the aristocratic stage of being just so many an
cestral acres. Goodwood, for instance, which was
enormous in extent, far larger than Arundel Park,
had the patrician air of doing nothing in particular,
except to be beautiful. We passed scA'eral miles
of turf, of lawn, of grassy, clean-shaven mounds,
which appeared to be laid out as so many grand
spaces wherein the great and splendid trees could
grow to enormous size, and whereon they could
cast their resplendent shade.
" What trees they do grow in this country ! Look

100 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
at those oaks ! Don't they look as if they were
conscious that they had a constitutional government
and a secured law of primogeniture to grow up
under?" " Well," replied Boston, smiling, " I suppose that
does have something to do with it. They don't look
as nervous and shiA^ery as some of our trees."
" And have n't you been struck with the appear
ance of calculation there is about it all ? It seems
to me as if there Avere a kind of destiny presiding
over the trees in English landscape. Only just so
many seem to be permitted to grow. Their quan
tity appears to be gauged by the amount of good
they will do. So many trees, so much timber, so
much good drainage, so many crops ; it all seems
based on the multiplication table, a kind of moral
multiplication table."
" Yes, perhaps there is something moral even
in their landscape-gardening. An Englishman
would n't be happy, I suppose, unless he had a law
behind him for every action, however trivial," said
Boston, as he whipped a fly off Ballad's back, who,
resenting the familiarity, dashed off with a spurt,
and brought us quickly to the top of the hill over
looking the race-course.

GOODWOOD. 101
The GoodAvood track is noted the world over for
the beauty of its situation. It is on an upper table
land, and overlooks a lot of pretty hills which ap
pear to be tumbling into one another's laps. It
might not be inaptly described, indeed, as a paradise
of hills framed about Avith sky. The course itself
is an elongated ellipse, whose curA-ed lines dip
slightly as they rise and fall along the slope of the
hill-top on which the track is laid out. The sides
and crest of the encircling hills form a natural
amphitheatre not unlike the great theatres of old,
where each man had an equal chance at the play
on the stage below over his neighbor's head. It
was easy to picture the sight of the breathless
thousands peopling those hillsides, and to ima
gine the swelling chorus of their deafening cheers
and roars, making a thundering music, as the
sounds rolled out through the length and breadth
of the great, roofless, unenclosed amphitheatre.
What a spectacle to see and to haA-e missed

seeing i

" Can't we wait for them, — wait for the races ?
They are only two weeks off," I asked Boston, as
the prospect warmed before us.
"And in two weeks' time we ought to be in

102 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
Devon ; yes, we can forego Devon, and have Good
wood if you like."
Is it the mission of husbands in this world to
carry about buckets of common-sense, that they
may always be in readiness to extinguish the follies
of their Avives ? I suppose the reason why nations
are ahvays so well governed who have women as
sovereigns is because these latter are under the
subjection of not only one man, but many. It
is the ministers who keep their queen, by sheer
force of numbers, from committing errors, by re
ducing her to the proper feminine attitude of inca
pacitated energy.
Such a spectacle as Goodwood presents does cer
tainly suggest a lesson in the uses of sovereigns
and ministers. One is willing to forgiA^e a country
its constitutional monarchies in view of such a re
sult as this. England, after all, is the only country
Avhicli still provides splendid outdoor festivities for
its people, which are both pure and healthy. There
is no such democrat in his pleasure as the English
man. On the turf all men are equal ; all that the
nobleman has is none too good for the peasant on
the fete-day, AA'licn he opens his gates and bids the
latter come in and take possession. It is true the

GOODWOOD. 103
nobleman doesn't go to the extreme of allowing
the peasant to remain long. But during the re
mainder of the year it is the titled landlord who
really Avorks and plans and spends his money that
he may keep the playground in order till the people
come again to be his guests. On the whole, the
English yeoman gets a great deal out of his aristo
cratic class. He gets a country lovelier and more
beautiful to look upon and to Avalk about in than
any other on the round earth ; he gets great and
splendid belongings which supply him with a per
petual round of spectacular pageants and excite
ments ; and he gets such public pleasures as no
other nation save the Greeks and the Romans have
ever managed to supply to a people generation
after generation. And now I suppose socialism
has come to end all this. It will issue its com
mands ; and England, the last of the people's great
stage-managers, must chop up its lawns into cab
bage-beds and harness its hunters to the plough.
We had been walking in the meanwhile along
the crest of the race-track, examining the Grand
Stand and the adjoining stables, when we stumbled
on an adventure. It met us in the shape of two
frank, boyish blue eyes, that seemed quite as much

104 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
surprised as we Avere startled at confronting them,
as we turned the corner of one of the larger build
ings. The owner of these blue eyes was a slim, but
beautifully erect boy in white flannel knickerbock
ers, who was Avalking about, swinging his jersey cap
in his hand. As he had his cap in his hand, he
could n't lift it ; but the instinct of good manners
was in the charming little fellow, for both cap and
hand Avent up, after his first start of surprise.
He was alone, and apparently was indulging, like
ourselves, in a survey of the surrounding buildings.
"This is the Avay out, is it not?" asked Boston,
more for the purpose of having a word with the boy
than really because he was in need of the answer ;
for there was something immensely taking about
the little fellow. As we approached him, I saw
that he had the fresh, clear English skin, the
straightforward, honest, and brave English eyes,
and just that touch of correctness in his bearing,
that nameless moral rectitude which seems to have
worked itself out into square shoulders and stiff
back and firm legs, — a bearing which distinguishes
an English-bred boy as unmistakably as the Jesuits'
training leaves its brand on the French stripling.
" This goes into the royal enclosure, sir," he re-

GOODWOOD. 105
plied without a moment's hesitation ; then he added
after a moment, as we both smiled down on him :
" There is the Royal Stand, sir, where his Royal
Highness always is. Would n't you like to see it ?
I can take you in." And he fumbled a moment in
his deep pockets, out of A^^hich came a knife, a small
apple, a bunch of raisins, a quarry of marbles, and
one large key. He blushed now for the first time ;
it must have been at the raisins, which, presumably,
he was surprised, and a little annoyed, to find still
uneaten. They were quickly slipped into the other
pocket. Then he opened the door of the stand,
and ran up the steps to the corner of the huge
building. He appeared to be entirely at home in
the great empty building. He led us to the south
ern corner, which was partitioned off from the rest
of the house and was enclosed in glass. It was
like a great proscenium-box overlooking the stage
setting. The prospect was glorious ; all the lovely
hills lying in full view, with wide horizons beyond.
At this elevation the whole track lay beneath us
in all its length and breadth. There was also the
entire sweep of the grounds to be taken in at a
glance. At one side, the side nearest the gate en
trance, was a lovely bit of shade, — a velvet carpet

106 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
of the greenest turf, with noble trees at near
distances. "That's the Lady's Lawn, ma'am, where the
luncheons are spread," said our charming little
companion, as he saw we were looking down into
the coolness and the green. " Tlie ladies sit down
there or walk about. Sometimes her Royal High
ness goes down. Then over there, over yonder, is
Avhere the coaches and drags stand, and OA'cr still
farther is the place for the carriages and for the
carts. Have you ever seen the horses run, sir ? "
" No, my lad, I ncA'cr have, here ; but you have, I
presume ? " It was delightful to see the boy's eyes
flame out, and his red cheeks grow redder yet, as
he answered quickly, —
" Oh dear, yes, sir, over and over again. Last
year I lost, but this year I shall win. I 'a'c bet on
the favorite," — with tremendous earnestness.
He continued to do the honors of the place as
if he felt the pressure of the true host's instinct of
hospitality. " Did you notice the road on the left as you
came up, the road that goes through the woods ?
That's the road the Royal Party take to come here
on race-day. The other roads are free; but that

GOODWOOD. 107
one is reserved for the Duke and the Royal party.
And did you see the wood, sir, the birdless wood ?
It was on the right near the top of the long hill.
No birds are ever found there, and they die if they
build their nests there. Did you notice how still
it was ? It 's nearly a mile long. I don't like
it, it 's too still ; it 's like Sunday. I always run
past as fast as I can, and the deer always run
through it too. Did you see the deer ? There !
there go some now, over there, — and there's my
mamma. I must go now, please, sir. Good-day,
ma'am." He shook hands with us both, taking plenty of
time for his pretty, boyish civilities, and then he
was off like a shot. He joined a lady who was
standing on the lawn, and who appeared to be
searching for some one.
We passed them both a few moments later, as
we droA-e down the road on our way out. The lady
was holding the boy by the hand, and he was talk
ing away as hard as he could, looking up at her
with sAvift glances, and dancing along as boys
do when they are talking about what interests
them. The tAvo made a pretty picture, walking
along the smooth white road under the great dark

108 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
trees, the lady's muslin gown fluttering in her
grasp as she held above her head a white muslin
sunshade. She was bareheaded, and the sunlight
caught every once in a while in among the blond
braids and beat a tress into gold. She had a noble
carriage, and walked, as all Englishwomen of the
upper class do, with the dignity and flexibility of
women who, eA'cn when they sit or stand, seem
to be still in the saddle. The lady's bearing has
something soldierly in it, AAath an added grace and
elegance, however, that no soldier can ever hope to
possess. As we drove past, they both looked up. The boy
smiled, and his Jersey cap was Avaved at us as if
we had been old friends. The lady smiled too, and
boAved A-ery prettily, the pink in her clear cheek
flushing a shade deeper.
" For a countess she has uncommonly good man
ners, and so has her son. On the whole, I approve
of the aristocracy."
" How do you know she is a countess ? She
may be a housekeeper or — "
" Are n't you ashamed ? When she was so pretty,
too ! Well, she was a lady, whoever or whatever
she was, and I'm glad she came out this lovely

GOODWOOD. 109
morning to add one more picture to it all. How
her grace and refinement fitted into this delicate
background ! "
" Yes, I '11 admit that an Englishwoman crossing
an English laAvn is about as complete an ensemble
as one can hope to find anywhere on this round
earth ; and she was pretty," admitted Boston.
The memory of her refinement and beauty went
with us into the dust and heat of the highAvay on
our road towards Chichester. It comes up to me
now, as I write of her, with vivid keenness and
revived pleasure. I hope she still sometimes walks
about bareheaded, on summer mornings, with a
muslin sunshade over her head and that smile
on her sweet face.

110 CATHEDRAL DAYS.

CHAPTER VI.
FAREHAM. — WALTHAM. — THE VALLEY OF THE
ITCHEN.
/^UR drive to Fareham was, after all, postponed
^^ until the next afternoon. There was just
enough drizzle and mist, which came from no one
knew where, to make the prospect unpromising.
It was no part of our plan to wait for an English
sky to make up its mind to stop raining ; but we
thought we might arrange it with the barometer,
if it Avere in even a moderately accommodating
mood, not to force us to start out on our day's
drive in the rain.
The following afternoon, to repay us, the sun
came out in really radiant glorj', for an English
sun. Sometimes it seems as if England were a
little misty universe all to itself; as if the skies
were so full of teary stars, and the weeping moon
and the sun were so consumed by some hidden
grief, that they had neither the strength nor the
courage to shine as they do elsewhere. On this

FAREHAM. Ill
particular Wednesday the sun had concluded, ap
parently, to forget its particular sorrow^ and to
shine as if it were off a-holidaying, like ourselves.
Its brightness and radiance made our roadway
brilliant in beauty. The golden light was every
where : it was in the air, Avoven like a tissue in
among the trees ; it sparkled in diamond showers on
the roof-tops, and turned, with its Midas touch, even
the wayside stalks into " weeds of glorious feature."
We were still in the flat country of the plains ; a
few miles away from Chichester, however, glimpses
of the sea became more and more frequent. A con
tinuous chain of villages, hamlets, and farm-houses
skirted this coast of the sea, and followed us as
we turned inland. It was the most thickly popu
lated region we had as yet seen. Most of the
villages we passed were separated by a few farm
lands only ; as we clattered out of the cobble-paved
streets of one, we could see the roofs of the next,
just beyond, thickening behind the trees. This
procession of villages gave us a vivid sense of the
fact that so small an island as England should yet
haA-e a population of fifteen miUions ; the fifteen
millions live under their English sky as others
live under the roof of a house, in adjoining rooms.

112 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
The houses, even here in the open country, appeared
almost to touch one another.
The villagers bore a striking resemblance to
one another. Their only distinctive difference ap
peared to be a discriminating taste in dirt. All
were dirty, — houses, streets, children, and shops.
Some were superlatively and others only compara
tively filthy. The absence of gentlemen's seats
in this neighborhood doubtless accounted for the
slovenly appearance of these otherwise somewhat
pretty hamlets and villages.
Wealth refines as much as it tends to mitigate
the miseries of the lower classes. The human
animal is an imitatiA^e creature. A tradesman
learns to bow when he has a gentleman to deal
with ; but he is as unmannerly as the rest of
the village if he has only villagers as customers.
All the little shops looked mean, and all the shop
keepers frowsy and slatternly, as we passed them
swiftly, as if the latter had no ambition in life
Avliich made neatly brushed hair and a clean shirt
seem worth while.
There was a blot on the landscape that was
neither these dirty villages nor the f roAvsy villagers ;
the blot was the number of tramps we kept meeting.

FAREHAM. 113
Every half-mile or so, there Avere two or three of
these poor and wretched-looking wayfarers. They
toiled, in pairs or in groups of four and five, along
the dusty highway, dragging their rags after
them in an aimless, hopeless, despairing kind
of way. Who does not know the tramp's gait,
and his uncertain, shiftless, going-noAvhere-in-par-
ticular air ? The manner in which he wearily lifts
one foot as the other falls, tells his story. He
is society's outcast, and wears the fetters of his
own degradation. The English tramp adds A'icious-
ness to his despair. Most of these men Avhom
we met had a dangerous, sullen groAvl on their
sodden and bloated features. Their capacity for
villany had a ripened expression, we noticed, which
had stamped itself, like a brand of infamy, on their
hardened faces. Their being all more or less
drunk doubtless emphasized this vicious aspect.
Some few had the look of predestined sots, and
others appeared to have added drunkenness to
the list of their vices, as they had the other
accomplishments necessary to the equipment of
their career of crime.
Among the sots the women far outnumbered
the men. We passed several groups of these

114 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
poor, shameless creatures, seated or lying on the
roadside grass. One among them usually held a
dark, CAdl-looking bottle, which was passed to the
others and from which all drank without even the
thought of shame. Their all too frequent stop
ping at the tap-houses along the roads apparently
had not been enough to satisfy their demoniac
thirst ; they could not wait for that slower pro
cess of intoxication. There was no appearance of
gayety or merriment in the demeanor of these
poor creatures ; they seemed to be possessed solely
by the hideous determination of their vice. It is
only the Englishman, I think, who proceeds to
get as drunk as possible without mixing a little
enjoyment Avith the act.
This was the blot on the landscape, — these poor
drunken wretches and the many taverns and tap
houses we met at every turning. Every ten min
utes or so, we would see the familiar sign, " John
this, or Fanny that, licensed dealer in beer and
spirits." The women behind the bar, as avcII as
those the other side of it, appeared to do the most
flourishing trade in these licensed demons. In
more than half of these wayside taverns and beer-
shops the bar-tenders were Avomen, most of them

FAREHAM. 115
rosy, healthy, and fresh-looking, as conspicuously
free from the taint of the vice they dealt in as
their frailer customers were branded by its unmis
takable signs. It was the only refreshing human
spectacle we saw during the first miles of our day's
journey, — the sight of these hearty, strong, active
barmaids, who during the intervals of trade could
be seen easily enough through the wide-open doors
and windows, going about numberless domestic
duties. It is a characteristic of women shopkeep
ers, the world over, that they always appear to be
doing several things at once. These barmaids were
shopkeepers, but they were also mothers, house
keepers, gossips, and disciplinarians. Knitting and
Avhipping their children were evidently the occupa
tions only of the idle moments, when customers
were loafing over the couifter until the moment
came to order a fresh glass. The more serious
duties of sweeping, dusting, running sewing-ma
chines, dressing and undressing their numerous
offspring, Avere faithfully and efficiently performed
in the slack periods of business hours.
It was good to leaA'e it all behind us, — all
the wretchedness of the vice, and even the thrift
and energy which made money out of England's

116 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
curse. It was good to get at last into the broad
open country, and to have the last miles of our
journey lead us up a gentle hill or tAvo, into ripen
ing grain-fields and among the Avide meadows.
A long line of chalk cliffs defined themselves
above the meadows. Disposed at regular intervals
along its length Avere several large forts. These
we knew must be the famous Portsdown fortifica
tions, and that Portsmouth itself must be near.
A fcAV moments later, a dark mass against the
southern sky resolved itself into tall black chimney
pots, a forest of masts, and an indistinguishable med
ley of dusky buildings. This Avas Portsmouth.
The sight of a city and especially of a seaport
town in the distance seldom fails in impressive-
ness. Its size is doubled by the illusion which
atmospheric effect creates. Portsmouth, as Ave
passed it slowly, might have been London itself,
so vast and huge it looked, as it loomed forth
from its misty gloom of smoke and sea-fog. Only
the mast-heads and the steep chimneys, like the
radius of a crown, lifted themselves up into
the clear light. A fine noble castle towards the
farther end of the town, we knew to be Southsea
Castle. From the toAver of the castle the British

FAREHAM. 117
lion was flying with a more than usually belliger
ent aspect, as if inviting the world to mortal com
bat. Here on his own ground, with that mass of
forts behind him, armed to the teeth, ready to
fling the foe his iron gauntlet, there did indeed
seem little doubt as to the result of any foreign
attack. Coming thus suddenly out from the syl
van calm and repose of those meadow-fields which
we had left behind, into this bit of country brist
ling with fortifications, gave us a very realizing
sense of the causes that haA^e insured England's
meadoAvs having been free for so many centuries
from the heel of the foreign invader : she has
been careful to preserve her reputation of being
armed cap-a-pie ; and she has had a very ugly
way of showing her teeth through her visor at
the slightest proA'ocation on foreign soil.
The remainder of the road to Fareham was
rurally pretty, with hedge-rows untrimmed and
a trifle straggling, — farmers' hedge-rows, we con
cluded, because only pasture-lands and farms were
to be seen amid the gentle slopes that gradually
gained crescendo enough to become hills.
It was at the top of one of the longest of the
hills that the opening in a large-arched bridge

118 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
presented to our delighted eyes, as if Nature had
been in a generous mood and had come out to
give us a picture, our first glimpse of Fareham.
A green lawn-SAvept street, with charming little
houses masked in Amines ; a small inland lake or
pond, with drooping willows leaning sentimentally
over its banks ; a wagonette full of children with
a fair-haired mother driA'ing under the trees to
one of the larger houses facing the pond ; and a
huge hay-cart filled with A'illage youngsters pelting
one another with poppies, — such Avas our first
introduction to Fareham.
When Ave droA'c up to the low, broad, bow-win
dowed inn, Ave knew we had committed no mistake
in judgment when Ave had decided to stop at Fare
ham. There might be better inns and prettier
inland villages in England, but Fareham Ave Avere
entirely Avilling to accept as a specimen and model
of Avhat rural England possesses in the quaint,
the comfortable, and the picturesque.
A tall handsome woman, still young and mod
estly but prettily dressed, stepped out to greet us
with a smile, and in a pleasant, courteous tone
asked if we Avould like to see our rooms ; that
Avas the landlady. A fine-looking man, with

FAREHAM. 119
straight clear eyes, also smiling, came a moment
later, and took our hand-bags ; that was our
landlord. A bell was rung, and a grinning hostler
appeared, who took possession of Ballad, stroking
his wet coat as if he looked forward to rubbing
it doAAm as a matter of personal satisfaction ; that
was the stable-man. We saw him a few moments
later from our bedchamber window doing it, the
rubbing down, as if our getting Ballad into his
heated condition had been a special favor to
him. A Avaiter next appeared, also smiling, and
a be-ribboned chambermaid, both of Avhom, Avith
the landlady, preceded us to our rooms. They all
stopped smiling only to begin it again Avhen fresh
orders were given. The rooms were in perfect
order, yet the landlady bestirred herself to readjust
a vase on the mantelpiece ; and the chambermaid
shook out the snow-white curtains as if to display
their purity. The waiter was too absorbed in
undoing shawl-straps and dusting the luggage to
give himself up to decorative embellishment. The
rooms were perfect in the dainty completeness
of their outfit. There was a sitting-room, with
a broad bow-shaped window fronting on the wide
village street, a table with writing-materials at just

120 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
the right angle in that pretty crescent, really com
fortable chairs, and a reading-lamp. For " dumb
companions," on the wall were some quaint old
prints. The bedchamber was as pure as a virgin's
bower, — a high four-post bedstead Avith cotton
hangings, a dressing-table in white curtains, and
pale faded blue walls with the print of last-cen
tury designs on them. About the Avhole establish
ment, indeed, — about the little inn, the rooms, and
the Adllage street, as we looked out into it, — there
was this old-time air, as if the comfort and the
purity and the courtesy had not been thought of
and arranged yesterday, but had slowly grown
during the long, quiet generations, and been pa
tiently and lovingly added to, until this modest,
tranquil, and altogether charming perfection had
been attained.
On the whole, we concluded that our waiter
was the most complete, as a product, among this
assemblage of perfections. Perhaps it was because
we ended by seeing more of him than of the
others in the little inn. He served all of our
meals, of course ; and he was so genially, cour
teously garrulous it was impossible not to become
more or less acquainted with him. There was

FAREHAM. 121
an air of past acquaintance with gentility about-
Brown, as he told us to call him, which assured
us that he had not learned his manners even in
this perfect little inn. He had ways of passing
a plate and of filling one's glass suggestive of a
certain distant familiarity, as if family secrets in
a remote past had found their way to his ear and
he had not been found unworthy of the trust.
His glance was beautifully paternal ; and there
was a general benedictory appearance about his
somewhat fat and flabby person which, to a watch
ful eye, carried with it a vague conviction of his
having frequently played the part of a good Provi
dence to young lovers and to wayward youth. The
smile he wore — the sweet, bland, mildly gleeful
smile — could only have been acquired in a life
consecrated to secret conspiracies against some
thing Avliich ought not to be found out. We
attributed something of his interest in us to the
fact that he appeared to entertain a veiled but
A^igorous suspicion that we were on our wedding
journey. He had for me a specially protective
and tender manner, which was occasionally illu
mined by a pregnant smile that seemed to promise
an understood compact of secrecy.

122 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
Like most conspirators. Brown had himself
evidently fallen a victim to his own talent for
intrigue. The color and size of his most conspic
uous organ, his nose, betrayed his all too frequent
stealthy dealings with his master's port.
His respect for us began with the inspection of
the wines Boston ordered. His friendship for me
dated from the moment he learned that I took no
champagne ; regard deepened into admiration when
he further was ordered to water my glass of
claret — he was certain now that the bottles
would outlast Boston's thirst. He next devoted
himself to the satisfying of another appetite almost
stronger than the vinous habit. He was too com
plete a provincial not to be curious.
" BroAvn, how far is it to Winchester ?"
" Twenty miles, sir, — a fine drive, sir." And
then discreetly, a second later, " A long ways, sir,
from the North too, sir."
" The North ? "
" The North of England. I took you for a
Lincolnshire gentleman, begging your pardon."
" We did n't come from the North ; we came
from London."
Surprise tempered by a vague incredulity was

FAREHAM. 123
to be read in BroAvn's respectful glance. But his
sense of decorum was too strong to embolden him
to make further inquiries.
" London is a fine place, sir. I 've been there in
my time."
" Yes, London is a fine city — as is New York.
We come from Ncav York; we are Americans."
Boston had taken pity on him, his disappoint
ment Avas so visibly poignant. But the effect of
the revelation of our nationality appeared to be
wilder Brown to the point of rendering him speech
less. He feebly repeated " America," and began
eying us furtively, as if he expected us suddenly
to break out into some strange antics of behavior.
He made an errand immediately after into the
hall-way, where the ribbons of the chambermaid
were fluttering behind the door.
The chambermaid peeped at us through the
cracks of the door. A few moments later, the
landlord made an excuse for taking a more thor
ough and satisfactory inspection of our appear
ance by entering after dinner to ask if the trap
would be needed early the next morning. We CA-en
suspected that some of the travellers in the inn had
been taken into the landlord's confidence ; for the

124 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
family next door to us, whom we had seen grouped
about a pretty tea-table in the adjoining bow-
window, manifested great interest in our incoming
and out-going. They filled the broad windows,
craning their necks over one another's shoulders
to get a better look. Even the handsome landlady
stared after us as Ave passed out into the street.
" Don't let us do it again, — don't let us say we
are Americans ; it makes us so conspicuous. They
are always expecting us to do something queer,"
I said, as avc strolled out.
" That is the reason I do mention it. I want
them to sec wc don't do anything queer. I 'm
giving them a little lesson in the manners and
customs of an unknown country. There is no
better way to prove that we are like all other
civilized people than by being like them."
" Well, if you want to turn our pleasure-trip
into an illustrated lecture, you can do so ; I pre
fer to travel incognito. They may take me for
a chimpanzee if only they will not stare."
" That they can't help doing, my dear," was
Boston's gallant rejoinder ; but I observed that to
keep his conviction up to the level of his gallantry,
he was obliged to light another cigar.

FAREHAM. 125
From a woman's point of view, a twilight walk
is the best knoAvn substitute for a man's medita-
tiA'e after-dinner cigar. Walking abroad is at least
an escape from the brooding melancholy which
twilight breeds in-doors. The after-dinner hour in
rural England is perhaps the only really trying
one of the tourist's day. The tempting al-fresco ar
rangements which one finds in almost all continen
tal summer inns or hotels, — the cosey, charming
gardens, the shrubs in pots, and the bits of foli
age under AA'hose shade are placed the little iron
settees and tea-tables so subtly suggestive of tete-
d-tetes and prolonged starlit confidences, — these
are unknown in England. The national standards
of reserve and decorum forbid the traveller's en
joyment — unless taken in conformity with English
notions and ideals of propriety. Rigid seclusion is
the first of the Briton's canons of good travelling-
behavior. An English inn is built on the plan
of a series of separate fortifications ; each travel
ler must be as unapproachable from inspection or
intrusion as four walls can make him.
Even a balcony with an awning is a combination
of the picturesque and the comfortable that no Eng
lish inn has yet dreamed of adding to its list of

126 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
luxuries. There are but two refuges, — the coffee-
room, A\diich is English for our American dining
and reading room in one, or one's own private
sitting-room. In the coffee-room commercial trav
ellers and business men are to be found reading
the papers or writing letters ; but even their
presence the waiters seem to look upon as intru
sive. All Englishwomen who respect themselves
dine and sit in their sitting-rooms. This latter
custom Ave had ourselves adopted as by far the
more comfortable as well as the pleasanter Avay
of travelling in England. "With the national
habit of and delight in personal privacy come
many compensations ; for surely no other mode
of inn or hotel life, in spite of pretty garden-beds
and alfresco tefe-d-tetes on hard little iron chairs
or settees beneath the shade of trees, is com
parable to this cosey, home-like English fashion,
which insures privacy and at least some sem
blance of home quiet, repose, and security. I
know of no sensation more soothing, no simple
delight more complete, than that of toasting one's
slippered feet OA-er the fire in the pretty sitting-
room of some old English inn, while the noiseless
waiter brings the five-o'clock tea; or later, when

FAREHAM. 127
he spreads the dining-cloth the repast is accom
panied with the luxurious sense of the stillness
and the peace about one, with no flare of gas
light nor stare of curious-eyed fellow-travellers.
It is this feeling of security and exclusiveness
which turns an inn into a temporary home.
That our little inn was looked upon in the
light of a home at certain hours by various dwell
ers in this Fareham village, was proved to us
during the evening. There came, towards nine of
the clock, a sound of footfalls along the little hall,
the opening and shutting of the dull green baize
door which screened the room directly behind the
small office. Tones of deep voices and of pleas
ant chit-chat echoed through the resounding little
house, which, with its well-seasoned walls and tim
bers, was as resonant as an old violin. A sound
of hissing boiling water, the click of glasses, and
the unmistakable rattle of the spirituous artillery
of a bar became more and more frequent.
"Where are you going?" asked Boston, behind
his newspaper, as I started towards the open door.
" I am going to see how the village looks by
starlight," I replied, with the miserable duplicity
common to our sex.

128 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
" Nonsense ! you can see it just as well from the
bow-window." But I was already half-way down the broad
stairs. An instant later I was out upon the little
street. Starlight was certainly very becoming
to the rural little town. The trees and the low
houses seemed to coquet with the darkness. But
what I had come to see, of course, was the picture
the other side of that green baize door. Had I
been a man, with a man's propensity for being
the other side of green baize doors, I should long
ere this have gone there honestly and straight
forwardly. Being a woman, with a hopelessly
incurable and unconventional taste for looking at
that part of life which is hidden away from us,
I must needs intrigue to gain what was, after
all, a very innocent pleasure. At last, a somewhat
late but most obliging tapster turned in at our
door. He made straightway for the green baize
door. He opened it A\ade, and I, close upon his
heels, saw the picture I had come to see. There
was a long bright-red covered table, with tAvo or
three shaded lamps upon it. At the head of the
table sat tlie handsome landlady, looking hand
somer than ever now ; for she was an evening

FAREHAM. 129
beauty, with tawny tints in her eyes and hair that
needed a wealth of light to bring out all their
hidden depths of color. Her husband Avas moA--
ing about, filling glasses and passing pipes around.
There were fifteen or twenty men seated in large
comfortable chairs. There was no noisy talk or
loud laughter. It was, I should say, a rather
exceptionably well-bred gathering for any part of
the world, — a gathering of men in whose society
no A\'oman need be ashamed to sit. Perhaps the
woman's being there was the cause of the good
manners, of the quiet, and the orderly self-restraint.
Whatever the cause, it all made a very comfortable,
cosey, home-like English scene.
Our twilight walk through the Fareham streets
had proved it to be a dull little town, with only
a few fine old houses along its principal thorough
fare ; so the next morning we Avere off early on
our way to Winchester.
The road from the start was enchanting. It
lay between fields and meadows brilliant in har
vest-ripening grain, and there were farms dotted
among them at just the right distances to make
dark, rich bits of color in the landscape. The
whole country breathed the peace of agricultural
9

130 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
activity, with enough variety in outline to preserve
it from monotony. A charming bit of country
three miles from Fareham we knew to be Waltham
Chase, famous among mediaeA'al sportsmen for its
deer. Henry IL and Coeur de Lion had come, a
few centuries ago, 'to pursue this sport and to
partake of the gay and splendid hospitality of the
bishop's palace, the ruins of which we came upon
a few miles farther on.
A few straggling houses and a church made a
bit of a village. Then, at a sharp turn in the
road, we drove past the magnificent ruins of the
old palace, close beside the roadway, with a little
lake on our right. The blue sky was framed in
a dozen great arches, and the grasses and ivy
had taken permanent possession of the grand
halls and the roofless chambers. In its days of
glory the palace must have been a kingly dwelling.
The size and extent of the ruined arches, and the
extensive walls were still suggestive of noble
proportions, while the carvings over the windows
and doorways Avere of lovely delicacy of work
manship. One could Avell believe that this palace
must have been one of the finest examples in
England of fifteenth-century domestic architecture.

WALTHAM. 131
Bishop Henri de Blois, who in the intervals of
king-making turned to the fine art of building as
his favorite pastime, certainly achieved one of his
finest masterpieces in Waltham Castle. Mediaeval
architect-bishops were artists as well as inspired
builders ; for none but an artist would have built
a great palace beside this lovely little lake, the
former abbot's pond, once noted for its stores of
fish, now the haunt of swalloAvs and meadow-larks,
who fluttered amid the tall grasses, singing their
little hearts out as if conscious that they were
the only live beings amid all this ddbris of dead
greatness. To haA'e looked out into this silent
lake from yonder palace casements must have been
like suddenly confronting Nature's quiet eye in the
midst of the stormy conflict of the human passions
shut up within those stately walls. What ideal
surroundings for the Court and the great pre
lates to take their pleasure in ! — the country over
running with summer and fragrance, as rurally
rustic as the palace was magnificently splendid ;
Waltham Chase as their happy hunting-ground;
and Winchester within easy distance, if there were
pageants or councils or tournaments in the day's
round of pleasure or duty.

132 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
I presume it is as well, from the progressionist's
point of view, to have been born as late as
possible ; but there are weak moments when His
tory runs her fingers lightly over those forgot
ten notes of gay and debonair pleasures, A\dien
one would willingly forego many of the advan
tages which we of these later centuries so serenely
enjoy, to have liA'ed in those fine old days, when
the gayer delights of life were pursued as ardently
as leisure and culture or money-making are now-a-
days striven for, when life was not all a tragedy,
and comedy tripped its light measure across the
field of existence, flecking it Avith brilliant, riant
dashes of color and joy.
These reflections were doubtless suggested by
the fact that our afternoon's driA^e bristled with
historical associations. After leaving the palace,
with its dead-and-gone company of pleasure-loving
bishops, we passed close by Avington House, once
the residence of Charles II. , and still more famous
as the property of that luckless member of the
Brydges family who, marrying the Countess of
Shrewsbury, came to that sad end of unloved hus
bands by the sword of his faithless Avife's lover,
the Duke of Buckingham. The picture of that

THE VALLEY OF THE ITCHEN. 133
intrepid and audacious lady, apparelled as a page,
calmly holding her lover's horse while the duel
went on, that comes down to us in our garru
lous friend Pepys's diary, fitted in as a compan
ion portrait to those of the gay bishops avIio
Avere so sure of heaven that they could afford
to indulge in endless bouts of pleasure Avhile on
earth. Ballad, not having the wickedness of others to
enliven his journey, gave signs of drooping just
as we drove into the lovely valley of the Itchen,
along the banks of the famous little river that
makes this stretch of meadow-land one of Eng
land's most picturesque bits. Its beauty was even
greater than its fame ; it was a divine little val
ley. The road wound in and out under avenues
of noble elms and oaks, between gentle slopes
coA'ered with golden grain ; there were sleek cat
tle standing up to their middle in the flower-
banked river ; there were odors in the air so
luscious that the Avhole valley seemed a garden
of perfume ; the grass was thicker, the trees were
taller, the meadows were fairer, than Ave had yet
seen elsewhere ; and the whole valley, its sweet
ness and plenty and peace, was delicately lighted

134 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
by a rosy glow which made earth and sky seem
quivering in a luminous pink bath.
At a turn in the road we saw a city's roofs
and spires glistening on the sides and summit
of a hill directly in front of us. This city was
Winchester,

WINCHESTER. 135

CHAPTER VII.
WINCHESTER.
" T AM glad Ballad is tired and hot ; we can go
as slow as avc like," I said, as we began
to mount the hill.
" You mean as slow as he likes. He is, as you
have justly observed, an admirable walker. As
a walker I think he would bear off the prize in
any slow go-as-you-please gait ; and like most of
us, what he does best he does oftenest."
" Now, I call that ungrateful. He 's done par
ticularly well to-day. Just think how quick we 'a'c
come ! And all those hills ! "
" Which Ave 'A'e walked up, all three of us."
" And Avho liked the walking, pray, and would
get out again and again to see views and things ? "
" Well, never mind Ballad ; he 's done well
enough. But this is pretty jolly, is n't it ? Ballad
may walk, the slower the better."
I should hardly have selected the word jolly to
describe the scene about us ; but men have a

136 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
constitutional distaste for forcible or pictorial
phraseology. I suppose the superlatives came in
when women began to talk.
The prospect was, in truth, enchanting. We
were slowly making the ascent of a hillside Avhich,
at first an elm-shaded country-road, became grad
ually a city street. Above, glistening in the pink
sunset, were a mass of red roofs and a tall tower
on the summit, the latter rising into the sky like
a tinted plume on some warrior's head-gear; for
the city, in spite of its rosy light, looked gray and
armor-encased. There were bits of old walls and
ancient towers and turrets, with lancet loop-holes,
to remind one of mediaeval contests. The jagged
teeth on the crenellated towers were set against
the pink sky, like lion's claws on velvet.
Of the general topography of the city we could
only be certain of a few conspicuous features :
first, that it was built along the banks of the
Itchen, watering its feet pleasantly in the pretty
stream ; then, that it took an upward bend along
the steep sides of a long hillside ; and finally, that
it cooled its brow on the summit, after its tortuous
climb. Opposite, on the other side of the river,
was the famous St. Catherine Hill, a long line

WINCHESTER. 137
of chalky ridges. Our own way led us more and
more into a series of thickly settled, picturesque,
but citified-looking streets. The bustle and traffic
of a busy town-life were besetting our ears as we
drove under the arched doorway of our inn.
Three waiters in white ties helped us to descend.
A vision of a French cook coifed in his white cor
nered hat, seen through the vines that screened
the kitchen from the courtyard, assured us that
the cuisine felt it had a reputation to sustain.
" Winchester has, I believe, always had the rep
utation of liA-ing well," remarked Boston, compla
cently, after we had ordered a dinner designed as
a delicate compliment to the only nation that under
stands making good soups.
" Yes ; a city of bishops may be trusted to do
that much. I suppose they imported their French
cooks along with the taste for Norman arches. But
do look at those chairs and at all the furniture !
Has n't it a preposterously ecclesiastical air ? "
Boston laughed, and said he should be mistaking
the buffet for an altar-piece and the bed for a
chantry, he was certain, now that I had suggested
the resemblance.

138 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
There was, in truth, an absurdly impressiA-e ap
pearance about the furniture of our two stately
rooms. All the furniture had a high-church, epis
copalian aspect. There appeared to have been
a pronounced taste for Gothic chairs and severe
perpendicular outlines in the tables and sofas se
lected. No prints more profane than an assem
blage of celebrated church councils or cathedral
interiors adorned the walls. It was just the sort
of room in which a bishop might rehearse, with
suitable gravity, scenes to be enacted later in the
chapter-house ; he need not look in the mirror to
see a reflection of his oavu dignity.
The soup and the entries were up to the approA^ed
ecclesiastical standard ; they were also worthy of
the nationality of their maker. Only an English
man, however, can be trusted to cook Southdown
mutton, we regretfully confided to each other as
we looked upon the joint done to a crisp.
Better than the French soup was the view from
our windows. We were in luck again. The win
dows of our sitting-room opened upon the city's
chief thoroughfare.
It was a beautiful and perfect little jewel of an
old street. It was dehghtfully irregular, wandering

WINCHESTER. 139
up the hill with the undulatory, uneven progress
we had noticed as a characteristic of the Arundel
High Street. It began its existence, as we found
on a later inspection, at a bridge Avhich covered
the little river near an old mill. At the top of
the hill it was crowned by a noble gateway and a
fine mass of famous old buildings. The bustling,
gay street had retained its medigeval aspect in a
wonderful degree. It had the bulging fagades, the
projecting casements, and the gabled roofs which
the earlier builders knew so well how to combine.
They had divined the secret that the beauty of a
street, like the charm of the human face, depends
more on expression than on any mere perfection
in symmetry. The street is lined with palaces,
shops, hospitals, gateways, a sixteenth-century pi
azza, beneath whose open arcades nineteenth-cen
tury citizens still lounge and gossip, a market
cross, and the old-fashioned open butchers' stalls,
whose warm meats communicate a pleasant cu
linary odor to the atmosphere. The western gate
way at its summit seems to cut off Winchester
from the rest of the world, as it did in reality
of old when it had its own private little sins to
commit. The Itchen, at its feet, is still the slen-

140 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
der umbilical cord connecting the city with the
rest of the kingdom, on whose destiny Winchester
has had so powerful an influence.
To write the history of this street would be to
write the history of most of England's stirring
events. It can be, indeed, with no ordinary tourist's set
of commonplace emotions that one wanders about
Winchester. The city is as full of historical
suggestiveness as any in England. It has made
enough history to suffice for a very respectable
national career. It is an epitome of all the Eng
lish virtues, and has possessed its share of English
capacity for crime. It has been murderous, treach
erous, imperious, dictatorial, tyrannical ; it has
founded some of the finest charities, has built some
of the noblest buildings, and perpetuated some of
the most admirable educational systems in the
world. While its murders have left a brilliant
stain on its palace steps, and its lighter crimes
have peopled its halls Avith a Avhispering-gallery
of ghosts, in the midst of its wickedness Win
chester experienced brief returns to virtue, when
enough good was done to make the blot on its
escutcheon seem dim by comparison.

WINCHESTER. 141
Winchester could not haA-e been English if it
had not conscientiously erected buildings enough
to commemorate its goodness, knoAving, with the
prescience of a bad conscience, that its wickedness
could safely be left to historians. It is the office
of history to be the embalmer of human frailty.
The passion for building Avas doubtless invented
when the great found their virtues were in danger
of being buried with them.
" I think, on the whole, architecture and the
virtues have the best of it here in Winchester,"
remarked Boston, as I propounded to him the
above conclusion.
" Wait till you re-read its history."
" I don't intend to. Virtue and beauty are good
enough for me. After all, Avhy should we care how
wicked they were when they 've left us this ? " —
Avith a comprehensive sweep of his hand.
The gesture included a distant group of turrets,
the gateway at the top of the hill, the King's Cross,
a great iron arm stretching half-way across the
street holding the toAvn clock, and a beautiful old
arched doorway, which was too tempting not to end
by luring us to pass beneath it; for we were out
once more to take a twilight walk about the city.

142

CATHEDRAL DAYS.

The archway led us into a quaint, perfect little
bit of a street. It was filled up at one end by a
curious old church, Avliich Ave learned later was
named St. Lawrence, whose portal Avas almost
hidden out of sight, tucked away amid a lot of
tiny shops and queer low-browed houses. In the
half-dusk of the twilight hour there Avas some
thing indescribably mysterious about this assem
blage of closely packed old buildings. They had
the air of conspirators. The silence added to the
secrecy of the effect ; the archAvay seemed to
separate this retired little corner from the bustle
and activity of the broader thoroughfare.
A rustle of trees in the SAveet dusky air made
us hasten our steps. The little street ended as
abruptly as it had begun. We had soon passed
into a large open space. Then, directly in front, at
an oblique angle, there loomed up into the gloom
of the coming night a superb avenue of elms. Be
yond them loomed something else so A-ast and
stupendous it could be nothing saA-e the great
cathedral itself.
We passed under the green arch of the elms,
over the. short sweet grass of the close. Grave
stones Avcre dimly glistening here and there in the

Old Houses in Close, Winchester.

Page 142.

WINCHESTER. 143
fading light, while the delicate mystery of twilight
melting into night was thickening about us. A
few steps farther on, the green arch above us came
to an end, and the huge fagade of the cathedral
rose into the sky. In the rich gloom its stupen
dous outlines seemed almost to touch the stars
that were coming out to light it. All details Avere
lost ; only the mass as a Avhole Avas defined for us
by the mingled play of the gloom and the tender
glow. A splendid sweep of shadowy light swept
the length of the long naA'e, girdling it Avith dark
ness, — a darkness which had deepened in the great
buttresses till they looked like fissures in a hill
side. All the light there was in the sky had fo
cussed itself on the southern transept and the low
square central tower, beating the marble into a
dulled jewelled iridescence. The sloping roof, as
it rose into the light, looked like the pyramidal
line of some great mountain ridge, tenderly ethere-
alized as it neared heaven.
It was not its size Avhich made this first A'iew
of the cathedral so penetratingly impressive. It
was the grandeur and the unspeakable majesty
which the influences of the hour bestowed. The
silence, the quiet stars, the dark mantle of the

144

CATHEDRAL DAYS.

night, made an isolation as remote from the pro
fane surroundings of the outer world as if the
great cathedral had been transported to some
Egyptian desert and were resting on those silent
sands. If the modern sight-seer fails to be impressed
by some of the great spectacles of the world, and
finds his emotional activities but feebly stirred
before some of the shrines of beauty the world
holds sacred, I am conA-inced it is because the mo
ment of observation is rarely rightly chosen. Art,
like Nature, has her poetical moods, Avhen she can
be studied under perfect conditions. The artist
comes to learn the workings of these rare and fit
ful periods. If he sees deeper into beauty and
lives nearer to it, it is because he has grown to
know intuitively this moment of its tenderest,
loveliest bloom.
How different, for instance, would have been our
impressions of this famous cathedral had we seen
it first under the disenchanting influences of our
next morning's approach ! The broad sunlight
made the conspiracy of the little old buildings a
very prosaic array of bric-a-brac shops. On the
greensAvard of the close, among the gravestones,

Winchester Cathedral.

Page 144.

WINCHESTER. 145
on a A-ery cheerful footing of intimacy, apparently,
with these solemn reminders of death, were some
children and goats plaj-ing at hide-and-seek. At
the rear of the cathedral, near some rather
shabby-looking buildings, hung some washing, —
irreverent garments fluttering their new-born
whiteness in the A-ery face of their magnificent
neighbor. Even the cathedral partook, at a first glance,
of the general disillusionment. It was great, it
Avas magnificent, both from its size and because
of its noble proportions. But at first, and before
one comes to the period of accepting its defects
and looking only for the beauties Avhich end by
making one oblivious of the former, a vague
feeling of disappointment ensues ; it comes from
the sense that the vast mass is lacking, as a
whole, in those qualities of the picturesque Avhich
are among the pre-eminently essential qualifica
tions of an impressive architectural ensemble.
The eye unconsciously searches somewhat rest
lessly over the huge pile for a finished toAver or
for some imposing turret or spire, Avhose spring
and lightness will float the mass and lift it into
the sky. 10

146 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
Once within the cathedral, however, one is
only conscious of an overwhelming delight and
admiration. The fact that the entrance through
the western front had seemed insignificant as the
approach to so splendid a building, is forgotten
now. The glorious flood of light pouring in
through the great western window, to which the
entire fagade was sacrificed by Bishop Edington,
renders one oblivious to all else save the sense of
the splendid lighting that makes the farthermost
perspectives clear as a noonday forest. It is due
to this famous Edington Avindow that the cathedral,
the largest this side of the Alps, is the least gloomy
in all the Avorld. It has an open-air, sunlit atmos
phere I remember in no other of the great English
or continental cathedrals.
A curious story is told of the glass in this win
dow. After Cromwell's soldiers had run tlieir
swords through each jewelled figure that filled the
splendid old A^-indows, some industrious and pains
taking citizen Aveiit about collecting the broken
fragments that lay on the floor. These Avere by
him carefully preserved ; and after the restoration
had made it safe for them to be produced, this
discreet and far-seeing preserver returned his

WINCHESTER. 147
valuable collection to the cathedral. The bits were
carefully arrayed in a heterogeneous mosaic, and
noAV form a kind of crazj--quilt pattern in the
traceries of the huge Avindow. The rich reds,
the deep purples, and the golden ambers gleam
Avith all their old famed jewelled lustre. The
sunlight, imprisoned in those nests of color,
escapes to carry the secret of its luminous
brilliancy into the farthermost shadows, tinting
the dusk under the great roof, and flecking in
" patterns of fine gold " the uneven tomb-paved
floor. Through the maze of that prismatic morn
ing light we passed slowly down the great nave
under its glorious perpendicular archings ; we lin
gered for a long half-hour in the rough, unfinished
Norman transepts, remains of the Cyclopean work
left by the early Norman bishop-builders. The
Avarrior has left the impress of his military taste
on all these early Norman cathedrals. It is easily
seen to be the work of men who Avere accustomed
to build fortresses as Av-ell as cathedrals, when
the cathedrals, indeed, were fortresses and must
be strong before they could be beautiful. These
grand old transepts might have resisted any num
ber of sieges. There are centuries of significant

148 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
change in manners and in men to be read in the
tremendous contrast afforded between those deli
cate, perpendicular, branching traceries out yonder
in the nave, and these giant fortress-like transepts.
Think of the audacity of the man who should dare
to transform those stern features into the elegance
and symmetry of the later Gothic ! The man Avhose
genius and daring made him divine that such a
transformation was possible, Avas William of Wyke-
ham. His predecessors, in order to complete the
beauty of the great cathedral, had added either
entirely new portions, such as the Lady Chapel,
built by Bishop de Lucy, or the original Norman
structure had been taken doAvn and entirely re
constructed, as was done under Bishop Edington
in the presbytery, the western portion of the nave,
and the triforium. But it was reserved for the
original genius of Bishop Wykeham to deliber
ately change the old Norman work to the soaring
perpendicular into which the Gothic of his day
had only just begun to bloom. So triumphant
Avas the success of this stupendous venture that
not a trace of the Norman structure in the long
nave, the most beautiful in England, or in the
aisles, is to be discovered. This triumphant feat

WINCHESTER. 149
probably stands unrivalled in the history of archi
tectural transformations. The three great features
of the interior of Winchester — the elaborate per
pendicular nave and side aisles, the rude colossal
Norman transepts, and the lovely Early English
of De Lucy's work in the presbytery — combine in
producing such an ensemble of striking architec
tural contrasts as makes this interior perhaps
unrivalled in interest in England. It would cer
tainly be difficult to conceiA-e of a result more
remarkable in the union of the grand and the
picturesque. Part of this picturesqueness is due to
its being- so richly furnished with tombs, chantries,
statues, monuments, and banners. The chiselled
monuments and stately airy chantries branch in
their upshooting lines toAvards the great roof, like
slender tree-trunks beneath the shade of loftier
forest-heights. Under one of the stateliest of
the throne-like chantries we came upon William
of Wykeham's tomb. Only some semblance of a
throne would haA-e sufficed to enshrine the mem
ory of so autocratic a spirit. He was one of
those magnificent prelates who during his life
" reigned at court," according to Froissart, " every
thing being done by him, and nothing without

150 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
him." With such superlative pre-eminence dur
ing a long and triumphant earthly career, when
he " reigned " as courtier, wit, engineer, architect,
bishop, and chancellor, he would hardly have been
human if he had not Avished to carry something
of this state with him beyond the shades of death ;
so that it is no surprise to learn that betAveen the
busy hours of so varied and brilliant a career
Wykeham found time to arrange it Avitli his archi
tectural genius to raise a monument in his own
behalf. This chantry, with its rich and yet regally
majestic elegance and severity of style, Avas de
signed by him and built on the spot where, as
a boy, he had been wont to offer up his childish
prayers to the Virgin. One can forgive much
of that foolish yet harmless human frailty, the
vain longing for eternal remembrance, to a man
Avliose transcendent genius peopled England Avith
some of its noblest buildings, and Avho, it is sup
posed, A\'as the real inventor of perpendicular tra
cery, that last and richest fruit to bloom on the
lovely Gothic stem.
Chantries, tombs, monuments, and mortuary
urns succeed one another in such bewildering vari
ety, blazoning forth such a wealth of A-irtue, such

WINCHESTER. 151
a multitude of military achievements, such an in
exhaustible array of talents and capacities, that
genius and goodness and greatness come to appear
as commonplace here as mediocrity elsewhere.
Winchester has, indeed, been so rich in great
men that even the largest cathedral in England
is found none too large in Avliich to bury them.
Greatness under its aisles dwindled into such
dwarfed proportions that in the presljytery yon
der, above the screens, in those quaintly curious
mortuary chests, the bones of Saxon kings and
bishops lie comfortably mingled together.
King Ruf us might himself be in very grave doubt
as to the authenticity of his own osseous frame
work, since what are supposed to be the royal
fragments of that monarch were picked up after
the fall of the tower, and somcAvhat promiscuously
handled later by irrcA'crent Parliamentary troops.
Verily the wearing of a crown has not been found
to be the most stable performance even in an Eng
lish burying-ground.
Some among the wearers of ecclesiastical crowns
liaA-e been suffered to lie in more comparative peace.
Even in death the hand that carries the pastoral
staff seems to hold Avithin its grasp heaven's

152 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
hidden thunderbolt of vengeance. To connect the
staff with any idea of spiritual guidance in the
case of some among these bishops would be to de
mand some very athletic gymnastics on the part
of one's imagination. With Henri de Blois, for
instance, — that fine old martial prelate Avho " wore
arms, mingled in war, and indulged in all the
cruelties and exactions of the time;" who, Avlien he
was not fighting or king-making or stealing bene
fices or castles, filled his leisure Avith the refined
amusements of building ; Avho also could found
the noblest charities as easily as he could "con
vey," in Pistol's phrase, a foot of Saint Agatha or
the thumb of Saint James for his cathedral Avlien
the latter was in need of some really notably holy
relics, — one would hardly go to such a middle-
age combination of ferocity, genius, and unscrupu-
lousncss for a delicate adjustment of one's spiritual
relations with Deity.
Under the masses of the stone embroideries
which cover almost ev-ery inch of the great Beau
fort's chantry yonder, lies the stately recumbent
figure of the Cardinal, whose portrait Shakspeare
has immortalized with even more vivid force than
the sculptor's chisel. It is a dark portraiture,

WINCHESTER. 153
Av-ith Rembrandtish shadows of iniquity in it ; but
that picturesque mingling of the good and the bad
there was in the all too 'M'ich Cardinal," the stately
Beaufort, Avill survive all attempts of the historian
to produce a more faithful and lenient delineation.
It was a relief to turn away from the vices of
the great, and even from the magnificence of the
state in which the dark glory of their achicA-e-
ments lie buried, to the unostentatious, simple
tombs about us, — to those poorer tablets and
monuments Avhich commemorate the gentler lives
of some whom Ave haA-e all grown to love — as
one loves the nobler, sweeter influences.
Under a white tablet, as pure and snowy as her
spirit, in the north aisle, lies the body of Jane
Austen. The inscription is characterized by a
directness and simplicity so admirable she her
self might have been the writer thereof : " Jane
Austen, known to many by her writings, endeared
to her family by the varied charms of her char
acter, and ennobled by Christian faith and charity,
was born at Steventon, in the county of Hants,
Dec. 16, 1775, and buried in this cathedral July
24, 1817. She opencth her mouth Avith Avisdom,
and in her tongue is the law of kindness."

154 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
A soul as gentle, and one whose delicate genius
for discovering the hidden joys that dwell in the
world has made him the immortal companion of
every lover of the woods and streams, is buried in
the opposite transept. Izaak Walton, that "prince
of fishermen," lies under a plain black marble slab,
as humbly as he doubtless walked among his in
feriors, in his shabby hose and neglected Avig, dur
ing his peace-loving life. As he is known to have
died iu the house of his son-in-law, who Avas a
prebendary of Winchester, all the streams and
river-banks near the city must have been the
scenes of his sylvan experiences and the inspira
tion of that genial philosophy AAdiich has made the
delicate flame of his genius light up so many of
our dull hours.
But with the best disposition in the world to
linger among the tombs of these lesser great ones,
Avhose immortality has been won by the more
plebeian birthright of genius, so richly incrusted
is this cathedral with the memorials and reminders
of those Avhom destiny and history in combination
have crowned with fame, that one is confronted at
every turn with some new name or device wliicli
arrests the eye and stays the step.

WINCHESTER. 155
We had turned into the Lady Chapel to look at
some particularly lovely bacchic ornamentation on
some of the capitals, — vines, grapes, leaves, and
tendrils as tenderly carved as if meant to crown
a god instead of a column, — when Ave chanced on
a faded chair. The chair in itself Avas not remark
able either for beauty or grace ; but in that moon-
shaped curA-e and on that now worn and faded
veh-et Queen Mary had sat Avhen in this chapel
she gaA^e her hand to Philip of Spain. It was
the wickedest hand-clasp ever interchanged ; for
it was the pledge of those two cold-blooded fa
natics to make English heretical blood floAV farther
than English rivers run. English beauty, however,
as if foreseeing its decimation, had, at this wed
ding ceremony, a moment of brilliant triumph be
fore the lights were put out and the fagots Avere
fired ; for the historians of the period tell us that
the English court beauties put the darker olive-
cheeked Spanish women under a total eclipse in
the beautiful little chapel. Their fresh complex
ions made their Southern sisters look sallow.
They completed their revenge later at the mar
riage banquet and ball, where their stateliness
made Spanish grace seem wanting in elegance.

156 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
Even a little persecution could be endured with
equanimity after such a triumph. A few years
later, the Gallic saying "II faut souffrir pour
etre belle " needed, presumably, no translator.
In spite of this unhalloAved association, it is im
possible not to return again and again to this
apsidal portion of the cathedral. The wealth of
ornamentation and the inexhaustible variety of
beauty in the choir, presliytery, chapels, and
chantries, together with the marvellously lovely
lighting, or rather darkening, from the effect of
the deep shadows, make this eastern end full of
peculiar fascination. In the choir one lingers
longest, perhaps, over the carved stalls, whose
delicate foliaged ornamentation seems to have
been carved liy the sun and the Avind rather than
by the chisel. Beyond is the magnificent reredos,
so ingeniously elaborate as to make the minutiae
of lace-work insignificant by comi)arison. Behind
this great altar screen-work of embroidery is
a series of shrines knoAvn as the feretra, or
shrines, of patron saints. Here the glory of
Avorkmanship has given place to the strictly pro
fessional necessities of the place ; for here, in
early superstitious days, sick persons, aAvaiting

Chantries, "Winchester.

Page 156.

WINCHESTER. 157
some miraculous cure, were alloAved to remain
over night, that they might tJie more obstinately
wrench their salvation from the saints enshrined
aboA-e, — from Saint Swithun, Saint Birinus, and
other sainted workers of cures.
With the superstition something also of that
olden talent for religious enthusiasm has A-anished.
Those ardent troops of pilgrims, who Avere so sure
of their saints, are now replaced by pilgrims bent
on a very different mission. The pilgrims in
search of the picturesque, who level opera-glasses
at the stone effigies whose feet those earlier pilgrims
bathed with the passion of their believing tears,
are more numerous now, on week-days at least,
than the Avorshippers. We came again and again,
at all hours and at all seasons, to morning and
evening service, in the hours when the whole of
the vast interior should resound only to the echo
of devout footsteps, and it was always the tour
ist, rather than the worshipper, who formed the
conspicuous plurality among the visitors. The
Enolishman and the Englishwoman (who is the
better saint) do not go to church to pray. The
closet is a place more in conformity with the
national reserve and the abhorrence of emotional

158 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
parade. Thus these great and magnificent cathe
drals are as empty and as silent as deserted
palaces. At evening service, it is true, dark
drab-colored figures, old ladies with sweet pious
faces and an air of subdued provincial calm, a
few younger women, among them sometimes a
lovely fair-faced girl, and a child or two, passed
within the choir screen and formed the little band
of A\-orshippers, for whom the long line of deans,
choristers, and A-ergers, with their elaborate vest
ments, seemed a useless and wasted pageant.
One misses the troops of beggars — the squad
of the ill-clad, the cold, the hungry, and the
homeless — Avho flock under the great roofs of
the continental cathedrals as to a natural refuge.
One misses also the earnest passionate faces, the
lips moving in half-audible prayer as the fingers
slip over the worn pater-nosters, the boAved forms,
and the bended knee of those more spectacular-
loving worshippers who loA-e to make their piety
a public thing.
Here, on the contrary, there is the dignity of
reserve, there is order, there is the holy calm of
silence. Even the chairs under the great aisles
are placed in precise lines. They can safely be

WINCHESTER. 159
left there ; none will come to disturb them. The
priests issue from their vestry clothed in the
majesty of their dignified calm ; the lessons are
intoned with beautiful but cold correctness; the
boy-choristers' voices rise up under the great
arches Avith sexless purity and unimpassioned ac
cent ; the prayers are whisperingly responded to
by the little group of the devout ; and then all
silently rise and pass out, and God's temple is as
silent as a tomb.
One must come to England to see Avhat Protes
tantism really means as a religion, — how deep
the religious feeling may be, and yet how calm
and unmoved, almost to the point of seeming in
difference, the outward bearing remains. I have
sometimes wondered if the tenacious English rev
erence for decency may not be a strong and potent
element in their religious observance ; if in the
logical make-up of even the dullest and poorest
there may not be some vague notion of the relation
that ought to exist between a clean shirt and a
conscience pure enough to approach its Maker.
Certain it is that one rarely if ever sees a tattered
worshipper under these vast aisles. It is' a pity,
because, once Avithin, the beggar would find him-

160 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
self in a company of his fellows. The saints wear
their rags and ruined draperies very complacently.
But then they were canonized for it ; and enforced
impecuniosity, in search of eleemosynary pennies,
cannot always be sure of earning an aureole to
make its poverty glorious.

A COLLEGE AND AN ALMSHOUSE. 161

CHAPTER VIII.
A COLLEGE AND AN ALMSHOUSE.
"NT 0 little city ever lent itself so admirably to
¦'- ^ the innocent designs of two tourists bent
on the capture of every hidden secret of its ancient
charm and antique beauty, as Winchester. One
may almost count on an adventure with the pic
turesque at every turning. A surprise appears
to lie in wait for one at the corner of each of
its perfect streets. Gateways open at most unex
pected angles, beneath which one passes from the
bustle of its lively old streets into the cloistral
calm of some ancient convent or palace ; or one
confronts the crenellated tops of mediseval Avails to
find within such a nest of old houses, in so per
fect a state of preservation as to make it appear
that the enclosure had been built for the sole
purpose of affording a fortified protection against
decay and ruin.
The contrast presented between such model
specimens of antique life and the active, stir-
11

162 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
ring, every-day modern living invests these old
towns and cities with their perfect quality and
charm. In spite of its venerable and austerely
remote age, Winchester ends by impressing one
with its having already included the nineteenth
century among its collection of historical periods.
The bargaining, for instance, which we could not
fail to notice, from the quite audible tones in
the little open shops, gave us a very realizing
feeling that if time was fleeting, trade at least
was long. The Winchester buyers and tradesmen
have not lost all their ancient talent for investing
the simple act of buying and selling with those
difficulties which raise it into an art. Its citizens
have had a long tutelage in trade. From the time
of the early Norman kings to the reign of Henry
VIIL, its great annual fairs on St. Giles' Hill, just
outside the toAvn, attracted the great merchants
from Flanders and France and Italy, who came to
buy English cloth. The little city still retains
some pretty customs and habits as a legacy of
that lost glory of commercial supremacy. We
chanced to prolong our stay OA'er the market-day,
which, in England, is still held on Saturday. Early
in the morning strolling venders and pedlers

A COLLEGE AND AN ALMSHOUSE. 163
erected little booths and improvised gay holiday
sliow-s along the undulating High Street. All day
the thoroughfare was thickly packed with a swarm
ing mass of humanity, — w-ith farmers and their
Avives, the latter in wonderful poke-bonnets of
the last century, and their more modern daugh
ters in the modified French poke of our own
decade ; with townspeople and county squires,
AA'ho croAvded about the shops, the booths, and
the gayly decked carts, thronging into the mid
dle of the street and filling the air with the
noise of their bargaining. There Avere brilliant
dashes of color among the dull blouses and
the flimsy printed lawns, contributed by the
numerous red coats of the soldiers ; for Win
chester is a brigade station, and aa-c concluded
that the entire brigade had assumed, as part of
its military obligations, the duty of lighting
up the sombre nineteenth-century dulness Avith
the brave splendor of its fatigue-coats and gold
lace. We followed, at a discreet distance, a group of
these sons of war on their stroll through the
crowd, up to the top of the hill. It was partly
with the desire to learn Avhcther the day's unwonted

164 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
animation had spread up and beyond the imperial
crown of the great gateway, and also because we
were in search of a palace and a fountain. The
sons of Avar deserted us before we had discovered
either. They passed, in a body, beneath a swing
ing open door near the gateway. The door re
mained open long enough for us to catch a
glimpse of a charming pair of blue eyes, a mass
of curly hair, a trim jaunty figure, and a row
of shining glasses. We Avere no longer in doubt
as to the cause of the brigade's unanimous pref
erence for beer a mile aAvay from the barracks,
even if to drink it they must climb the long steep
hill. The fountain lay so close to the little beer-shop
that we could hear the click of the glasses and the
short bass notes in the laughs that went up within.
The admonition contained in the lines cut on the
stone pedestal of the fountain seemed curiously
ineffectual and meaningless with that rival estab
lishment and its potent magnet so near. Who
Avould even stop to read the appeal on the old
fountain ? — " Stop, friends, and drink your fill,
And do not use my fountain ill."

A COLLEGE AND AN ALMSHOUSE. 165
The thin stream of water trickling into the
open basin seemed of a piece with most of the
wise counsel in the world,— a slender treble of
warning drowned by the loud chorus of the
unheeding. The mass of gray shadow which filled up the
foreground directly in front of us, as we turned to
the right, could be nothing else save the palace
Avhich we had come to find. If it was a palace
it had so very pronounced an ecclesiastical aspect
as at first to lead us to infer it Avas a church. But
as we had been told to find in this ancient pal
ace of Henry III.'s reign one of the most perfect
examples of domestic architecture of that palace-
building period, the fact of its interior being
divided into aisles by pillars, and its long church
like windows, that further served to emphasize its
religious character, proved the deficiencies of our
own architectural standards. The series of mur
ders — which historians, with more amenity than
veracity, call executions — that have taken place
in the courtyard of the castle make it, on the
whole, much safer for the tourist at once to estab
lish its identity as a palace. The Church has had
so many such dark stains to hide within its own

166 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
mantle, it is but generous to allow the State to
stand sponsor for a few of those bloody necessities.
The luckless Earl of Kent came to his execution
here ; and in the seventeenth century scA-cral
priests marched Avearily up the long hill to look
their last on earth over the stone parapet AAdiich
crow-ns the hill, and beyond which lies such a
glorious prospect of the city, the cathedral, and the
sloping hills.
The least depressing association with this palace
is the fact that to its keeping has fallen the honor
of preseiwing a rare and singular painting. It is
so old that its history is lost in conjecture. The
painting represents King Arthur's Round Table ;
the gallant king himself in the centre, Avearing his
crown, the twenty-four radiations of which bear
each the name of some famous knight. The
severe, upright-looking monarch, Avith his gro
tesque limbs out of draAving, and his strange
history-flowering crown, seemed admirably in keep
ing with the solemn cathedral-like interior, the
heraldic bearings on the old stained glass, and
the air of brooding silence we had left behind us.
It was the ghost of the past come to take posses
sion of this ghoulish palace.

A COLLEGE AND AN ALMSHOUSE. 167
Our walk that afternoon did not end with our
discoA-ery of the castle. We descended the hill by
making a detour among a number of little streets,
aA-oiding the more thronged thoroughfare. We
Avere rewarded for our temerity in plunging into
these unknown labyrinths by stumbling on a
number of little adventures. We learned, among
other things, that all of the Winchester inhabi
tants who Avere not shopping on High Street were
very busy doing nothing, unless lolling out of
narrow casements and leaning against door-jambs,
exchanging the small pence of couA-ersational
amenities, may be termed a form of industry. It
was quite evident that market-day in the little
city was looked upon as a quasi holiday, — a time
for a loosening of the moral tension and for an
unwonted indulgence in the breaking of the
eternal English silence. We might almost haA-e
thought ourselves in some French toAvn, such was
the din of the voices and the clatter of heavy-
booted feet over the rough stones. The faces could
never have been anything but English, Avith their
fresh high color, their calm and immobile expres
sion, and the soft liquid eyes. Beauty among the
women in England appears to diminish in proper-

168 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
tion as the rank in life increases. These streets
were filled with charmingly pretty girls and fine-
looking women, Avhose type can only be classed
as rustic, because the Avord seems best to describe
the delicious quality of their freshness and riant
health. Two girls standing in an open doorway,
with close little English hats and white netted
veils, made a charming little picture for us as we
passed down one of the wider streets. Their air
of simple unaffected naturalness was rather height
ened than otherwise by the fact that they were
both munching tarts ; and this proof of their
hearty and unabashed young appetites reminded
us forcibly that a Iavo hours' walk up and down
crooked streets would make the sight of a cake-
shop a most welcome spectacle.
At the turn of the next street, as if in answer
to our Avish, we stumbled on a really astonishing
collection of pastry. For nearly Iavo streets, on
either side of the way, every other shop appeared
to be a cake-shop. Every variety of jumble, muffin,
tart, seed-cake, plum-cake, and turnover, knoAvn
to the invcntiA-e mind of cake-making man, was
arranged in such multitudinous confusion and pro
fusion that nothing but a proximity of boy could

A COLLEGE AND AN ALMSHOUSE. 169
possibly explain so many rival establishments ey
ing one another so complacently.
" I have my suspicions that we are nearing the
college ; only a college could eat and pay for so
much pastry," I remarked to Boston, as we stood
making our choice of the several shop-windows in
front of us.
The suspicions were entirely confirmed by the
appearance of tAvo dashing young fellows, carrying
the train of their black gowns over their arms, and
wearing the well-knoAvn three-cornered Wykeham-
ite hat. They were of stalwart build, and both
boasted a very perceptible growth of A-irgin mus
taches ; and they were engaged in no less serious
an occupation than the eating of two large seed
cakes. Age in this case, it w-as quite evident,
had nothing to do with an appreciation of tarts.
The shops, A\-e discovered as we strolled past them,
were peopled with numbers of young gentlemen
of similar tastes ; however grown up their appear
ance might proclaim them to be, their capacity for
devouring unlimited cakes proved there was nothing
venerable at least in their fresh young appetites.
College Street, which ended by leading us directly
to the college, is flanked on the side nearest that

170 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
famous collection of buildings by a wall so high
and so formidably protectiA-e as to suggest its
capacity for withstanding a very respectable siege.
Doubtless the Avail has served this A-ery obvious
purpose in the defence and security of the build
ings ; for these latter date back to a time AA'hen
every house needed to be a fortress. In Saxon
days Winchester had already gained its reputa
tion as an educational centre. King Alfred and
Ethelwold were sent here to be under the influ
ence of the learned Saint Swithun. Five hun
dred years later, when William of Wykeham raised
the present noble buildings on their ancient founda
tions, the system of education which he established
increased the fame of the college to such a de
gree as to make it stand among the first in the
Avorld, — a pre-eminence it maintains until the pres
ent day.
As we entered the courtyard, we seemed all
at once to have entered into a different climate.
There was something peculiarly soft and sweet in
the air. It Avas more than SAveet ; it was sweetish.
The air was heavy Avith a fragrance which ap
peared to penetrate into all parts of the grounds
and the buildings. When we learned later that

A COLLEGE AND AN ALMSHOUSE. 171
the college still brcAvs its own beer, the mystery of
this rich soft odor was revealed. It is the dis
tilling that makes the college appear to have a
climate of its OAvn. William of Wykeham had
presumably some relish for the good things of
life, although doubtless his taste did not take the
now classical Wykehamite preference for tarts
over other dainties. He made very ample provis
ion that his boys should not suffer for the essen
tials of life. Beside the brewery, which is close to
the street, there stands a building, now empty,
Av-here until very recently the college did its own
beef-killing. With an abattoir, a brewery, and the
college bakers and cooks, the institution Avas as
independent of the rest of the Avorld as all self-
respecting institutions should be.
That a man's stomach was of far more impor
tance than the condition of his skin in those old
days before the fine art of cleanliness was dis
covered, w-as very forcibly proved by the contrast
presented betw-een the grand old medieval kitchen,
of the proportions of a palace audience-chamber,
and the Avashing apparatus of the same period.
The latter is now shown among the curiosities
of the college. In the courtyard was a low

172 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
arched recess, within which stood a moderately-
sized square stone trough. This, Ave were assured,
was the primitive lavatory, bath and basin in one,
of those less scrupulously cleanly days. It was
assuredly most complete in the economy of its
equipment. No Yankee invention for supplying
an entire college with an apparatus of that nature,
one which should combine simplicity with cheap
ness, could hope to equal so perfect an arrange
ment. Imagine the spectacle of seventy or eighty
boys in line on frosty mornings, awaiting their
turn at that ice-cold basin. Such a reminder of
past sufferings makes one's sympathies with
the great medieval unwashed very active. The
only wonder is, since English boys have grown
up under influences so adverse to the develop
ment of a love of personal cleanliness, how it
comes that the daily bath has now become the
sign by Avhich, the world OA-er, the Englishman
betrays his nationality. In keeping Avith the Spar
tan severity of the washing-trough Avas the primi
tive character of the dormitories. A still more
eloquent reminder of the discipline maintained
in those ruder, hardier days was the warning
mottoes on the Avails of the big school-room, — " Aut

A COLLEGE AND AN ALMSHOUSE. 173
disce aut discede : manet sors tertia csedi," — and
the various devices illustrating the same ; one of
the quaint paintings being a vivid portrayal of the
meaning of " sors tertia " — the birch. The old
oak forms, on which the boys sit astride, and their
" scots " still remain ; both bear the hieroglyphic
writing of which every boy appears to have the
secret. Architecturally one's interest centres in the
college chapel, which is of great beauty. It bears
evidence, in all the features of its refined and
perfect proportions, of the genius and taste of its
builder, William of Wykeham having built it in
1387. It is the more interesting as proving that
wonderful architect's versatility in dealing with
different styles, the severe simplicity of the Early
English interior of this delightful little chapel
differing as widely as possible from the more
ornate perpendicular of his work in the cathedral.
The cloisters are in an equally perfect state of
preservation, with some rare and charming tracer
ies in the arcades. Here, in the cool sweet damp
of the summer-time, the Wykehamites in olden
days came to walk or to sit as they conned their
lessons. The stone benches are as worn as if they

174 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
had been made originally of more impressionable
wood. They are as scratched with names and
dates as only school-boys and glaciers know how
to scratch. Many of the names one reads over the
archways or along the cornices are among those
now great and famous. Among them the initials
" T. K." are a reminder of Bishop Ken, that
courageous churchman who, as Prebendary Ken,
refused to allow- the gay wanton Nell GAvynne to
enter the deanery on the occasions when her lover
Charles II. had the impulse to lodge there during
one of his flying visits.
Another kind of hand-writing still more elo
quent than these scrawled great names is Avritten
on the tablets and brasses in the little open
arcade adjoining the chapel. Here, as avcII as
in the chapel, are memorial tablets commemo
rating the bravery and gallant deeds of those
Wykehamites who have fallen on the battle-field
in defence of their country. Some bore very recent
dates. The Zulu and Afghanistan Avars have
moAvn doAvn many a Winchester hero ; and here
Avas the record of their glorious courage blazoned
in gold and black on the shining brass tablets.
There is something stupendously fine in this speedy

A COLLEGE AND AN ALMSHOUSE. 175
recognition of heroism. In England, if a man
loses his life for his country, at least he may count
on her not forgetting the sacrifice. This admi
rable and hearty recognition of a man's services
must breed the very heroism it commemorates.
There can be no more stirring appeal to youthful
imaginations and to young courage than just such
eloquence as this, — the eloquence of heroism aure-
oled by death and crowned by public recognition.
It was impossible, however, to entertain such
a sombre assemblage of departed heroes in the
company of the very lively young gentlemen who
were engaged in cricket and ball matches in the
playground at the back of the college buildings.
These grounds are of great extent, ending only
with the river, Avliich makes a silver thread of
gleaming light in among the more distant meadows.
There were a number of the boys crossing the
river, on their way up towards St. Catherine Hill,
a favorite playground on a still wider plane of
extension. It all formed a charming, brilliant
prospect, — the green fields, the splendid trees, the
soft summer sky, and the added animation of the
romping, ball-tossing, fine young English lads with
their bats and their cricket.

176 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
Their holiday gayety was infectious. In spite of
our long walk we did not feel in the least inclined
to go back into the narrow, close little streets of
the city. These soft, brilliant meadows and the
flowery river-banks were altogether too tempting
company to forsake on such a golden afternoon.
Our stroll took us along the very edge of the
river, under noble trees, with the full breadth of
the hills on the opposite side, on which the after
noon shadows were sleeping as if on a mother's
breast. We traversed several fields, green, star-
gemmed w-ith the trefoiled buttercup, and behold !
again more ruins. A noble mass sprang up, as if
magic impelled, at a sudden bend in the road.
In taking the most innocent walk about Win
chester, bent only on pastoral pleasures, it is not
safe, apparently, to venture forth Avithout one's
guide-book and an exceedingly alert imagination.
Our memory and our imagination served us
admirably that afternoon in establishing the date
and the history of this beautiful crumbling pile of
buildings. We kncAv the ruins could be none
other than those of Wolversy Castle, formerly the
great and splendid Bishop's Palace. It was de
molished in the time of the civil war, and never

A COLLEGE AND AN ALMSHOUSE. 177
entirely rebuilt, the bishops having taken refuge
in Farnham Castle, Surrey, which latter scat has
since been the Bishop's Palace. Nothing more
admirable could be conceived than the taste of
the Commonwealth troopers in making such a su
perb collection of ruins just here. The river, the
surrounding green fields, the tender protecting
foliage, and the delightful grouping made by the
crumbling castle in the foreground, Avith the little
modernized perpendicular chapel, and beyond, the
square mass of the cathedral tower, made as com
plete a picturesque ensemble as the most fastidious
tourist's eye could desire. Even Henri de Blois,
Av-ho built the great Bishop's Castle, would have
forgiven his iconoclastic countrymen who destroyed
it, if he could but have seen how charming a pic
ture it made under the soft haze of that August
afternoon. Unquestionably the bishops made the
best builders ; but Cromwell's troops made the
best ruin-makers, and I am not quite sure that,
in the end, the ruins of a country do not become
even more famous than its buildings. A ruin is
an appeal to the least gifted, architecturally, to do
a little building on their own account.
With the ruins, our discoveries had not come
12

178 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
to an end. Just beyond them, a fine square tower
amid a mass of foliage began to grow nearer and
nearer. It grew also more beautiful. A few steps
farther on, and we saw that it was attached to a
massive old Norman church. A long high wall
seemed to shut it off from the surrounding fields
and the cluster of houses immediately about us.
Soon we discovered a fine arched gateway, of re
markable beauty, with a square octagonal turret,
A\-hich we had no hesitation in approaching, since
the door stood invitingly open. Having passed
Avithin the portal, we found ourselves in a small
quadrangle, Avhence issued a porter with a black
hat and a demand for sixpence apiece. To our
inquiries as to where we Avere to go, after having
crossed his hand Avith the required stipend, he
waved us toAvards another gateway. Here we
stepped into a larger quadrangle, within whose
broad space was a group of wonderful buildings.
Directly in front Avas the church, whose tower
had led us hither. At the right a row of the
quaintest, primmest, whitest, neatest little houses
formed two sides of the angle of the bright green
square of grass-plot that made a dazzling spot of
brightness in the midst of the open court. In

A COLLEGE AND AN ALMSHOUSE. 179
front of each house was a gay little garden, and up
the fagade of each house-front ran a tall straight
chimney. It was so entirely obvious that there
being just so many chimneys, so many gardens,
and so many little houses concealed some intention
in the mind of the builder and designer, that 1
proceeded at once to count them. There were just
thirteen. " I know what this place is," I cried, in the de
light of my discoA'ery. " It is St. Cross. Those
are the thirteen houses of the thirteen old brethren,
and this is their church ; and — and there comes
one of the old men out to meet us." For a gray-
haired upright old gentleman had appeared all at
once in one of the doorways of the little houses.
He wore a black gown with a silver cross on his
breast, and that Ave both knew to be the dress of
the St. Cross Brethren.
We had been reading only the day before of this
beautiful old charity, one of the oldest and most
famed in England, — how that Henri de Blois, in
the midst of his fighting and palace-building, had
found time to think of the poor and the aged. He
founded St. Cross, in 1136, as a hospital, designed
as a retreat for thirteen old men who were unable

180 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
to furnish means for their OAvn support. There
were to be also daily doles for many who resided
outside the hospital. Under Cardinal Beaufort,
it was made more of a conventual establish
ment. This great churchman changed its name to
" The Almshouse of Noble Poverty," and added
priors, nuns, and brethren. During the troublous
period of the Middle Ages, St. Cross was enabled
to keep its endoAvments, although many abuses
crept in. Its original purpose has gradually been
restored, hoAvever, and now it is admirably admin
istered by trustees, the former number of thirteen
inmates and the "Wayfarer's Dole " being retained
in virtue of its founder's original intention. The
brethren come from all parts of the kingdom, the
only eligibility being their inability to earn their
own livelihood.
" It is as well, assuredly, that the number is
limited to thirteen. If inability to earn one's own
livelihood be the only test, the hospital would other
wise be as crowded as a Roman amphitheatre.
1 know a good many who would be eligible. I am
not sure that I myself would be aboA-e submitting
my failures to the test, if I could end my days in
such a retreat," said Boston, as we had strolled out

A COLLEGE AND AN ALMSHOUSE. 181
to meet the little old gentleman Avho was coming
towards us.
The place did, indeed, breathe the most tranquil,
peaceful, miAvorldly calm. It was so still that our
footfalls on the gravel Avalk made resounding
echoes. It was so neat, so bright, so exquisitely
dainty, with its clipped lawns and trim gardens
and spotless houses, that one became insensibly
possessed with the longing to become a part of
the noiseless, spotless purity.
We had been joined by our old gentleman,
Avho asked us, as he gave us a beautiful old-fash
ioned bow, adorned with the cheeriest smile, if we
Avished to be shown about. He preceded us, after
our reply in the affirmative, with so brisk and firm
a step that, in spite of his silver hair, Ave classed
him as among the younger members of the little
fraternity. He was beautifully erect, Avith such a
rich blue tinting his eye as bespoke the vigor of
his health. His Avhole personality diffused an air
of singular simplicity and contentment, such as
only cloistered seclusion appears to breed.
Convents and institutions create a distinct type
of face — the visage of those Avho live untouched
by the worry of the world and remote from its

182 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
activities. It was such a face as this that this
Brother had. It was serenely calm, with a child
like simplicity and credulity. What he had been
Avlien ho Avas an actor in his little world's drama,
it would have been impossible to conjecture.
Neither his troubles nor his disappointments, had
he ever had either, had left their mark on him.
Even the memory of his past appeared to haA-e
been left behind, with his relation to it. Now he
was only a Brother, — one of the little family who
receive their daily bread from the hand of charity,
and who, in taking it, liaA-e parted forever from the
outer Avorld, from its battles and its contests.
His pride in the fine old buildings was beautiful
to see. It was with an air of most satisfied pro
prietorship that he pointed out the chief architectu
ral features in the charming group of quaint and
rare structures that fronted on tlie two quadran
gles, — the churcli on the left, the cloisters leading
from it to the gatehouse aboA-e the former nuns'
old chambers, the kneeling figure of the cardinal
above the gate-arch, and the charming background
made by the great trees beyond in the open fields.
Later he led us into the fine old hall Avhich con
tains the offices, the old kitchen, and dining-hall.

A COLLEGE AND AN ALMSHOUSE. 183
His pride was tempered by the cheeriest good-
Jiumor and a certain boyish light-hearted gayety.
A little fountain of inward merriment appeared to
be perpetually playing Avithin ; it leaped out in his
kindly old eyes, and curved the sweet w-rinkled
corners of his fine old mouth. He grcAV merry,
indeed, as he was showing us the old kitchen, its
great roasting-apparatus, the huge spits, and the
quaint old ovens. To our inquiries as to Avhether
cooking was still carried on here, he gave a gay
little laugh as he answered, —
" Oh yes, indeed, ma'am, there is cookin' still done
here. We haA-e hot joints four times a week ; an'
on those big spits there 's still whole sheep roasted
on our gaudy days, as Ave call them."
" On gaudy days ? " I asked, a little wonderingiy.
" Yes, on festivals, ma'am, on holidays an' the
like, — on Whitsuntide, Michaelmas, Easter Sunday,
and other great days ; these are our gaudy days.
Then we eats the sheep, all together, the whole
thirteen on us, OA-er yonder in the old dining-room,
just to keep up the good old customs."
The dining-room, which we entered a moment
later, retains Avith a startling degree of preserva
tion its mediseval character. The high-pitched

184 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
timber roof, the minstrels' gallery, the upright
little stairway leading to the muniment room over
head, even the black jacks and the quaint tall and
narrow tables, remain to impart to this beautiful
old room the most completely fourteenth-century
air conceivable. In the centre of the room the
primitive brick fireplace is preserved, with its iron
railing. The brethren still make a fire here on
those famous " gaudy days," of a kind of pre
pared wood, instead of those great logs that for
merly burned there, that blackened the room
with their smoke, and turned the rafters to the
deep hue which still makes their shadows so rich
overhead. Even now it must be a goodly sight to
see the thirteen gathered here, even about a nine
teenth-century compromise of an open fire. But
the picturesque still lies in the dimmer perspec
tives of the past, when a group of minstrels over
head, in buff jerkin and leathern breeches, breathed
music out of their horns and quavering flutes ; Avhen
the old gentlemen sat at the deal tables yonder,
while a rude stone lamp, such as are shoAvn us in
the cases now, and the great fire blazing away on
the bricks, filling the air Avith the SAA-eet perfume
of burning w-ood, made the flaring flickering light ;

A COLLEGE AND AN ALMSHOUSE. 185
when the great and heavy leathern jacks — the
beer jugs — Avere passed from one shaking old hand
to another ; and as the fiddlers took up the jig
measure, one can fancy the feeble, cheery old song
that broke forth as the little company of jolly old
brethren filled their glasses ancAV and drank to
the health of the oldest.
The guide-books and the reference-books on
architecture will tell you that the church of St.
Cross is one of the most interesting of the style
known as the transition-Norman, although it also
possesses several Early English and Decorated
features of unusual beauty and distinction. The
first impression is certainly less Norman in charac
ter than early Gothic ; for the nave, wliich dates
from the twelfth century, with its remarkably
massive columns and heavy pointed archings,
belongs among the most admirable specimens of
Early English work. The choir is a superb ex
ample of transition-Norman, with exquisite zigzag
mouldings, and is further enriched now by the
polychrome decorations which were intrusted to
Mr. Butterfield. This decoration is as exact a
reproduction of the old work (all church interi
ors being profusely decorated and colored by the

186 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
mediaeA-al architects) as it was possible to make
it. Some faint bits of the older Avork are still to
be traced over one or two of the arches and along
the mouldings. The new painting produces very
brilliant and rich effects. At the first, indeed,
one is impressed with the sense that it is all a
little too brilliant, the strong colors interfering
with the effect of the simple massive richness
of the architectural details — a gaiety that offends,
so to speak. Doubtless time Avill soften these
rather too intense purples, reds, and blues, and
fuse their now someAvhat obtrusive garishness into
a more complete harmony with the architectural
ensemble. With an air of its being a personal grievance,
our conductor pointed to the vacancies left in the
floor and on the Avails by the stolen brasses, and
also referred in a melancholy tone to the fact that
all the glass was modern. While the nineteenth
century cannot hope satisfactorily to replace the
beautiful old brass-work, the fine memorial win-
doAvs in this perfect little church proA-e that the
old art of glass-making is not wholly a lost one.
They were very beautiful in color, and equally
strong in design.

A COLLEGE AND AN ALMSHOUSE. 187
We had gone to the rear of the church to look
out upon the fields and the noble trees. As we
stood for a moment, our eyes resting on the tran
quil rich pasture-lands, and the admirable group
ing of the buildings behind us defined against the
sky-line, a man crossed the laAvn within the quad
rangle. It Avas a beggar with a pack on his back.
He was turning towards the porter's lodge.
" Is he going for the dole ? " Boston asked our
little old gentleman, who was placidly eying him
out of the corner of his kindly blue eye.
" Oh yes, sir, that 's what he 's come for."
"Are they ahvays the same beggars, the same
wayfarers — or are they sometimes genuine ? "
'• Well, sir," the brother replied, Avith a little rip
ple of laughter, " some does come every day in the
summer-times; but for the most part it's poor
men going along the road Avho stops for the beer
and the bread. Many of them comes a long Avays
out of their road to get it ; it 's known, you know,
sir, and my good lady, all over the kingdom."
In his character of wayfarer, Boston concluded
that he also must test the quality of the hospital
beer. He declared it excellent, and avowed him
self quite ready for a second glass. The porter

188 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
and the brother both laughed, the former saying
that even the Prince of Wales himself could not be
given double measure. The porter further hastened
to assure Boston that that particular mug was the
one from which his Royal Highness had drunk on
his recent visit to the hospital ; at Avhich excellent
invention the old brother kept an unmoved face.
A few seconds later he had bloomed into his
habitual wreath of smiles, as he bade us farewell,
A^-hcn Boston had left a bit of shining sih'er in his
pink old liand. He stood, hat in hand, under the
great archway, boAving us out, his black gown mak
ing a dark mass of color against the bit of sky that
was framed in the arch. His kindly, smiling old
face seemed the epitome of the content, the peace,
and the calm that make this hospital one's ideal
of a home for sheltered old age.
'• What a ])lace for them to do their dying in ! '"
'• Has n't it seemed to you as if avc had strayed
into a little paradise of noiseless, restful calm ?
It "s like a bit out of some other planet, before
w-orry or dust or nerves were invented."
'¦ Or dying, you might add ; for it appears they
live forever. The porter told me that very few die
before reaching the nineties. One of them, who is

A COLLEGE AND AN ALMSHOUSE. 189
still aliA-e, has been here over forty years, and as
yet giA-es no hint of dying."
" Why should he ? I would n't if I were he. I
presume if none of us ever did anj-thing in particu
lar except to make a business of groAving as old as
possible, we should no doubt find it beset with diffi
culty. It is n't so easy as one thinks to die just
when it is expected one should."
" Well, it appears these old gentlemen surmount
the difficulty by dying as infrequently as possible.
And now which way home ? "
" By the river, by all means, and then we can
face the city and the sunset."
We journeyed towards a golden city, through
golden fields, under a golden tinted sky. Ea-cu
the river had changed to a rich amber. Each blade
of grass in the dying sunlight looked like a golden
dagger freshly unsheathed, and the trees appeared
to have absorbed the tinted light into their re
motest depths of shade. No hour, I think, reveals
the splendid luxuriance and perfection of English
foliage and verdure as does the short — the all too
short — golden sunset, which, like a torch, lights up
for one brilliant glorious moment into fullest splen
dor the riches of English efflorescence.

190 CATHEDRAL DAYS.

CHAPTER LX.
HURSLEY AND ROMSEY ABBEY.
T T was on the afternoon of the following day that
Ballad trotted up the steep hill of High Street
at a brisk speed, passed under the great gatcAvay,
and hurried us away from the beautiful old city.
Of the three. Ballad was the only one Avho carried
a light heart and a merry spirit out of the city.
Evidently the Winchester oats had been of an ex
cellent quality. Both Boston and I were under
the influence of so poignant a regret that only the
importance of a mail which had been telegraphed
to meet us at Salisbury on the followdng morning
could have had the power to force this decision
of leaving on us. Soon, howcA-er, the fresh sweet
air, the stretch of wide horizons, and the sense of
that quickened, more viA-id life which the excite
ment df going forth to meet new scenes awakens,
stirred our pulses into more responsive pleasure.
If one is forced to leave a city which one has

HURSLEY AND ROMSEY ABBEY. 191
grown to love, to be able to view it again and again
from some commanding height tempers at least
the poignancy of the parting. It is like the sweet
ened grief of holding a dear face between one's
palms and scanning each feature anew before the
wrench comes. Winchester, as we rose along the
crest of the hill behind the city, appeared to
us this last half-hour in a series of dissolving
views. As the hills grew steeper, the proportions
of the wonderful old city seemed to shrink away,
leaving only its nobler and more stupendous feat
ures to rise into a worthy rivalship Avith the en
compassing hills. The huge, uplifted mass of the
cathedral, as we looked down upon it through a
green valley of curving fields, seemed not unlike
some mountain in stone caiwed by those master
architects, the storm and the tempest. The houses
near it were dwarfed to the proportion of huts.
It was a prospect that led us to reflect that such
indeed had been, in the disproportionate mediaeval
days, the true relation existing betAveen the Church
and the world, when the former looked down upon
mortals only in the light of so much material for
the furnishing of the necessary pence with which
to rear its tem^Dle of holy scorn.

192 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
Ballad, not being given to philosophic reflections,
took a much less sentimental view of the hills.
They were, in truth, seemingly unending. It had
been one long continuous climb from the courtyard
of the " White Swan " up to this breezy eminence,
at least tw-o miles distant from the city gateway.
Among the admirable qualities which avc had
grown to admire in Ballad was his talent for
remembering a promise. They were, it is true,
always promises which, in moments of weakness,
we had made to him. But his tenacious memory
of the same pleased us, as proving the extent and
variety of his capacities. It was in virtue of a
covenant we had entered into along some of the
longer Fareham hills, to the effect that we should
walk up the longest and the steepest ascents, that
now, with the most confiding faith in our honor,
he appealed to us to redeem those pledges. He
stopped again and again, turning his deep brown
glance backward upon us, speaking, as only dumb
brutes can, with mute but eloquent entreaty. I,
for one, could resist no longer.
Boston soon joined me along the roadside,
swinging himself out of the low box-seat. But
Ballad's demands did not cease with having merely

HURSLEY AND ROMSEY ABBEY. 193
forced us to lighten his load. He possessed those
refinements of taste which characterize every true
walker. First of all, he loved companionship. He
loved best to have one of us on either side, so
close that the tip of his forehead or his long nose
touched our elbow as he plodded along. Neither
was he adverse to more caressiv-e advances, when
either one of us, witli an arm about his glossy
neck, would the better keep pace with his long
swinging gait. If we stopped to- examine the land
scape, he improved the moment to test the quality
of the roadside grass. But he was rather a gour
met than a gourmand ; one succulent taste of the
good roadside fare appeared to satisfy his delicate
but fastidious palate. The length of such a meal
was the most flattering proof Ave needed to assure
us of the richness of the soil.
It was in such amity of friendly companionship
that we all three toiled up the steep Winchester
hills. Once at the top, however, of the steepest,
and the splendid prospect made us stay our steps.
Far as the eye could reach the country stretched
itself out like an unrolled carpet at our feet. Hills
dipped into valleys only to rise again into hills, till
they and the far edges of the horizon were merged
1.3

194 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
into one indistinguishable blue. There were sev
eral miles of driving with this great prospect be
fore us, changing in some of the nearer details,
but the vast panoramic aspect remaining the same.
The county of Hampshire appeared to lie beneath
and out beyond us, as if, like some conscious
beauty, she were bent on displaying her charms on
this last day of our drive among her hills.
Hampshire is hilly, as Sussex is rolling. She is
a wild beauty, with a touch of unkempt disordered
loveliness about her, strange enough to find among
these Southern counties. Our journey through the
heart of her forest and in among her rude hillside-
villages was a revelation of the store of surprises
reserved for those who seek them out in this com
pact and wonderful little island. Here was a bit
of country almost as wild as some parts of our own
transatlantic continent. Instead of the park-like
meado^A-s of the Surrey downs, their trim gar
den finish, their sleek parterre perfections, these
hills and fields had a touch of nature's more
abandoned freedom. The trees were true moun
taineers, growing on perilous heights or where
best it pleased them, that they might prove their
hardihood in facing the elements.

HURSLEY AND ROMSEY ABBEY. 195
Of course, wild as was the aspect of the country,
there were still hedge-rows, or it would not have
been England. A roadway without hedge-rows,
from an Englishman's point of view, is only con
ceivable in a country whose gOA'ernment is cither
unconstitutional or in sad want of political repair.
These upland Hampshire hedges were quite
unobjectionable. They were charming in their
reckless disorder. They strewed the grassy road
side, in their gay abandonment, with the loose
petals of the wild white rose and the honeysuckle.
Their dense shade was the home of the robin. We
startled one of these crimson-liveried gentlemen as
we leaned over the top of a particularly odorous
hedge to catch a glimpse of a little old farmhouse
perched on the edge of a tiny precipice. We star
tled the robin, but we had very little effect on the
musician. He had begun his song amid the honey
suckle. Finding himself in good voice, he contin
ued his roulades, when we came to disturb his
serenade to their perfume. A shower of thrilling
notes descended as he whirled himself into the
upper skies. It was the revenge of the musician
in showing us how easily he could wing himself
into aerial spheres.

196 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
His song accentuated the stillness, the abso
lute quiet, and the forest-like remoteness. There
was not a sound except the nibbling of Ballad in
among the grasses, those now sky-distant robin-
notes, and the crackling amid the trees made by
unseen insects or squirrels. It was such a mo
ment as lingers afterward in the memory with
the resonance of a full rich chord.
In the midst of the hills Avas an ideal little
rustic. We had been driA-ing for se\-eral miles
without having seen even so remote a sign of
civilization as a distant church-spire. But at the
bottom of a series of hills we drove straight into a
little village which might have posed as the nymph
of the woodlands. It was Hursley, a village with
as wild a grace as the roses which coA-ered its
gabled and thatched old houses. Almost at the
entrance of its wide straggling little street was set
a beautiful ivy-grown church. Its round Saxon-
headed windows told its age and history. Our
guide-book had already furnished us with the se
cret which explained its admirable and perfect
state of preservation. The pious John Keble was
vicar here for many years, and generously gave the
money derived from the " Christian Year " for its

HURSLEY AND ROMSEY ABBEY. 197
restoration. There were some admirable brass tab
lets to be seen in the church, erected to the memory
of his Avife and himself, as well as an interesting
monument to Richard Cromwell. But we did not
stop to enter, as the congregation were just about
dispersing ; for it was Sunday, the first of our
drives on that day.
No time could have been chosen to see this
bit of English rustic life to better advantage.
The little congregation, as it came sloAA'ly forth in
groups of twos and threes from beneath the low
church portal, stood about on the green, or wan
dered quietly up the A-illage street into the open
doors of the thatched vine-covered houses. It was
strange to see the attempts at London fashions in
the women's dressing as they walked along the
little rural street ; they were the London fashions
of scA-eral seasons ago, so that their modernness
was not too startling. The men had the look of
discomfort and awkwardness common to the sex
when w-earing their Sunday broadcloth ; some of
the older farmers, howcA-er, wore their corduroys
and faded pink and yellow vests and great neckties,
in defiance of the modern modes. In spite of the
freshness and fairness of the younger w-omcn, it

198 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
was these latter — these fine, vigorous, sunburnt,
last-century faces among the old farmers — who
bore off the palm of beauty. Some among them
were superb types of English strength of build
and sturdy mould of feature. There was hardly
a Aveak face among them. But strong and robust
as was their general aspect, these farmers had a
look peculiar, I think, to an English farmer. It
was the look of mingled simplicity, honesty, and
peacefulness, which no French, German, or Ameri
can agriculturist ever successfully combines. It
is such an expression as can only come from long
descent and heredity, — from men who for gen
erations have lived on the same soil, have thought
the same thoughts, have had the same simple
ambitions, and yet whose intelligence has been of
an order which enabled them to take an active
personal interest in their contemporaneous political
surroundings. The French farmer, if he be intelli
gent, is too shrewd to be simple ; the German is
too stolid to be intelligent ; it is only the English
yeomanry Avho are at once industrious, intelligent,
and still rurally simple.
The younger men, we noticed, accompanied their
wives to the cottage or the farmhouse doors. Thev

HURSLEY AND ROMSEY ABBEY. 199
picked up a child or two who had run out to meet
them to joy in the unwonted Sunday delight of in
dulging in the happiness of a father and the sport
of being trundled by strong arms. But the older
men passed on farther down the street, with a
group of younger lads, embryonic young men, at
their heels. These turned Avith simultaneous ac
cord into a little tavern at the farthest extremity
of the village, — as far as possible from the church
at the other end and the omniscience of the v-icar's
eye, wc said to each other. They took their seats
about the long narrow tables in the little inn. The
orders for the eA-ening toddy Avere giA^en audibly
enough for us to hear as we stood without in the
courtyard; for Ballad had not been proof against
this example of profane Sabbath-breaking. He
had Avalked deliberately up to the village trough,
and had drained its contents. It was presumably,
also, purely in the interests of his character as a
student of rustic habits and customs, that Boston
was suddenly inspired to swing himself off the box-
seat and to declare that he Avas consumed with the
prevailing thirst. The noise within the little taA--
ern stopped for a brief moment as he stepped into
the low room ; but the strong rough voices broke

200

CATHEDRAL DAYS.

out again a moment later. Only seven of the tap
sters followed Boston to the door to look inquisi
tively at our trap. Ballad was evidently an un
known acquaintance, although each farmer did his
best to identify him.
" 'Ee 's frame Winchester, I tell 'ee."
" Naw, 'ee 's naw frame Winchester ; 'ee 's frame
deown yander, frame Salisbury."
"Naw, mon, 'ee's cum naw so fur; 'ee 's frame
Winchester." " You 're all wrong, — all of you ; he 's from Chi
chester," I called back at them, as we drove off with
a dash. It was sport to see them scatter like af
frighted geese, and fun to hear the mocking laugh
ter of the men within, which greeted the astonished
questioners as they ran back into the inner tap-room.
The discovery of two or three lawn gowns and
smart bonnets, each attended by a village swain,
in among the adjacent fields and woods, was proof
that not all the Hursley males were left behind in
the tap-room. These more sentimental villagers
were employing this classical courting-hour in the
useful purpose of inducing their lady-loves, doubt
less, to be the presiding rustic divinities of their
hearts and homes. These, once safely insured.

HURSLEY AND ROMSEY ABBEY. 201
could then comfortably be left for the tavern. It
is a law of sequence not w-holly unpractised among
what we are pleased to call the upper classes.
The road to Romsey, the little toAvn where we
were to sup and rest ere we pressed on to Salis
bury, was almost as picturesquely wild as that part
of it which had led us to Hursley. The prospect
was, however, not nearly so large and open. The
dense shade of the woodlands made the view-s of
the outlying country less frequent. The breaks
in the thick foliage only served to make such
glimpses the more interesting and admirable.
There Avere five miles more of delightful driving
through the woods, past the hedges and the quiet
grassy slopes, and we were rattling over the cobble-
paved streets of Romsey.
We count Romsey as among the discoveries of
our trip. We had only been told so much of the
charms of the little town as that it contained an
excellent inn Avliere we could break our fast, and
that near it Avas Lord Palmerston's beautiful seat
of Broadlands. But it is due to neither of these
attractions that Romsey remains to us among the
most perfect and complete of the little toAvns we
encountered on this charming tour.

202 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
The pearl of our discovery lay in the fact that
Romsey boasts of an abbey, which from its beauty
and its unique architectural features should be
counted as among the chief architectural Mec-
cas of all lovers of fine and rare old Norman
work. We classed ourselves amongst such lovers ;
yet it was only by a happy accident that we
made the discovery of Romsey Abbey's surpassing
beauties. We owe our seeing it at all to the landlady of
the " Deer Hound." She had stepped out to meet
us as we droA^e in under her cosey little brick court
yard. After greeting us with a courtesy which was
almost formidable in its ceremoniousness, owing to
the emphasis of her large and somewhat obese per
son, she ordered the hostler to unstrap the luggage.
We protested, explaining that we had stopped only
for supper and to water our horse. Had I foreseen
how keen her disappointment would be, I fear I
should have weakly yielded and have stopped over
night ; but she rallied almost instantly.
"Ho, very well, sir, we'll try to make you
as comfortable has possible, although most every
one stops, has they all goes to see the habbey.
You '11 go to see it, sir ; it 's the finest church

HURSLEY AND ROMSEY ABBEY. 203
in Hingland, an' I '11 make the lady a nice cup
of tea Avhile the gentleman steps over and rmgs
for the verger ; he 's opposite, an' '11 show you
everything." Her garrulousness was too good-natured to be
resented, although a trifle overpoAvering. Boston
broke the torrent of her talk by retreating under
cover of an excuse for looking after Ballad ; but
he did not escape without binding himself to look
up the verger. She then preceded me up a creak
ing winding flight of worn steps, leading me into a
large upper room evidently used as the inn coffee-
room. She lost not a moment in placing me in a
chair, in pouring the water into the kettle, in giv
ing a multitude of orders to a SAveet, fresh-looking
country-girl who obeyed them in silence, all the
w-hile continuing one of the longest, most endless,
wandering, and inconsequent monologues it has
ever been my punishment as a listener to endure.
Yet she was Avell versed in the history of her native
town, and she gave me a not uninteresting though
somewhat discursive synopsis of its existence.
The tea equalled her promise of its excellence.
I sat and sipped it as the stream of her talk poured
on. The room was fine and large, with rich old

204 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
mahogany cupboards and buffets, high straight-
backed chairs, and a mantelpiece with some lovely
old Tudor carvings. Its ample proportions and air
of prosperous antiquity matched well with the
appearance of its owner, AA-hose generous outlines,
dimpled rosy cheeks, and glittering gold chain bore
evidence to the successful business done at the
" Deer Hound." Her father had kept it before
her, she said. And did I know how old the old
house was ? Almost as old as Romsey itself, and
the town dated back to Alfred the Great. For the
" habbey " was built by Edward his son, as a
coiiA-ent, and the Nuns' Garden w^as still shown,
and the Nuns' Door. The convent had been a rich
one in its day, but all that had gone with popery,
and now it was only the parish church. And we
must look in the choir for the tombs and monu
ments of the Saint Barbes, the original owners of
Broadlands, and for the splendid Avindows put up
iu honor of the great Prime Minister, and also for
the tomb of Sir William Petty, Avho had been the
son of a Romsey clothier, but Avho was also the
ancestor of the great Lansdowne family.
"An' you must see the cloisters,- — or rather
where they was, for there ain't no trace of them

HURSLEY AND ROMSEY ABBEY. 205
left, - — an' you must see the nun's 'air ; it "s the
beautifuUest an' the loveliest color — an' now
there 's your good gentleman and the verger, an'
mind you ask him for to show you the nun's
'air." I joined the " good gentleman " and the verger
at the bottom of the creaking flight of steps. We
proceeded at once, without further delay, to thread
our way through the streets of the silent little
toAvn to the abbey. The silence had a drowsy,
brooding quiet in its stillness, as if centuries ago
there had been a liA^ely stirring time among these
quaint sad-faced streets, and ever since the little
toAvn had lived on the memory of it all. Not a
soul was astir ; not a footfall save our OAvn re
sounded on the clean cobble pavements, and no
voices save ours broke the silence, which might
have been under the spell of a charm, so complete
and so profound was its slumber.
This drowsy quiet may perhaps have served to
enhance the effect which the striking unmodern-
ness of the abbey produced. It needed this em
phasis of unreality, this suggestion of a shadowy,
dim, and hazy remoteness, to touch us with its
wand of illusion, and prepare us for the surprise

206 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
which the strange and yet lovely structure was to
produce. The surprise lay in the abbey being at
once so venerable and yet in such a perfect con
dition of preservation. The discolorations on its
fagades, the mosses, the leaflets, and the few wild-
flowers which had intrusted their delicate existence
to the few inches of earth along the cornices and in
among the windoAV-ledges, were trustworthy proofs
that there had been no modern renoA^ations. Yet
with the exception of some traces of crumbling and
decay in the toothwork over the beautiful arched
doorways, the fissures and the rain-stains, the
grand old church must have presented the same
appearance to its Norman builders that it did to us
on that still, sunny August Sunday. The interior
we found no less exquisitely beautiful. I use the
word exquisite with deliberation, and chiefly because
no other Avord would so well describe the delicacy,
the high degree of finish, and the supreme elegance
of this wonderful interior. The style is Norman,
but it is the Norman of that later, more refined
period when the natural elegance and taste of the
Norman builders had come to demand something
more than strength from their rounded arches and
a more ideal massiveness from their structural

Romsey Abbey, Transept and Nave.

Page 206.

HURSLEY AND ROMSEY ABBEY. 207
solidity. Here each archway, each string-course,
and each cornice had been made to bloom under the
inspired chisel into rhythmic waves of ornament, —
that wise linear restraint which preceded the mo
ment when the poetry of tracery Avas to break forth
into the efflorescence of the Gothic.
Grace had been the guiding divinity of the archi
tect's inspiration, until the grandeur of the Norman
had been transformed into something of that soar
ing quality of lightness we are wont to associate
Avith the later Gothic. The eye wanders in enrap
tured ecstasy over these towering arches, up into
the rare and original two-arched triforium, and
down the shadowy length of the noble little nave.
It is the most triumphant union conceivable of
grace and strength.
The verger was at infinite pains to explain to us
at just what precise points in the transept, the
choir, or the nave the Norman became transition,
or the latter changed into early English. But it
was the admirable harmony and beauty of the
interior as a whole which chiefly charmed and
interested us. There was a richly ornamented
door opening from the southern transept, called
the Nuns' Door, formerly used by the sisters as

208 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
they passed to and fro into the cloisters and into
the old gardens. Both these latter are now part
of that shadowy time when the old interior was
full of the white-capped, black-gowned nuns. It
was the memory which the thought of these silent
saintly-browed women brought up to our minds,
that served to remind us of the covenant we had
made Avith our kindly and garrulous landlady.
We proceeded at once in search of the remark
able hair, which the verger assured us was as
genuine as it was ancient.
" It 's a thousand years old if it 's a day, mum,"
he said, with the severe accent which is wont to
accompany conviction ; " and it 's as perfect as any
lady's in the land."
He thereupon proceeded to uncover a semicir
cular box A\ath a glass top. Through the glass we
looked down upon a bit of a wooden log, on which
lay evidently a Avoman's scalp, depending from
which was a mass of golden brownish hair, care
fully braided. The log, the verger explained, was
the cushion used in those ancient times as the rude
head-rest of the dead. The "relic" had been found
years ago by some Avorkmen while digging up a
grave. It Avas an interesting, but on the whole not

HURSLEY AND ROMSEY ABBEY. 209
a cheering or inspiriting sight, although there was a
certain glimmer of ghoulish fascination in watch
ing the threads of gold, which the stray sunshine
lit up these hundreds of years after the owner
of those fair locks had crumbled into nothing
ness. It was a relief to turn away to the beautiful
lancet windows put up in memory of Palmerston,
and even the tomb of the Romsey clothier seemed
to make death and decay more decently remote
and unreal.
The landlady, however, was troubled by no such
dismal sentimentalities. Her first question, as she
stood awaiting us on the doorstep, was whether or
not we had seen " hit." On assuring her that we
had, she added with cheery blitheness : " Beautiful
specimen, is n't it, an' such a lovely color has it
was; there was no dye about that, was there, an'
so neat as she was," ^— in full confidence, apparently,
that it had been the custom of the dead of old to do
their own hair-dressing.
Half an hour later, after supper, we clattered
out of her hospitable courtyard. Her farewell
speeches pursued us down the street. But the
town was evidently familiar with the sound of her
strong voice ; for although it started a number of
14

210 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
slumbering echoes under the old doorways, it ap
peared to arouse no fellow-townsman's interest.
Our glimpse of Broadlands came just after we
had crossed the clear little river Test, over which
sprang a pretty two-arched bridge. A rise on the
hill just outside the little town gave us a command
ing prospect of the great premier's former seat and
of the adjoining lands of the estate. The house
stood in the midst of emerald laAvns which swept,
by a series of gentle declivities, down to the
rlA'cr-banks. There was a dim vast perspective
beyond, of meadows, trees, and bushy banks. In
the immediate foreground some fine cows were
standing in the clear stream up to their middle,
making, with the noble colonnaded fagade of the
dignified and somewhat sev-ere-looking stone man
sion, with the turf and the great trees, an imme
morial picture of tranquil and yet stately beauty.
It w-as a prospect which fulfilled one's ideal of the
perfect blending of the pastoral and the majestic.
Such a grouping as Broadlands made, with the
rustic charms of the old town, the mediaeval sanc
tity of association clustering in the tightly-knit
Norman abbey structure, and that note of rural
loveliness struck by the meadows and the river,

HURSLEY AND ROMSEY ABBEY. 211
was such as completes one's ideal vision of a fine
old English seat. No spot could be imagined more
conducive to repose, from a w-eary statesman's point
of view ; and no surroundings Avould be more certain
to awaken and to stir anew the fire of an ambitious
devotion to one's country, to its interests and its
Av-elfare. It is ever the homely sights and sounds
of nature which tend to nourish best the clinging
tendrils of affection, and stir the profoundest chords
of a vibrating patriotism.
It appeared as if it was destined, on this par
ticular afternoon, that we should have vouchsafed
for us a very complete series of rcA-elations, — of
the sources, for instance, whence spring English
love of, and English delight in, her rural land
scape. From Romsey to Salisbury our road led
us into Avhat must have been the very heart of
England's richest and most vernal loveliness. The
wildness of the Hampshire hills had become tamed
into the gentleness of pretty, approachable undula
tions. The verdure was greener with the thick
ness of sweet grasses ; the trees were fuller and
taller, like all things that have plenty of space
and light in which to groAv. The roads and
lanes were such as the poets have sung since

212 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
Chaucer's Canterbury Pilgrims took their pleasure
along them.
Imagine a road lined as with velvet, with broad
grassy strips grow-ing into a maze of flowering
hedge-roAvs ; overhead an unbroken arch of elm,
under whose cool green aisles we drove and con
tinued to drive for miles. As the road dipped and
rose, we caught glimpses of hills distant as the
horizon, with gleams below of ponds and pools,
the liquid eyes of this fair-featured landscape.
The houses, thatched and vine-covered, and the
larger farmhouses made brilliant flowery little
groups in the vernal picture. Children whose
cheeks were redder than the pinks ran out to peer
at us from the rustic gateways ; women and girls
with bright kerchiefs were busy milking in the
barnyards ; and men, with serious Sunday as
pect, in their shirt-sleeves were solemnly leaning
over the fence-rails surveying them, their pigs, and
their sheep, true to the farmer's habit, the world
over, whose rest is always consecrated to doing
sums in arithmetic over his cattle and his lands.
This was the England we all know and have
learned to love since we were old enough to loA^e
any land or nation; whose greatness has alw-ays

HURSLEY AND ROMSEY ABBEY. 213
been allied to a certain grave simplicity, whose
best poets haA-e sung the natural joys of rural life,
and whose heroes' passion and fire have CA-er been
tempered by the taste for temperance and justice.
It is from English soil that have sprung the true
sources of English strength and greatness, — from
that healthful fountain of her rural life and her
rural loveliness, which, like the eternal springs
that flow around Hymettus, are immortally fresh
and life-giving.

214 CATHEDRAL DAYS.

CHAPTER X.
SALISBURY.
' I "'HERE is a peculiar charm, in an unknown
country, in watching the daily miracle of day
giving way to night. Twilight invests all land
scape with a fresh meaning. English landscape
particularly gains by the transformation of this
hour of mysterious charm. Details are lost in the
twilight blur ; they are merged or obliterated by
the long finger of the deepening shadows ; outlines
etch their indistinctness against the sky, and the
landscape can be but dimly divined through the
dense masses of shade.
It was through the rich gloom of such an hour
that, as w^e skirted the crown of a steep hill, we
looked down upon an outstretch of country not yet
so lost in the dusk of the night that we could not
distinguish the arrowy flight into the sky of the
great Salisbury cathedral spire. Only the noble
outline of the encompassing hills, the foliage massed

SALISBURY. 215
in the valleys, through Avhich the light of the scat
tered A-illages glittered like tangled fireflies, and
that upshooting tapering spire, could be seen in
the thick richness of the coming night.
Our road into Salisbury led us from the brighter
light on the hill into the darkness of the valley.
The villages were in shadow. Even the lights
were out in the little cottages and taverns. Not a
tapster seemed astir. The hush of an early Sab
bath sleep appeared to pervade each one of the
hamlets we passed.
Salisbury, we found, was by no means such a
rustic as her country neighbors. On entering its
thickly built streets the lights were ablaze on the
street corners. The taverns, apparently, were still
doing a lively business. There were any number
of friendly vagrants, with no other ostensible occu
pation, an hour before midnight, than to continue
the day's work of diligently keeping their hands in
their pockets, readily willing to show us our way
to the " White Hart " inn. A formidably realistic
figure of that anomalous member of the animal
kingdom, surmounting a portico which projected
over the sidewalk, proved that our idle guides had
dealt fairly with us.

216 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
We were received with that air of unmoved calm
and that appearance of impassive interest charac
teristic of good English inn-manners. Our coming
at nearly midnight from nowhere in particular,
with a horse that gave every evidence of having
found the way long, — ourselves and luggage cov
ered with dust, proving the length of our journey
no fable, — appeared to arouse no more concern
or curiosity than if we had come at midday by
train. " Do you really suppose it is genuine, this indif
ference, or is it put on ? " I queried of Boston, when
the last dusty bag had been deposited in the pleas
ant lamp-lit sitting-room.
" My dear, human nature is n't as varied as it
might be ; it has a way of repeating its types. I
presume curiosity in Salisbury is as lively and ac
tive a faculty as curiosity in a New England town ;
only, in England it has learned the good manners
of repressing itself."
" There 's something deeper in it than that, I
think ; it 's the reticence which rank imposes upon
its inferiors. Fancy a peasant asking a lord where
he has come from, and imagine a Yankee re
fraining because of any such reason. But here 's

SALISBURY. 217
supper, and it looks as good as their manners are
perfect." To the respectful attention of the waiter who
served us,Avas added, we discovered, another quality
of excellence. It was that of thoughtful consider-
ateness. The discretion of the man's silence was
suddenly broken by what appeared to be a sponta
neous impulse. He was on the point of withdraw
ing with the tray, at the end of our repast, when
he stopped a moment at the door, turned towards
me with a little bow, and said, —
" I hope, ma'am, as ye won't be troubled by the
noise in the mornin', ma'am, after your long drive,
ma'am." Before we could ask a question he was gone.
" What does that mean ? " exclaimed Boston.
" It means that something is going to happen, —
a procession, or a country-meeting, or it may be the
advent of Royalty. But whatever it is I shall
take the precaution to get my forty winks imme
diately." It was well that I did ; for before dawn the
" noise " had begun. Our first impression on awak
ing was that a menagerie and a circus in combina
tion had been let loose.

218 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
" The yearly tiger has broken out of his cage,"
I said conjecturally to Boston, as I went towards
the window.
Light hoofs were striking the pavement, and the
tread of heavy -booted men and boys. But as I
opened the shutters, there came other sounds, — the
pitiful bleating of lambs, the neighing of horses,
and the lowing of cattle ; so the circus theory had
to be abandoned.
Looking forth into the faint bluish gray of early
dawn, I saw that the street, as far as the eye could
penetrate its length either way, was filled with great
droves of sheep and cattle.
Teamsters were driA-ing huge wagons and carts,
the latter filled with calves and kids. There were
groups of horses tethered to one another, led by
farmers' boys riding one of the leaders bare-back.
Many of the horses were tricked out with ribbons
and straw trimmings in their manes and tails.
The teamsters also wore a festival appearance, with
gay little knots of colored ribbons fastened to their
coats and large hats. The noise and the tumult
were indescribable ; there was the barking of the
shepherd dogs as they plunged madly after stray
sheep, the yelling of the teamsters to one another,

SALISBURY. 219
the shouting of the boys as their horses reared or
struggled, and, piercing through the din like some
flageolet note of pain, was the pathetic bleating of
the sheep and the groaning of the calves. Natu
rally, A\dth such a chorus of sounds in the air, sleep
was out of the question. Shortly before six we
rang for breakfast. In just fifteen minutes it ap
peared, borne by our waiter of the night before.
His unexampled promptness he at once proceeded
to explain, deeming, doubtless, that a haste so con
trary to the provincial habit rendered some form
of apology necessary.
"I knowed you couldn't sleep, sir, what with
the noise and the uproar, an' so I got your break
fast ready in case it was ordered, sir."
" What is it ? — what is all this noise about ? "
" It 's the sheep-fair, sir, — the sheep, horse, and
cattle fair, as takes place once a year."
" Is it held here in town ? "
" About a mile out, sir, down in the meadows.
But the city's full, — full of the gentry and the
farmers come in to buy. We've been up nearly
all night a-waitin' on 'em, sir. You ought to
see it, sir, begging your pardon ; it 's a grand
sight."

220 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
" See it ? I wonder what he takes us for ? " said
Boston, Avith more emphasis than elegance as the
Avaiter closed the door behind him. " Not go to
a sheep-fair in England when it's at your very
door ? As well go to Rome and not see the Pope,
should he pass beneath your window ! "
" I suppose, then, we '11 postpone the cathedral."
" The cathedral, my dear, having been here
some five hundred years, will presumably be in
town at least till to-morrow."
" We can't drive Ballad out ; he 's too tired."
" We don't want him. It would be better to
go as the rest do, — as those people are going
now in those queer-looking traps ; don't you think
so?" We were looking out of the window again. The
droves of cattle had given place to multitudes of
people, — to farmers, countrj^-looking gentlemen,
young and old, to tradesmen and their wives, — a
motley anxious crowd, standing about on street-
corners waiting for seats in some one of the nu
merous passing vehicles. But not a seat was to be
had, apparently. Every species of cart, wagon,
trap, and vehicle which the surrounding country
contained had been put into requisition. Drivers

SALISBURY. 221
plied their whips, speeding along in clouds of dust
to the fair, returning for fresh passengers ; yet the
crowds ncA-er seemed to thin.
It was nearly midday before we ourselves were
in possession of a broken-down iDhaeton and jaded
horse, \A-hose owner, at a preposterous price, con
sented to our occupying the vehicle, without the
addition of the dozen or more fellow-passengers
usually crowded into it.
The mile, what with its dust and thronged
thoroughfares, and the curious mixture of the
human and animal species, we found just a mile
too long ; but the first glimpse of the fair grounds
made these discomforts more than endurable.
In a wide stretch of rich meadow-land, with
fringes of trees and bits of wood for an enceinte,
Avith gently sloping hills towards the west, where
the flags and the bunting would show well against
the slcy, lay the fair grounds. The scene, as we
entered, was brilliant with life and movement. The
w-icker pens were packed with noble-looking sheep
and rams, crowded together so closely that their
backs looked like an unbroken sheep-rug. Under
the trees, and in the open, were grouped the horses
and cattle. Some jockeys, in brilliant tweed vests.

222 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
and farmers' boys were riding stallions and half-
broken colts, while the mares and still younger
colts were tethered to the tree-trunks, contentedly
nibbling the short grass, as if a change of masters
were among the things to be accepted with philoso
phy in a life of A-icissitudes.
The ceaselessly moving throngs of people filled
the alleys between the sheep-pens, croAvded about
the auctioneers' stands, and packed the narrow
strip allotted to spectators about the horse enclo
sures. The crowd had the instability of a mercu
rial stream ; now conjoining into groups to halloo
and hurrah over some feet of horsemanship ; or
dissolving like quicksilver, only to meet again at
the improvised booths and al-fresco restaurants
which countrywomen and gypsies had erected
under the belt of the more distant trees. The
scene, teaming with life and replete in contrasts,
Avas set, like a picture in its frame, in the emerald
meadows and the tender foliage ; all the outlines
were softened and harmonized by the rich verdure.
It was a Teniers framed in velvet.
The dominant note in the scene was its dead
earnestness. This was no make-believe fair, — a
Frenchman's gala-outing or a Spaniard's /ete, where

SALISBURY. 223
barter and trade were only to serve as the mask
of revelry. This was a camp of traders bent on
business. There appeared to be little or no loiter
ing under the great trees, among the buyers, in
wait for any chance pleasure or gayety to which
the occasion might give rise. In trade an English
man is as serious as he is when at his prayers. He
would as soon think of play as an accompaniment
to the one as to the other.
The absence, presumably, of any coarse gaye-
ties accounted for the presence of so many sons
of the Churcdi. They were quite as safe here
from the profane A-ulgarities of the world as in
their pulpits. The curate's innocent round-eyed
face, the rector's more worldly figure, immacu
late in linen, with severely cut garments, were in
amusing contrast to the knowingly tipped nose
of the pervasive jockey, who cracked his short
w-hip and uttered a joke in the very teeth of these
gentlemen. Among the crowd sauntered swells in
perfection of riding-gear. Stolid-looking country
squires and every variety of farmer were inextri
cably mixed in the mass of the moving, jostling
multitude. Here and there a swarthy-skinned
gypsy-girl, with gleaming teeth and glossy hair,

224 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
shot through the croAvd like a darting bit of flame,
focussing all eyes upon her as she smiled boldly
back. At the outskirts of the grounds some noisy
flirtations were in full swing between some of these
gay-kerchiefed gypsies and the plough-boys and
farmers' lads who had been left to guard the wag
ons and teams. The sound of their broad coarse
laughter was like the introduction of an opera-
bouffe aria into the midst of a grave cantata.
Such pleasures as the fair offered were concen
trated about the eating-booths. It was rather a
solemn company of feasters that we passed, crowd
ing about the little tables. The English farmer
has neA-er learned the art of seasoning his food
with laughter. The cattle feeding out yonder, and
these silent farmers who gave out a monosyllable
or two between the beer-draining, both brought to
their meal the same Egyptian gravity and dignity.
One admirable little rustic scene greeted our eyes
on our Avay out. It was an old barn filled with
long narrow tables on which was placed a profu
sion of coarse homely fare. Farmers and team
sters crowded the barrels, casks, and broken stools,
— the only available seats. Their strong sunburnt
faces loomed out of the dark. The steaming food.

SALISBURY. 225
the coarse textures of the farmers' coats and capes,
and the serA-ing-Avomen, who now raised a beer-
jug, now planted their arms akimbo on their
wide hips, throwing back their full strong throats,
as they joined in the occasional short laughter
that went round with the beer, made a very com
plete picture of rustic life and manners.
Just outside the barn a trade was being struck.
The buyers w-ere two gentlemen, one of whom had
taken off his riding-glove and had thrust his
richly jewelled hand deep into the nearest sheep's
thick coat. The sellers were two farmers. The
elder was a noble-looking old man, of the last-
century type, whose frugal savings had Avritten
their obvious balm of peace and content on his
rugged unworried face. Next him stood a thin
nervous younger farmer, whose premature lines of
care were tell-tale proofs that American beef and
American wheat were harder competitors to fight
than his Georgian grandfather had found the
American Rebels.
There were but few words interchanged, but the
gentlemen handled the sheep with the air of con
noisseurs. Finally the elder gentleman turned to
the younger farmer, and said, —
15

226 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
" We '11 take them. Have them driven over
directly, will you ? "
The farmer nodded and whistled ; a lad appeared
in response ; the sheep w-ere driven out of their
pens, and all started forward.
" Is it a long bit ? " the lad asked of the gentle
men as they mounted their horses at the gate.
" Not so very, — about eight miles or so."
The boy grasped his stick more firmly, turned,
made a half -moon of one hand against the side of
his mouth, and shouted down into the hollow, —
" Father, don't ee wait dinner ; it 's a long bit,
eight mile or more. Don't ee wait." He then
resumed the guardianship of his sheep.
" It 's a primitive way of doing one's shopping,
but it has the advantage of appearing to insure
speed and an honest delivery of the goods," said
Boston, as we proceeded leisurely to follow the
sheep and the two men, but at a distance, because
of the dust raised by the sheep in the open road
way. A short drive soon took us into the heart of
the city. The streets, as we drove back, seemed
strangely still and deserted. All the stir of life
had evidently localized itself in the fair grounds.

SALISBURY. 227
The character of the streets, we noticed, appeared
to be a curious mixture of the old and the modern.
Salisbury, having been built so recently as 1220,
failing to be as old as possible, was probably
bent on being as modern as is compatible with
the national conservatism. In proof of this latter
ambition there were so many structures, brave in
fresh paint and in modern complexity of design, as
to make the still remaining older houses appear out
of place.
Perhaps it was the intrusion of these modern
buildings that made us suddenly dismiss our lum
bering vehicle, and decide to walk into the dark
ness of one of the older narrower side-streets.
A really experienced traveller ncA-er looks for the
picturesque on the main thoroughfares. The true
antique spirit of the past is usually to be found
lurking among the less pretentious streets ; for
the antique spirit, like all other decent ghosts,
prefers darkness and secrecy to the gla.re of day
light, knowing full well the advantages to be gained
by the jugglery of mysteriousness. Thus the true
beauty of old towns is to be looked for among
the sunken narrow sidewalks, among the rickety
houses and the little weedy gardens, — parks and

228 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
terraces once, perhaps, but which the poor of the
town have no time now to plant or to weed. All
this we found as true of Salisbury as Ave had of
many another city, wdiose fresh modern main streets
had sent us home with a chill of disappointment.
The narroAver, the meaner, the poorer the streets,
we found as we Avalked along, the prettier the towm
grew. No one had found it w-ortli his wliile to
pull down these half-decayed old houses, or even
to repaint them ; so the tiny casemcnted windows,
the carved Tudor pilasters, and the rare old doors
and entrances had remained unspoiled. In color,
two or three of these streets were lovely in their
dulled prismatic hues. The crumbling fagades
had the softness and mellowness of old ivory.
Their faint yellows and pale grays made some
of the carvings look like bits of tattered rich
old lace. The only conspicuously modern ele
ment w-as the filth ; but as dirt seems everyAvhere
the true and necessary concomitant of color of the
best sort, we were disposed to regard the sloppy
sidcAvalks and the reeking alley-ways Avitli a lenient
eye. A girl with a red kerchief pinned across her
bosom, and a pitcher in one hand, suddenly appeared

SALISBURY. 229
from beneath one of the arched doorways. Instead
of proceeding down the street, she turned at one of
the corners of an alley-way, and went towards a
path that led into the open meadows ; for the out
lying fields straggled with comfortable assurance
close along the edges of the streets.
" She is going for water, and probably to the
river ; I mean to follow her ! " I exclaimed.
"How absurd! We shall only lose our way!"
protested Boston, Avho, after the fixed habit of men,
always made a point of distrusting an impulse.
" Nonsense ! we have n't any way ; besides, we
have discovered before now, that the true method
of finding it is to lose it. Come ! "
I started down the alley-way in pursuit of the
red kerchief. Boston followed, but at a distance ;
for a man at all times has a certain respect for the
varnish of his boots, — a respect which is apt to be
accentuated when he is following his AA-ife into paths
not of his choosing, and which in this case, at
least, were uncommonly slippery.
The reeking alley-way soon became a path along
the river-bank. It had turned at a sharp angle,
and lo ! almost at our feet stretched the low,
sweet, straggling river. I was right. The girl, our

230 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
guide, had come for water. She stooped over the
bank, filled her CAver, and then rose sloAvly, its
weight bending her OA-er as she Avalked back along
the path. Her red kerchief and her frowsy reddish
hair made the scene seem less brilliant Avhen she
had disappeared behind the corner of the first
house. We continued our walk along the river-bank.
Each step brought a fresh revelation of beauty.
First of all, there was the charm, Avhich every one
knows Avho has tried it, of following an unfamil
iar river. One never knows just where an unknown
river may lead. As a guide, a stream or a little
river is far more interesting than the most enter
taining of streets. It is more talkative, for one
thing. Its babble and its ripple, as it flows gently
over the sedgy grasses, is at once ncAv and familiar.
It is like the tones of some old friend's voice sound
ing in our ears, rendered strange only because he is
clothed in unfamiliar garments. So this low--toned
Avon sounded delightfully friendly, as it chatted to
the weeds and the tall grasses growing along its
straggling banks. It led us almost unconsciously
along, as Ave travelled in the company of a number
of Avonderful old houses, whose decrepit appearance

SALISBURY. 231
told us how long they had been standing here,
watching the river flow on. Here, at last, was the
ideal Salisbury. This maze of soft foliage, these
odorous river-banks, these rows of tottering build
ings, long since fallen out of the perpendicular,
made a rich harmony of architectural adjuncts to
the natural rural note of the meadows and the
waA-ing tree-tops.
There was a bridge, I remember, which Ave crossed,
and on which we stood for several moments, watch
ing the picture as it focussed into new outlines.
Suddenly we lifted our eyes ; and there upward
soared the giant spire of the cathedral. It shot its
tapering spiral into the dizzy ether like a thing of
life. There could have been no better point of view
than this from which to gain one's first glimpse of
this great spire. Subsequent observations taken
from the cathedral close diminished very sensibly
the effect of its incomparable grace and its ma
jestic symmetry. A spire, more than any other
architectural feature perhaps, demands a certain
distance and the advantages of perspective. Seen
at near range, neither its true height nor its just
proportions can be properly measured. Here, in

232 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
the midst of this rustic setting, with only the trees
for rivals and to serve as aids for measurement,
the noble spire rose toward heaven in all the ful
ness of its perfection. At first its true height is
scarcely appreciable, so symmetrically proportioned
are its four hundred and four feet. After repeated
and careful examination, the wonder still remains
that this tapering angle, lanced into the sky to such
a daring altitude, can, at the last as at the first
view, appeal to the eye rather because of its surpass
ing lightness and grace than merely as a triumph of
height. This latter glory it leaves to its two rivals,
to Strasburg and Amiens. It still remains un
equalled iu the higher beauties of true grace of
proportion and in simplicity of design.
The note of contrast between such a noble archi
tectural feature as this spire and this smiling pasto
ral setting was touched again Avitli singular felicity,
we found, in the first full view we had of the cathe
dral, set in the midst of its beautiful close.
In our subsequent walks about the little provin
cial streets of the city the presence of one of the
greatest cathedrals in England would be scarcely
suspected, so concealed is the magnificent structure
behind its ramparts of walls and trees. Salisburj^

¦^^^m^'^'^

Salisbury Cathedral, from the Cloister.

Page 232.

SALISBURY. 233
is, I belicA-e, the only waUed cathedral in England.
In the reign of Edward III. a license was granted
for an embattled wall to be built around the en
closure, which contains the cathedral itself, the
Bishop's Palace, the broad sweep of turf, and a
number of smaller houses belonging to the cathe
dral. The w-alls are pierced by four gateways.
The cathedral enclosure is in reality a city within
a city. Once past the formidable-looking St. Anne's
gateway with its quaintly ancient chapel overhead,
one has the sense of treading consecrated ground.
The cathedral rests its grand base on a clear,
wide sweep of turf. The velvet of the lawn runs
close to the roughened edges of the foundation
stones. The trees are removed at wide dis
tances, and form no part of the immediate sur
roundings ; so that the wonderful structure stands
clear and free. From its base to the diminutive
apex of its spire there is nothing to break the
fulness and grandeur of the effect of the structure
as a whole.
Next to the completeness of the genius which
could conceive and erect such a building, is the
talent which knew just how best to place it. Salis
bury is as perfectly placed as if Phidias had had

234 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
a hand in it. There is much, indeed, in this cathe
dral 'to remind one of Greek workmanship. Its
supreme air of high finish, the perfection of its
proportion, its aerial grace, and its ideal symmetry
all recall the greater works of those masters whose
creations must forever remain the models of the
world. One is under the same stress of necessity
to view this cathedral from all sides and from
every point of view as seizes upon one in gazing
at the great statues of antiquity. The cathedral
may be said to be as complete as the most perfect
Greek statue. Much of the same airy grace, the
lightness, and, more than all, that bloom w-hich the
best Greek work irradiates, belongs also to this
cathedral ; the bloom that is only to be found at
the most perfect moment of the groAvth and virility
of an art. Salisbury was built at the most fruitful
period of England's building era. Its inspiration
came when architecture had attained the meridian
of its technical skill, and when the art had been
domiciled long enough to be capable of producing
a truly national and original creation. Salisbury is
as representative, as typical, and as national as the
Parthenon. It is supremely English. It is so pre
eminently English, indeed, that it can still stand

SALISBURY. 235
as the embodiment of its religion, of that form
Avhich alone is suited to the English religious taste
and to its spiritual temper, — the form of the Es
tablished Church, a religion governed by law,
administered by ceremonial, yet freed from despot
ism and therefore typically English. Salisbury is
the ideal cathedral of such a religion. It was
made for beautiful ceremonials Avhich yet should
have a congregational form, —for ceremonials which
would have no need of the mysteries of Catholic sym
bolism. Its builders, though Catholics and Catho
lics of the thirteenth-century blindly -believing order,
were nevertheless Englishmen before they were
Catholics. In those soaring lines, in that vast yet
orderly-disposed mass, in the rich yet serious trac
ery, and in the grandeur of the harmonious outlines,
the English talent for moderation, its genius for
order, its love and delight in wise reticence, and its
insistent demands for unity and proportion are re
vealed and embodied. If England were now capa
ble of producing so complete an architectural work,
her genius w^ould again run into this early Gothic
mould, — into this precise mould which she made her
own, — into the Early English, of which Salisbury
remains as the most perfect example.

236 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
Another of the causes which combined to com
plete the perfection of this cathedral Avas the fact
of its having been built within the short period
of thirty-eight years. The plan of the original de
signers Avas thus scrupulously adhered to, not al
tered and changed and then the structure itself
finally torn down to suit still later innovators, as
has been the fate of almost every other cathedral
in England. This admirable celerity of execution
proves the freedom and the skill attained by its
builders. It again reminds us of the Greek work
men AA'ho could design and complete the buildings
on the Acropolis in thirty or more short years.
The history of the building of the cathedral
comes doAvn to us begirt with the usual decora
tive embellishments of legend and superstitious ro
mance. That the old Sarum Cathedral, which had
crowned the old hill fortification, being succes
sively Brito-Roman, Saxon, and Norman, had for
centuries exercised its jurisdiction OA^er half the
southern diocese of England, history affirms. Also
that in the time of Bishop le Pocr, this ancient
church A\-as found suffering from a number of incon-
A-eniences, such as scarcity of Avatcr, exposure, and
the insults of the soldiery quartered in the castle

SALISBURY. 237
hard by, is likew-ise no fable. But the modern
imagination finds itself lacking in flexibility wdien
asked to believe that the site of the new cathedral,
in the smiling fertile valleys of the plain, Avas de
termined by an arroAV shot from the ramparts of
old Sarum ; and one's credulity rebels at an ac
ceptance of the other alternative offered, that of
believing that the site was revealed to the bishop
in a dream by the Blessed Lady in person. The
subsequent building of the church was carried along
under the impetus of a religious fervor in keeping
with this latter statement. A great body of the
nobles, returning with the king from Wales during
the laying of the foundations, went to Salisbury,
" and each laid his stone, binding himself to some
special contribution for a period of seven years."
Little wonder that the cathedral grew apace. It
grew so fast that, begun in 1217, it was com
pleted in 1258, the cloisters and chapter-house
being added in the latter part of the same century.
The history of the spire is less assured. It seems
a question whether or not it formed a part of the
original plan ; but, erected in 1330-1375, it now
stands as the fitting completion to crown the noble
structure. Two supremely interesting features in the

238 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
external design are noticeable at a first glance, —
the boldness of breaking the general outline by
two transepts instead of one, and the beauty and
simplicity of the apsidal portion. The western
front, compared with these two strikingly original
features, loses in impressiveness, although in de
sign it possesses a unity in composition rarely seen
in English fronts. The perfection of finish so no
ticeable in the exterior of Salisbury is due to the
marvellous care taken to insure accuracy in the
masonry. As soon as one part Avas finished, it was
exactly copied in the next ; so that the completed
whole presents an exactness and precision hardly
paralleled, perhaps, in any other great building. This
high degree of finish is in some measure accounta
ble for the fault of severity in outline and the lack
of shadow so often commented upon in this cathe
dral ; but the supreme elegance and the rare unity
attained more than outweigh such defects.
The same perfection of finish that characterizes
the exterior is found in the interior. The halls of a
palace could not be more- consummately radiant in
their perfection. The eye w-anders in dazed delight
over the glistening floor, OA-er the glittering mar
bles, and the polished Purbeck shafts. The green

SALISBURY. 239
of the latter material is only appreciable when
polished ; so that although the ten great bays with
their clustered columns are all of Purbeck, only the
shafts gleam with color. The eye sweeps in un
encumbered freedom from length to length of the
gloriously vaulted nave. The finely wrought em
broidery of the brass choir-screen separates the
apsidal portion of the cathedral from the nave ;
thus the cinque-cento glass in the Lady Chapel is
clearly visible from the extreme western end.
At the Reformation, although Salisbury was
spared the usual barbarities inflicted by the Com
monwealth soldiery on the great cathedrals, it did
not escape the fate of abandonment and desolation.
Its true profanation was left for more experienced
hands. In 1791'the architect Wyatt, with his origi
nal views as to how the eighteenth century could
improve on the thirteenth, swept aAvay screens,
porches, chapels, tombs ; he " flung stained-glass by
cart-loads into the open ditch ; destroyed ancient
paintings, and levelled with the ground the campa
nile, which stood on the north side of the church," —
all of which astonishing iconoclastic changes were
deemed by the authorities of his time as " tasteful,
effective, and judicious." Fortunately the unique

240 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
and beautiful triforium, with its thickly clustered
columns and its airy open arcade, as well as the
splendor of the magnificent vaulting in the roof,
escaped ; in the upper stories of the cathedral, at
least, the original work of the builders remains
unspoiled. Among other changes Wyatt ordained
that the knights and warriors, the courtiers and
their stiff-stomachered spouses, should be ranged
in two long rows beneath the arches of the great
aisles. It is a monstrous arrangement, and yet it
produces a certain grandeur of effect. These mailed
warriors, these courtiers in ruffles and lace, these
Elizabethan-ruffed countesses, — the former grasp
ing their swords as if seeing in every gazer a Cru
sader's enemy ; others, more at peace Avith the
world and not quite so sure of heaven, lying with
hands stiffened in supplication ; Avhile the ladies,
of course, are cast in the very image of piety, —
this goodly company looked not unlike some ghostly
band, kept here to guard the sacred precincts. In
the monuments every period of mortuary art is rep
resented, from the era of the rudest sculpture to
the refined and all too elegant creations of Flax-
man, — "another lost mind," as Ruskin graphically
describes this sculptor. There is the same massing

SALISBURY. 241
of picturesque historic fates here as at Winchester ;
bishops and princes, courtiers and nobles, beauties
and frail ones, having passed the dark portal, their
effigies remain to commemorate their A-irtues and
their deeds. Among the beauties lies the Countess
of Pembroke, — " The subject of all verse,
Sidney's sister, Pembroke's motlier," —
whose epitaph has been written by a hand which
will long outlast the limner or the engraver on
more perishable marble or brass.
To be deeply stirred by these bygone histories,
or even to vibrate to any very profound impression,
wlien under the influences of the singularly cheerful
atmosphere Avhich pervades this cathedral, would
be, I think, difficult. It may be owing to the par
ticularly light and open character of the architec
tural effects, resulting from Wyatt's changes, to
the absence of deep shadow in the mouldings, to a
certain sense of thinness and meagreness produced
by the severity of the decorations, and also, perhaps,
to the fact that there is almost no old stained-glass
remaining to insure enriching, sobering tones ; but
certain it is that Salisbury, in spite of its perfec-
16

242 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
tions, fails in impressiveness. It is not that the
splendid edifice is lacking in grandeur or in dig
nity ; but the resplendent light which penetrates
into every portion of the vast building, and the
extraordinarily airy, soaring character of the ar
chitectural lines, impart to this cathedral an un-
wontedly joyous aspect, one as far removed as
possible from solemnity.
Cathedrals have a very distinct and unique
climate of their own. The atmosphere of Salis
bury differs as widely from the dusky twilight
which underhangs St. Peter's vast dome as noon
day differs from the hour of the setting sun.
The blithe and active verger, who had been busy
locking companies of tourists into the choir and
out of the cloisters since our arriA-al, seemed im
bued with a spirit and temper which were doubt
less the result of his cheerful surroundings. He
had the alert A-igor of an American stock-broker.
His brisk business-like air and the hospitality of
his smile were suggestive of a transatlantic per
sonality, even reaching to the lengths of a really
instantaneous appreciation of a joke.
Some tattered flags were suspended over a chan
try in the choir. As the little verger appeared to

SALISBURY. 243
have forgotten their existence, Boston asked their
history. " Oh," he replied, with a quick, soft little laugh,
" I was n't goin' to mention 'um, sir ; " then after a
pause, filled up with another laugh, " since they
was to commemorate our victories in the War of
1812." " We don't mind your little victories," said
Boston, quietly ; " but — we don't see any flags of
1776." Whereat the red-faced Britons composing
our party smiled, but rather feebly, Avliile the bust
ling little verger laughed outright.
The two chief features in our tour of inspection
were the chapter-house and the cloisters. The
former is a little model of elegance. Of a later
date than the cathedral, it reproduces the era
when French geometric tracery was most in vogue
in England. Next in interest to the charms of
refinement furnished by the light gracefulness of
lines whose intersections are like harmonies in a
musical accord, are the sculptures filling the vous-
soirs and the spandrels of the arcades. These latter,
even in their restored condition, brilliant as they
are in modern paint, their decay having been
helped out by the guessing of the modern chisel,

244 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
still remain as among the most interesting of
the specimens of early Gothic art. The sculp
tures under the windows Avithin the chapter-house
were the effort, also, of the chisel to substitute
figures for the inspired pages of the Bible. Here
the Creation, from the group of a very pre-Raphael-
ite Adam and Eve under a grotesque tree in the act
of eating forbidden things, to the dramatic scene
in which Moses is represented as striking the rock,
is reproduced with remarkable truth and earnest
ness. The nationality of the sculptors is rcA-ealcd
in the fact that the vines in Noah's vineyard are
trained on trellises in the Italian fashion.
All appearance of foreign influence is lost in
turning into the cloisters. Here again the inspi
ration of the true English genius reasserts itself.
The style of these rich elaborate arcades, Avith
their thickly clustered columns and the large tre
foiled decorations in the unglazed windoAvs, marks
a later development of the Early English than that
seen in the cathedral ; but the same grave severity
of character is retained. Nothing more beautiful
could be imagined than one's walks around those
quadrangular cloisters. The contrast of the long
gray arcades and the graceful ornate Avindow-s with

Gateway- to Cathedral Close, Salisbury.

Page 244.

SALISBURY. 245
the smooth green cloister-garth, the patches of
blue sky framed in the trefoil openings, and the
dark shade cast on the greensward by two fine
cedars, the sole inhabitants of this marble airy
palace, form one of the most beautiful combina
tions conceivable of the delicacy of art and the
refinement of nature.
The Englishman is never more an artist than
when to noble architectural effects he adds the
delicate yet perfecting note of a rural surrounding.
Even the Italian may learn from him in this. The
Italian, having been born of a prodigal mother,
leaves too much to chance in his arrangement of
natural effects ; but the Briton has a master touch
in the grouping of trees and in the laying out of a
SAvard. He knows that as art lives by contrasts,
so a great and beautiful edifice gains by the same
subtle law. Who but an Englishman would have
had the daring not only to group those low ecclesi
astical buildings in the close so near to the mag
nificent cathedral, with its dwarfing spire and
mountainous roof, but also to place about the green
those charmingly lovely Elizabethan and Queen
Anne houses, whose red gables and brown and gray
roofs delight the eye with their broken irregular

246 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
perspectives ; whose ivied walls, trellised windows,
and tiny blooming window-panes, Avith their sugges
tion of sweet domestic uses and of home-life, blend
in perfect accord Avith the noble temple yonder,
built for a great people's prayers ?
The Englishman, whose home is his shrine, brings
it to his church's altar, that it may rest within its
bosom and blessing ; and thus the cathedral, in the
midst of these blooming homes, stands like some
antique temple on whose steps garlands have been
strewn.

STONEHENGE. 247

CHAPTER XI.
STONEHEXGE. — WARMINSTER. — LONGLEAT. — FROME.
'' I ""HE afternoon of our departure from Salisbury
Avas one of radiant loA-eliness. It was a per
fect English day, one of those that seem to make
fine weather in England different from any other.
There is a peculiar quality in the best English
weather, something at once rare and fine, from
which all the vulgar pomp of over-luxuriance of
sunshine and excess of heat and warmth appear
to have been miraculously eliminated. If Eng
land, as a country, is the most perfectly finished
agriculturally, from the point of view of climate it
is assuredly the most highly civilized. It knoAvs
neither the extremes of heat nor cold ; it is tem
perate, restrained, and when in fine humor, never
loses its repose or its reserve. It is the climate
of all others to produce a race of great men, —
men who shall be as wise as they are courageous
and as tender as they are strong; for men, hke

248 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
nature, come to their finest flower under temper
ate skies.
The weather had no reserves for us that after
noon. The fine golden light fell like a shower
upon the land. Never had English turf seemed
greener, or the hedge-rows more fragrant, or the
trees more nobly tall and full, or the meadows
richer in tone and color. The cottage windows
were ablaze with carnations. The vines were laden
with their burden of roses. In the fields the very
cattle felt the influences of the fine soft air, of the
pure ethereal sky, and of the odors and perfume
Avhich the earth sent up as its incense of praise
and worship. Under this sky of blue, in this
bath of warm air, the oxen moved lazily, luxuri
ously, treading their deep furrows with an absent,
dreamy look, their dull natures insensibly stirred
by the loveliness and the fairness of the hour.
Men stopped their work to lean on their hoes
and rakes. They shouted across a field or two,
for in such weather man has the instinct of com
panionship ; there is a compelling sentiment in
such skies as these. Doubtless, if a girl or a
woman had appeared, we should have witnessed
a bit of rustic love-making ; but only the field-

STONEHENGE. 249
hands and farmers were abroad in the wide grain-
fields. The drive out from Salisbury had been through
a series of green fields, parks, and meadows. In
an incredibly short time we had gained the open
country. These rich, fertile valley-lands made
progress swift and easy. Our drive w-as to include
a climb into the hill-country, up into the famous
Salisbury Plain that we might see Stonehenge ;
thence we should proceed to Warminster, in all
comprising a distance of eighteen or twenty miles.
As there were complications in the matter of
roads, we had armed ourselves A^dth two county
maps and a guide-book, and had taken besides
the additional precaution to receive minute and
particular directions from the innkeeper of the
" White Hart." We started forth equipped, in
confident certainty ; but behold, not five miles
from Salisbury, we were at a stand-still. We were
facing an opening of four roads. The county maps,
with characteristic impartiality, gave us the choice
of all four, as all lead up into the hill country, but
did not enlighten us as to which one went directly
to Stonehenge. The guide-book treated the subject
Avith the fine scorn of a book whose pages were

250 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
dedicated to a history of Druidical ruins. The inn
keeper had been Aviser than either, and had not
even mentioned them. So we sat still and dis
cussed the perplexity, knowing by the interroga
tory movement of Ballad's ears that he was quite
as much in doubt as we.
Suddenly a foot-passenger appeared walking to
Avards us on the right-hand road, — a gentleman
carrying a fine bunch of roses in his hand. As he
drew near, to our question as to Avhich was our
road he responded with charming courtesy, coming
close to the carriage wheel as he answered, —
" Your road is to the left along the river ; but
farther on you must turn to the right, and still
farther to the left again. If you Avill allow me I
will mark it out."
He laid the roses on the travelling-rugs, drew a
pencil and a bit of paper from his pocket, and pro
ceeded to sketch, with remarkable swiftness and
skill, a rough draught of the direction of the road.
A moment later, barely waiting to receiA-e our thanks,
he had lifted his hat and proceeded on his way,
" And there is a tradition extant that English
men are rude ! " I exclaimed, as Boston plied the
whip on Ballad's dark coat.

STONEHENGE. 251
"Englishmen are only rude when they travel.
It is their Avay of carrying war into an enemy's
country." " If they leave their politeness at home, they
assuredly forget none of the practices of the art ! "
I answered, with the soft tones of our helper's
London voice and the readiness of his kindly im
pulse still strong upon me.
His sketch served us better than the maps or
the guide-book. In an hour we were toiling up the
first long hill of the Salisbury Plain.
We had passed, in an hour's space, into a world
as changed as if an enchanter's wand had whirled
us from a fairy-land of verdure to the abode
of some aerial sprite dwelling in a desert. Salis
bury Plain is an endless succession of hills, sans
verdure, sans trees, sans water, sans an3'tliing
that grows saA-e grass, and a short stumpy inferior
quality of that. Far as the eye can reach it rests
on a ripple of these low, barren, naked hills. To
make the descent of one is to begin the ascent of
the next. This unending succession of undulatory
lines ends by producing the impression of an ar
rested sea. It seems as if earth at some time in
her changeful history must have been possessed of

252 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
the fluctuant instability of the ocean's turbulent
element. Nothing but the sea, w-hen possessed by
the demon of unrest, could be imagined as the fit
ting comparison to a bit of earth so full of strange
contortions, of restless undulations, and of unstable
outline. The land is as barren and as uninhabited as
the sea. There Avas no sign of hamlet or hut in
all the wide expanse. The only proofs of man's
existence we saAv Avere those of his labor. A few
hay-mounds here and there reared their pyramidal
tops against the sky. A curse seems to have been
laid on this strange fantastic tract of country, —
the curse of desolation. Man, like nature, appears
to have abandoned these bald hills to their fate.
Desolation and sterility of foliage are so infrequent
in A-erdant England as to make this striking note
of contrast the more impressive. On our own
wide continent earth has a hundred different faces,
as she has many climates and temperatures ; but
the wonder grows that here, in this compact little
island, there should be room for so many varied
aspects and such sharp transitions. It appears,
however, as if it were meant that England should
be an epitome of earth, as man is himself Nature in

STONEHENGE. 253
miniature ; and thus the Salisbury Plain is to be
taken as a kind of sample specimen of the barren
and the desolate.
History and tradition come to accentuate the
emphasis of romance and Aveird unreality Avhich
nature has outlined. These hills have been as en
riched liy the vicissitudes of human experience as
they arc barren of any reliable records which shall
reveal them.
The only rival of the hay-ricks are the barrows, —
ancient burying-mounds, so ancient, indeed, that
their history is lost in conjecture. The multiplicity
of their number appears to prove at least that only
an army could have yielded dead enough to people
so vast a burying-ground. Here many a strong
Roman and fair-haired Saxon found their long home.
The plain, for centuries before the Conquest, was
the natural battle-ground of the rude disputants for
Britain's sovereignty. Celt and Roman alike had
early seen the military value of these heights.
Camps and rude fortifications held the more advan
tageous positions long before, with vast labor and
at huge outlay and cost, the great fortress of old
Sarum was built. If ever a battle-ground was in
keeping with the horrors of Avar, this gaunt skeleton

254

CATHEDRAL DAYS.

of earth's beauty must have seemed, to even the
least imaginative Saxon, a fitting arena for the
clash of arms and for the dark work of killing and
dying. Earth itself looks as if it had been stripped
and then left for dead.
Suddenly, as we rose on the top of one of the
hills, a mass of strange ruins stood out against the
sky. Over the brow of the next hill they w-ere
facing us. Rude in outline, and of giant height,
the huge gray stones, black against the pale sky,
were as bare and naked as the land on which they
rested. Here were no floAving draperies of ivy or
the velvet of green moss to soften the rough out
lines and to make a bit of poetry out of decay.
The "hanging stones" of Stonehenge stand as piti
lessly exposed to the winds of the bleak desert on
which they rest as did the bleaching bones of the
rude warriors who found their graves here. Like
bones that have been w-hitened in the sun, washed
to polished smoothness by the storm and rain, these
Cyclopean stones bear evidences of the slow but
inevitable yielding to the elements. That king of
architects, the Tempest, has carved this barbaric
heap into shapes to suit his own fancy ; he appears
to have tossed the huge fragments about in riotous

\ I

( «¦

STONEHENGE. 255
glee, till their present fantastic attitudes and posi
tions have become the despair of the archaeologist.
On a nearer inspection, when we alighted and
walked around the strange monument, we saw that
such intention as could be read in the position of
the stones clearly showed some attempt at the for
mation of a circle or a horse-shoe. But whether
we believe with Inigo Jones that Stonehenge was
once a Roman temple, or with the learned Dr.
Charlton that it is a Danish ruin, or with other
archaeologists that the Druids here erected one of
their puzzling shrines, the ultimate result remains
the same. Conjecture finds no solid ground on
which to build the certainty of fact. For once, at
least, the tourist need not bow his head in igno
rance and humility ; his guesses are as good as
those of his superiors in that line. Whatever
mystic rites in pagan temple of gods or heroes
Stonehenge may have been built to celebrate,
whether the temple of a religion which is dead
or of a god as forgotten as the believers, Stone
henge and the Salisbury Plain appeal to the
beholder as does the Nile with its mysterious com
pany of the Sphinxes, as solemn reminders of that
great workman, the voiceless Past. Both belong to

256 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
a time and to an era of whose life and history we
have lost the key. That deep organ chord, modern
sympathy, would doubtless, if furnished with the
clew to these remote, shadowy lives and alien be
liefs, bridge the gulf and vibrate still to those dis
tant echoes ; but earth, rather than man, appears
to have retained the dread secret of their fate, and
to have been cursed, in v-irtue of this knowledge,
with eternal sterility. Nature, whenever she has
a secret to guard, is stricken mute ; time having
found, doubtless, that she is possessed of the com
mon failing of her sex.
An hour after leaving Stonehenge, it became a
question whether or not we also might not end by
finding on the Salisbury Plain a fate similar to
other warriors who haA-e Avrestled with its difficul
ties and dangers. Ballad, quite suddenly and with
out warning, became very queer in his hind legs.
He began his vagaries by slipping, on all fours,
down one of the longer hills. This practice not
being to his liking, he gave every eA-idence of
its being his secret wish to roll down. Only an
embarrassment of harness and Boston's obstinate
grip on the bit prevented his accomplishing this
unexpected freak.

STONEHENGE. 257
" It 's the hills, Boston, and no wonder ; there
has been nothing but miles of them since leaving
Salisbury," I cried, as we both alighted.
An examination proved that it was worse than
rebelliousness. It was not the hills ; it was a
question of ankles. Both hind ankles bent com
pletely beneath his weight.
And we were fifteen miles from Warminster, our
destination ! Fifteen miles, and not a hut or even
a hovel to be seen !
We looked at each other as the full meaning of
the disaster burst upon us. We then sat down by
the roadside, and held a consultation, as Romans
and Britons had done before us. Either the horse
was dead lame, or he was dead tired. To settle
the question, it would be best to experiment while
he was still comparatively alive. The result of
our efforts proved that he could walk perfectly
well on a level without giy-ing any symptoms of
fatigue ; also that he could ascend a hill Avithout
more than his habitual protest against being hur
ried. But at the first beginning of an incline came
the terrifying droop of the hind quarters, a look in
his eyes as if the world were going from beneath
him, and that dread bending of the hindermost
17

258 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
ankles. The ankles on examination seemed to
be neither bruised, nor inflamed, nor sore to
the touch ; but when going down-hill, a pair of
india-rubber adjustments would have served him
quite as well.
HowcA^er, we must push on or prepare to spend
the night on this desolate road. Push on we
did, literally. Boston pushed the carriage up the
steeper hills, making an improved brake of himself
going down, as I tugged vigorously at the bit.
This mode of procedure brought us, at the end
of an hour, to a rude little hamlet lying in a valley.
The hamlet consisted of a dozen or more huts and
thatched houses and a small tavern. The landlord
of the latter was at our bridle before we had fairly
reached the first house. The v-illage grouped itself
in various attitudes of curiosity and interest. Every
man present felt of Ballad's ankles, Avhile CA-ery
woman freely gave her opinion ; but none could
tell us more than we ourselves had discovered.
" He 's not a-gone lame, sur, and he ain't been
stung, nather. It's a bit of Aveakness, sur, — he
ain't used to the hills," was the innkeeper's reassur
ing A-erdict. " He '11 go along safe now if you ease
him a bit."

STONEHENGE. 259
" All the same, I 'd rather stop here over night,"
I whispered to Boston.
"In this Avretched tavern? Why, it's impossi
ble," he answered, in what I feared was an almost
audible tone.
" Oh, I don't in the least mind. Can you give us
a room ? " I asked of the innkeeper.
The man's face fell.
" We 'er full, ma'am, thank ye, ma'am," pulling
his forelock; "we haven't a bed left."
At his answer a woman's face emerged from a
side door, flourishing two arms up to the elbows
in flour paste.
"Perhaps the Pierces' would take 'em, John,"
she cried out ; then she as suddenly Avithdrew.
" They 're quite respectable folk half a mile up
the road, and takes travellers in now and again,"
explained the innkeeper.
" But can't you take us in yourself ? " I almost
pleaded ; for the twilight was falling fast, and
Ballad in his present condition, and the prospect
of fifteen miles more of this desolate country to
pass through, did not appeal to my imagination.
" I 'm sorry enough, ma'am, but we can't ; " and
his face fell again.

260 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
The crowd, instead of thinning, had been growing
larger. Some farm hands, evidently fresh from the
fields, and bearing equally strong evidence of hav
ing come fresh from something less harmless,
pressed emphatically about the carriage. One or
two were unmistakably drunk. One whom Bac
chus had rendered bolder than the rest pushed his
way towards me, and began to sing a coarse song
in my honor. The innkeeper gave him a bloAV
that sent him and the song in the dirt. The
women snickered, and the men laughed.
Evidently this was no place for us, A\hether
Ballad had ankles or not ; so we w-hipped the
latter's unoffending back, and with a curt good-
evening were off.
The country was again as desolate and hilly as
before. The moon, on which we had relied as our
lantern after the night should set in, Avitli the
usual obstinacy of her nature Avhen counted on for
a particular exhibition of her powers for shining,
had sulkily retired behind a cloud. Again neither
house nor building was visible. Never Avas there
such stillness. The sound of Ballad's heavy foot
falls and our own voices made the loneliness and our
remoteness seem the more oppressi\-e. The dumb

WARMINSTER. 261
companionship of sheep and cows or the twitter of
a bird's note Avould have been of infinite comfort, to
reassure us that some link of life Avas near to con
nect us with the living, breathing, active world ;
but nothing save the echoes of our voices came
back to us, as if even they had failed to find a
home. Reach Warminster we did, when the night and
we were nearly spent. At last came the cheering
light of the distant town. Earth took on more
civilized forms, and the world looked very much as
usual, set in the mould of a small provincial town,
as we droA-e through the Warminster streets to our
inn. An experienced hostler the next morning ex
plained the mystery of Ballad's ankles. Again the
trouble lay not in the ankle, but in something else.
It was in the carriage that the true difficulty was
found. The latter had no brake. It had been
built for the level country about Chichester. But
for these obstinate hills a brake was not only es
sential, but it must be made of extra grappling-
power. The hostler advised our waiting until we
should reach Bath, as there were no good carriage-
builders in Warminster. The hills between this

262 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
town and Bath, Av-hich we hoped to reach in our
next day's drive, were, he assured us, comparatively
trifling. We gave Ballad a day and a half in which to
forget his late experience. When he appeared
early on the following morning, he started off with
such merriment and light-heartedness as proA-ed
that only our own lack of forethought had been
to blame for the recent unpleasantness.
Our road to Bath was to include a drive through
Longleat, the famous and splendid seat of the Mar
quis of Bath, and was to pass through Frome, one
of the most ancient towns in Southern England.
Longleat is an easy distance from Warminster ;
but the heat and dust on the highway made the
hours seem trebly long. Once within the gates of
the great estate, howcA-er, and we experienced anew
that peculiar sensation which we had noticed as
belonging to all such parks. Beneath the airy ave
nues of the great trees we were in another climate.
These vast, perfectly finished, and carefully arranged
estates have a climate as distinct from the high
way or plebeian fields and meadows as a great
cathedral has from a glaring little wayside chapel.
Beneath these plumed trees the noonday appears

LONGLEAT. 263
never fully to penetrate ; the glare of hot spaces
of ground is unknoAvn, so artfully are the laws of
landscape-gardening administered ; the stretches of
turf and meadows are cooled by the well-placed
groups of trees; they are broken by a fountain
there, a gleaming pool beyond, by the rise and fall
of hills Avith their trailing robes of shadows, or
by the heart of gloom that dwells in the dense
woods. At Longleat the art of man is surpassed by the
glories of nature. Somersetshire is perhaps the
loveliest of the English counties. The romantic
character of its scenery certainly places it among
the most highly picturesque ; and Longleat is set
in the very heart of the county, where the blended
loveliness of its hill and valley scenery, its super-
abounding richness and fertility, appeared to have
focussed into highest beauty. From the celebrated
Prospect Hill, the chief glory of Longleat Park,
the eye sweeps over a glorious landscape ; the
country, dipping into the valleys beneath one,
rises on banks of hills beyond to the very heavens ;
the noble trees on the hill have been spared and
their foliage trimmed to form a natural frame to
the enchanting outlook ; thus the scene is broken

264 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
into a series of pictures, a gallery whose master
pieces can be the better grasped and enjoyed.
With the inconstancy of true lovers of the
beautiful, we decided that the charms of Longleat
far exceed the glories of either Arundel or Good-
Av-ood. While it lacks the character of feudal
splendor peculiar to Arundel, and the vast outlook
to be had from the Goodwood heights, which com
mand both the sea and the land, Longleat has a
more highly finished air of magnificence than
either. This effect is due not alone to the rich
Somersetshire setting ; the character of Longleat
House is in itself singularly impressive. It is both
a palace and a home. To the stateliness of the
former it adds that air of domestic usage Avhich
the Englishman alone, of all the inhabitants of
great mansions, has been able to impress on a
huge pile of masonry. The house is nobly set on
a vast carpet of turf, in the midst of glowing par
terres. Its original builder. Sir John Thyiine, the
founder of the house of Bath, went to Padua for
his architect, and the present building stands ex
ternally as John of Padua originally left it. It was
built according to the style then in vogue in Italy,
the Tuscan. But in spite of this most composite

LONGLEAT. 265
of the renaissance styles, the architect has made
the great house more English than Italian. He
borrowed his Doric columns and his Corin
thian capitals from Greece, and the plan of his
elevation from Italy ; but the whole as a whole
is pre-eminently English. It has a massive ele
gance and a soberness of dignity which have noth
ing in common with Italian architecture. The
architect brought with him his love for immensity.
The delight in the vast is inherent in the Italian,
whose buildings and churches must be his refuge
from the torrid skies and the burning suns of his
tropical summer, and beneath whose roofs he seeks
to find the breadth and largeness of his open-air
spaces. Longleat House is a replica of the vast
Italian palaces, whose walls seem to enclose acres
of space. Its glorious dimensions make the his
toric visit of George III. and his queen with their
suite numbering forty, over a hundred and twenty-
five persons sleeping within the same house during
the royal occupancy, no very wonderful feat of
hospitality. In view of such a multiplicity of
windows, doubtless each visitor found himself in
undisputed right of both pillows.
Longleat, in the proud regalia of her history,

266 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
boasts not only the glory of entertaining royalty ;
her fame is further enriched with the shadow of
romarice, and darkened by the stain of crime.
One of her earlier owners, Mr. Thomas Thynne,
not having come into the world late enough to
benefit by the wisdom of a recent philosopher, com
mitted the indiscretion of marrying a Avidow. That
she Avas beautiful goes without saying. That she
Avas young — her previous lord, the Earl of Ogle,
leaving her to learn all the wiles of widowhood at
the tender age of twelve — relieves us of the ne
cessity of pressing indignation to the point of abhor
rence. In three years the lovely if youthful Lady
Ogle had learned all the arts which belonged to her
condition. She had succeeded in ensnaring the
affections of the owner of Longleat, whom she
married, reserving, howcA^er, all the joys of her
favor for a rival, a noble Swedish count. Long
leat never saw its new-made mistress. The bride,
after the marriage ceremony, in spite of the mag
nificent preparations made at Longleat for her
reception, suddenly dcA-eloped a taste for a wedding
journey. There could have been nothing very sin
gular in so innocent a preference in a young beauty,
who presumably wished to parade her happiness

LONGLEAT. 267
and her new gowns before the world. But w-hen
she went abroad with her trousseau, leaving the
groom behind to enjoy the bridal arches and the
Longleat festivities alone, her conduct, by her OAvn
sex at least, was adjudged as savoring of eccen
tricity. When, a short time after, the poor aban
doned gentleman w-as shot and killed by four Polish
bullets instigated by Swedish hatred and Swedish
gold, the clew to the lady's erratic impulses ap
peared to have been found. But crime, it was dis
covered, was no better passport to the affections of
this singular, twice-widowed beauty than had been
her murdered husband's ardor. The Swedish Count
was dismissed, while she turned for solace to the
Duke of Somerset, drowning remorse, if so deep a
passion ever stirred the lady's becalmed soul, in the
intoxications of the political intrigues which made
Queen Anne's Court so admirable an arena for
restless spirits.
No shadow of crime or trace of tragedy rested
on the great house on that brilliant morning, as
we turned to take our last look at its splendor
and beauty. As if to dissipate even the mem
ory of that dark occurrence, the sun had cleared
the skies of the wind-clouds, and was pouring

268 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
a flood of golden-dusted light over the huge gray
pile. There was fully an hour's driving before we were
out of the Longleat Park, thickly peopled with its
herds of deer and cattle scattered through its great
lawns and Avoods ; but an hour was none too long to
linger over those seven miles of garden loveliness.
The remainder of the forenoon's drive to Frome
was a continuation of the verdant valleys and the
richly wooded uplands which we found made the
charm and the picturesqueness of this beautiful
Somersetshire County.
At Frome there was to be a long midday halt
and rest. We had prepared ourselves for a vast
outlay of admiration, since all early English his
tory teems with recitals of Frome's importance and
activity in early Celt and Norman days. We had
counted on finding the Frome streets lined with
picturesque houses and rich in an antique archi
tectural setting. But the Frome of the dark
ages must have disappeared Avith its ancient
importance and dignity. JModern Frome wc found
chiefly a little town full of little shops, with only
a series of hilly streets to give it even a mod
erately unique appearance. The centre of interest

FROME. 269
was no farther away than our inn. On our
arrival avc found an unwonted bustle and ac
tivity. There was a flying about of white-capped
chambermaids and an agitation in the demeanor
of the solitary waiter which announced at once
that the extraordinary was about to take place. It
was with difficulty that we succeeded in awaking
even a response to our appeal for luncheon. Oh yes,
they might be able to give us a luncheon if we
could wait ; in an hour maybe, or perhaps even
later. Meanwhile we could sit in the smaller coffee-
room. At high noon, with an English sun heated
to summer heat, with a drooping horse before one
and a hungry gnawing Avithin, one is not disposed
to be as actively belligerent against fate as when
confronted with such trying circumstances under
less helpless conditions. We meekly gave signs of
accepting our destiny. Our humility, however, met
with its reward. The landlady suddenly appeared
in the large hall, resplendent in pink ribbons and a
rustling black silk, and was immediately touched
with the spectacle of our dejectedness.
" Mary, send up some cold 'am and beer and the
muffins immediately ; they won't be 'ere yet. — Hit 's
a party, ma'am," she continued, addressing me in

270 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
an undertone of subdued excitement, " as his comin' ;
hit *s the choir from the town, over heighty ; and
perhaps you'd like to see the tables, ma'am, while
your luncheon 's being spread." She led the Avay
with smiling, triumphant complacency.
The tables were, in truth, a fine sight. There
were four long dazzlingly white cloths spread on
tables forming a quadrangle. Fine old shapes of
antique glass and sih-er gleamed among the dressed
hams, the tongues, the turkeys, the jellies and sal
ads, each dish brave in its pretty toilet of curled
papers. " There 's heighty covers laid, has j^ou see,"
smiled the landlady, as she surA-eyed the spectacle
with the eye of a general wh-o had massed her
forces and to whom the victory was already a fore
gone conclusion ; " they 're hall from one church, —
the choir, and the wardens an' their wives, and the
vicar himself and his lady, — and there they come
now." We stepped out on the balcony leading from our
own modest coffee-room to look at the " heighty."
The vicar and his lady were very easily picked out,
and their identity established. The rest of the com
pany Avere most unmistakably middle-class ; farmers.

FROME. 271
smaller gentry, and provincial tradesmen com
posed the orderly mass that clambered out of the
high drags and the long open Avagons. The com
pany embraced all ages, from the very youthful
maidens who turned crimson with bashful self-
consciousness as the equally crimson youths helped
them to alight, to the venerable grandame and
grandsire whose tottering steps were steadied by
strong arms and filial care. Singularly enough,
most of these people had a strangely familiar look.
We were almost certain we had met most of their
faces before, as, in truth, we had. The faces, or
rather their prototypes, belonged to the owners of
the quiet homesteads and the larger richer farms
we had passed so often in our driving. Here were
the stout motherly faces, a trifle redder and over
heated now, and not so attractive in their over-
trimmed bonnets as in the snowy caps, beneath
which their calm eyes were lifted from the stocking-
darning as Ballad's crisp footfall startled their
ear. Here also were the old people, very smart in
apparel, but quite as tottering and infirm as when
they hobbled to the door-sill to see us pass. The
younger girls and women were less recognizable
in their prim Sunday attire, and assuredly not half

272 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
so pretty as in their every-day costume of broad
garden hat and apron.
Nothing could have been more orderly and
soberly decorous than the behavior of the little
congregation. Whether it was that the presence
of the wardens and the vicar had a depressing
effect, or whether this melancholy little band were
merely suffering from the constitutional national
malady, — that habitual dreary dulness which per
vades all English holidays, — it is certain that if the
success of the present occasion AA-ere to be gauged
by its festival aspect, even its projector must have
been haunted by the dark suspicion that it was
resulting in failure. Since, however, the English
man has not been brought up to associate the act
of taking a holiday with the idea of pleasure, these
loyal sons of the Church were doubtless munching
tarts and genteelly disposing of ham Avithout a
suspicion that silence was not the most ideal com
pliment to their excellence. Even the many tank
ards of ale and beer Avhich we saw going the rounds
of the table appeared to haA-e little appreciable
effect on the flow of talk. Towards the last there
did come from behind the swinging doors a sub
dued murmur of chit-chat, enlivened w-ith a buzz

FROME. 273
of short low laughter. But to the end the awful
presence of the vicar appeared to have its re
straining effect ; the talk was pitched to a church
whisper. I am disposed to believe that to our own soil
have flown the wholesome heartiness, viA-acious ex
uberance, and louder-tongued jollity in which older,
gayer England w-as wont to indulge in those days
when it seasoned its cake with that heartiness
of enjoyment which won it its name of " merrie
England." Our American way of taking pleasure
may have a touch of plebeian plainness about it,
considered from the standard of English reticence
and self-restraint ; but laughter — broad, strong,
deep laughter — is one of the best national habits
for a growing nation to cultivate. A people that
laugh are a people who have little to fear from
tyrants or despots, in whatever form they may
come. An American joke keeps the political sky
clear.

18

274 CATHEDRAL DAYS.

CHAPTER XII.
BATH.
T~^OR several miles before reaching Bath on our
way out of Frome, Ballad had begun forcibly
to resent the deceits practised on him by the
suave hostler at Warminster. The hills, far
from being trifling, might more truthfully have
been described as formidable. What to Boston's
and my own enrajotured sight was a landscape
rich in an altogether unexpected originality of
character and formation, — steep conelike hills dip
ping into slits of valleys, hamlets and villages
perched on the slanting inclines like nosegays on
an Alpine-peaked hat, miniature waterfalls which
looked as if turned on to order, a shining river
running through the sinuous valley as if it were a
liquid snake, quaint little chapels hanging in mid
air, and castles OA'er whose battlemented walls we
rode serenely, — a country, in a word, strangely
fantastic for orderly, sober England, — was to

BATH. 275
Ballad's weary and incompetent ankles only a land
big w-ith potentialities of suffering.
He had made a struggle, and a brave one, to put
his best foot forAvard. He had had desperate spurts
of energy going up the hills, ending in a complete
collapse going down. The collapse had finally
ended in rebellion. He refused CA-en to attempt
to propel his tired body an inch farther. Natu
rally, forcible measures were resorted to ; but the
strokes of the w-hip moved him as little as tlie most
alluring entreaties. His feet remained rooted to
the ground.
We were half-way down the long and truly mag
nificent descent of Coombe Down, one of the higher
hills overhanging Bath. The city lay beneath us,
— we could overlook its chimney-pots ; but we had
still before us at least two miles of steep down-hill
work, and Ballad was beginning to show deter
mined signs of his desire to lie down and die by
the roadside. Die we were resolved he should not,
at least not w-ithout the formalities of an attending
physician and the privacy of a stable. Some means
must be found to keep him on his legs.
" I never heard of a horse dying of weak ankles,
did you ? " I asked, a trifle nervously, as our poor

276 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
beast again made a futile effort to take a little
w-ayside repose.
Boston jerked the bit with such force that
Ballad came very near performing a somersault
in the air instead of accomplishing his own lazier
intention. " No, I never did ; but it would be just our luck
to have him invent a new way out of life. Get
down, can you, alone ? and can you take out a bag
or tAvo ? The carriage must be lightened, and we
must Avalk. You had better take the Avliip, and I '11
lug the bags."
Such Avas our entrance into Bath ! — Boston lead
ing Ballad on one side, Avitli the bags in the other
hand, as I plied the poor creature Avith the whip.
It would have been funny even to us, as an
incident in our experience, I think, weary and an
noyed as w-e Avere ; but what prevented our com
plete appreciation of the humorous side of the
situation was the fact that the spectacle w-e pre
sented CA-idently appealed to the humor of the
passers-by. The people, indeed, as they passed,
were at no pains to conceal tlieir entire appre
ciation of the joke. Some inconsiderate draymen
and farmers laughed outright. Children came to

BATH. 277
the gateways and snickered. The usual super
fluity of street gamin shrieked and Avhistled in
shrill glee. They attempted to form in line, as rear
guard. Ballad had to be temporarily abandoned
to his fate, as Boston plied the whip lightly about
more responsive legs and ankles.
It is never the mocking jeers or the derisive
laughter of the class below one which really hurts.
What we term our own world alone has the power
to inflict the deepest pain. What Avas really hard
to bear were the suppressed smiles of the staid
dowagers and the more open mirth of the large-
hatted young ladies, who were out taking their
late afternoon drive ; for Bath at all seasons of the
year, it appeared, is the abode of fashion. At the
end of a half-hour I began to feel oppressively
warm. " Boston, would you mind holding the whip ?
I think he'll go now without being scourged all
the time ; the paving-stones seem to help him."
Once free, it was the most natural thing in the
world to take to the sidewalk. Once there, it
was the work of an instant to open a parasol.
I had a comfortable sense now of hav-ing returned
to the outAvard decencies of life. I even looked in

278 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
at the shop windows, and took a flitting review of
the Bath fashions. But in a weak moment I looked
back. Boston was still leading Ballad by the bit. Both
were dusty, weary, and dejectedly travel-worn.
The rubber cover was Avhite with the puh^erized
macadam of the roadway. The bags Avere lopping
over, and the umbrellas were spraAvling about as if
just recoA'ering from an orgie. It Avas, in truth,
a most disreputable-looking trap. In another in
stant I had returned to my post. One look at
Boston's face, and remorse and contrition tri
umphed. I flew at the bags Avith that ardor which
is born of repentance.
" At least I can carry these ; it can't be very far
now. Do you think he will last another half-
hour?" Boston was merciful. His quiver was full, but
he did not make use of even his tiniest arroAv.
He could not, however, wholly conceal the smile
which came when I resumed my place at Ballad"'s
side, thus publicly acknowledging my renewal of
relationship with them.
The remainder of the journey through the slip
pery, muddy Bath streets was accomplished under

BATH. 279
agonies of calculation. Was it best to urge Bal
lad on to the hotel, and would he hold together
as a whole ; or would it be wiser to have him
and the carriage part company, and place both
under shelter at the nearest hostelry, Avhile we
proceeded on our way ? Some latent potentiality
of Avill-force must have come to the rescue of
our poor worn-out beast ; for in spite of repeated
slippings and fallings, in spite of renewed ex
pression of his overmastering desire to lie down
and be at rest. Ballad did nevertheless reach the
imposing fagade of the Grand Pump Room Hotel.
It was one of those moments when the sense of
deliverance is strong enough to assume, uncon
sciously, the form of a vague prayerful utterance.
In entering a city we had returned to all the
stirring activities of city life. Bath was so real a
city that it actually possessed horse-cars. Since
leaving London we had been as free from their
monotonous jingling as one can hope to be in a
world noAV bent on rapid locomotion ; but here
again were these ugliest and most useful of con
veyances, as crowded with citizens as is compatible
with an Englishman's sense of justice.
We decided that Bath, in spite of its English-

280 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
looking horse-cars, was the most foreign-looking
city we had seen on English soil. It had a sur
prisingly continental air. It had the charm of the
unforeseen, the attraction of the unexpected. Who
would have thought of building a city in so small
a valley, — a valley so narrow that its streets must
needs run up the hills, like vines along a lattice ?
The least serious-minded inhabitant would have
laughed such a plan to scorn. Yet here it is, —
this charming, audacious lovely little city, — lying
as contentedly in its valley as a rose in the hollow
of a cup. The hills appear to step directly out of
its streets. The streets, nothing daunted, climb
diligently after them, till at a distance the land
scape ends by describing those amazing perspec
tives so abundantly introduced by Albrecht Diirer
into his drawings, Avliere hill and city seem about
to overwhelm the subjects in the foreground.
Here are the same quaint juxtapositions, — the
carefully tilled patches of ground, interspersed with
stiff fagades, and a spire now and then to break
the uniformity. In Bath this combination of alti
tudes and depressions is finely alternated Avith the
majestic aspect of the remoter hills.
The street life of the city has a compelling

BATH 281
magnetic attraction. One's walks become a suc
cession of surprises and discoveries. No one street
is like another. If one thoroughfare be on a com
parative level, the next will seem to run straight
up into the sky, or will take an abrupt French
leave, disappearing round a corner to plunge into
some subterranean depth. The question of just how
much there is of interest for the tourist in Bath
comes, in the end, to depend very much on w-hether
or not he is a good walker. One may safely intrust
one's self to the more luxurious methods of loco
motion, for a reAdewing of the fine panoramic
effects of the outlying hills ; but to learn all the
secrets which this bewildering little city holds,
one must have the strength and the ardor of the
pedestrian. We were waiting for the brake to be made, and
also to see what effect a temporary rest might
have upon Ballad. In the mean time our leisure
was employed in making a number of interesting
discoveries. Among other curiosities, we had
stumbled on a nest of enticing little alley-ways in
the older portion of the town. Dark, mysterious-
looking passages, and queer, quaint worn steps
led into still quainter streets ; a whole serial, in

282 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
fact, of old-time fragments and historic suggestive
ness, we found, could be picked up in instalments
along these out-of-the-way paths. Houses and
streets seemed made to order for the most lurid
tragedy-novelist's imaginative requirements. Mys
terious disappearances could be effected along
these murderous-looking streets with a turn of the
hand, as it were, without even the usual formality
of a trap-door. The houses, built on top of one
another, looked as if hung out to dry on the hill
sides ; the secrets they held being doubtless in
need of an airing. At twilight or in the dark of
early night the most innocent shape, as it flitted
through the evil-minded gloom, took on a tragic
aspect ; its very shadow seemed to pursue it Avith
fiendish intent. Such spectral charms made the
more modern parts of the cit)^ — the severer
fagades of the Royal Crescent — seem a fable.
In these dingy byways the past lost its vague
dimness, and seemed aliA'e again, as if reborn
under the touch of some conjurer's wand.
Under the glare of broad noonday still another
phase of this older city's life revealed itself. As
if to keep the streets and houses in countenance, a
remnant of hardier, coarser England appeared to

BATH. 283
have survived the transformations of the last few
centuries. To look on the strong brutalized faces
of the men who fill these streets Avith gossiping
groups at twilight, gathering in front of the open
butchers' stalls, where the blood-floAving on warm
days in no wise appears to disturb the sensibilities
of the hardy stomachs; to listen to the men's
deep rough laughter and tlieir burly speech, — is to
realize that England, like all old countries, hides
in her forgotten pockets survivors still of that tough
mediaeval people, the roysterers of King Henry
VIII.'s reign or the fighters of Elizabethan days,
to whom contact with the more brutal sides of life
presents no horrors. Nerves and sensibilities are
a modern growth. We of the nineteenth century
are the highly strung instruments, fitted to be
played upon by steam-whistles, railways, mowing-
machines, pistol-shots, and the racking noise of
great cities. In our day ingenious man is the in
ventor of his own torture. In the Middle Ages
the pleasing task of testing to what lengths human
endurance could go was wisely left to the rack and
to persecution-workers. Outside of dungeons and
dark council-chambers, life was lived with keen
animal ferocity of enjoyment. In looking on

284 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
this remnant of that earlier system, in gazing on
these giant frames and ox-like faces, with features
and expression born of strong appetites and the
latent strength that comes of surplus muscle, one
is led to conjecture whether, after all, our modern
diseases of exposed nerves and over-active sensibil
ities are not questionable gains. But the man w-lio
is great enough to turn back to form himself on
these robust models, and who wall contribute his
experiments in primitive brutality to our inert age,
is still to be born. The modern reformer is no
better than the rest of us ; he persists in believing
in the future, — that poor over-mortgaged country,
that issues to each one of us such unlimited letters
of credit.
In sharp contrast with the physical hardihood to
be seen in the Bath slums is the invalidism that
from time immemorial has been the raison iFitre
of Bath. Fashionable Bath is nothing if not the
"city of the sick man." All the life of the little
city localizes itself about the springs and the baths.
The invalid's throne is his Bath chair, and he is
the most peripatetic of monarchs. In wliate.ver
part of the town one may chance to be, one meets
two lines of invalids, — a slow solemn procession of

BATH. 285
believers going up in hope and faith to the Temple
of Hygeia, the Grand Pump Room, and another line
of pilgrims returning from the same. In the open
square in the heart of the city, on which the Pump
Room and the Abbey Church face, the little army
of sufferers meet to saunter, lounge, and gossip.
The Bath chairs are drawn up in line against the
buildings facing on the square. With their hoods
open, they look not unlike so many yawning
graves. He who enters one, indeed, appears to
have already opened tacit negotiations with the
dread monster. But Englishmen would not be
Britons if they failed in heroism even under the
hood of one of these dismal hearses. The foxes
of pain and anguish may be gnawing their vitals,
but English pluck keeps bravery well up in front.
To watch gouty and rheumatic England sipping
relief from the steaming glasses in the Pump
Room is a lesson in heroism. It is a regiment
of soldiers performing a drill under orders. It
is only the limp that betrays any evidence of
suffering. The faces are as impassive and as
immobile as so many masks.
On the faces of the w-ives and daughters of these
heroic martyrs a fine observer might detect quite an-

286 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
other expression. It is the look of those who also
suffer and endure ; but the mingling of pain and
courage which compose it is of a A-ery different char
acter. It is one of enforced submission. Ea^cii a
hero must draw his line of repression someAvhere.
An Englishman considerately draws it at his own
family. The world must be met with a Spartan
face, but the true Briton provides himself Avith a
family pillow on which to do his private groaning.
Thus gout is turned into a direct spiritualizing
agency, and the submissive expression of angelic
patience and sweetness which the rest of the world
so admires in English wives is a product of home
manufacture conducted on the strictest principles
of economy.
In a circular recess of the Grand Pump Room is
a statue of one of the two monarchs who have
made Bath famous. This one is the statue of its
last and uncrowned king, Richard Nash. In the
King's Bath yonder is the effigy of its first ruler.
King Bladud. This latter is doubtless a most
accurate reproduction of the original, since beneath
the statue runs an inscription to the effect that
" he Avas the founder of these baths 863 years be
fore Christ." The statue of one king is aureoled

BATH. 287
with legend and mystery ; the effigy of the other
with the halo which belongs to leadership, by what
ever name it is known. The two kings betAveen
them mark the Alpha and the Omega of Bath gran
deur. The periods are nearly Iavo thousand years
apart ; yet, with the exception of a brief and tem
porary period of illumination, Bath may be said
only truly to have lived at these two Avidely distant
eras. Its one other period of fitful activity was
during the Roman occupation.
It is impossible to resist at times the impulse
to insist on the analogy existing between features
and character, not alone in man, but in that more
mysterious portion of the universe which we call
Nature. The history of some countries seems
written on their landscape. That cities should
reflect the character and the li\-es of the men who
inhabit them is scarcely to be wondered at, since,
as muscle is carved by mind, so is the outward
aspect of a city determined by the life that peo
ples its thoroughfares. Nature, at times, seems
also to lend herself to this mute handwriting. To
look, for instance, on these Somersetshire hills
about Bath, — at their sudden depressions and their
impulsive heights of exaltation, — at the sinuous,

288 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
variable, wayward little river running through its
valley, at the sharp contrast existing between the
richly wooded uplands and the naked barrenness of
some of the hill-tops, at the mingled secrecy and
abandonment of the laiidscape, the confidence of the
forests and the betrayal of the open meadows, —
is to divine that the adventures in experience of
such a landscape have been a history richly di
versified by incident and romance. The prose of
fact, for once, comes to sustain the frail poetry of
intuition. Bath owes much of its varied and extraordinary
history to its exceptional situation. Geograph
ically, it had been gloriously endowed at its birth.
Besides its beauty it has possessed an indefinable
charm for mankind. Some cities possess such a
magnetic potency. Man appears to divine their
existence w-herever he may dAvell. He can no
more resist seeking them out, dwelling in them,
and beautifying them, than he can escape the fated
fascination of any other of the irresistible forces of
the universe. Bath has been from the dawn of
history such a little magnet. Men have sought her
out, here in her deep hollow, begirt by her thermal
springs ; they have brought their gods and their

BATH. 289
families ; they have built baths and temples ; they
have lived and loved and roamed among her hills
and along her lovely valleys ; and then they have
as incontinently deserted her. Others came to
awaken the dead and forsaken beauty, to clothe
her anew in loveliness, only in their turn to leave
her to ruin and decay. Thus did those dwellers
come, during the Stone Age, Avhose remains and
ruins in Claverton and Lansdown Beacon prove
this whole district to have been densely populated
at least a thousand years before Christ. Thus came
King Bladud and his train ; then the Romans ;
then, during the great ecclesiastical period, the
monks and bishops. Again came desertion ; and
finally Beau Nash appeared to put the little king
dom of the springs on a sure footing of order and
established soA-ereignty.
Geoffrey of Monmouth's monkish chronicle re
lates, in a bit of pleasing narration, the first knoAvn
discovery of the healing properties of the Bath
waters. A king's son, Bladud by name, being
afflicted with leprosy, was forced to turn vagabond.
His father, Brutus, was the son of that hero whose
wanderings Virgil sang, and who, after the destruc
tion of Troy, came westward and conquered Albion.
19

290 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
But afflicted Bladud, for all he was a great
king's heir, could find no nobler occupation, cursed
as he Avas, than SAvine-herding. His pigs were,
however, gifted with those phenomenal qualities
common to pigs tended by royalty in distress.
They in their turn, catching their keeper's terrible
malady, proceeded to repair with great promptness
to the hot springs in the morass in Avhich Bath
now stands. After a few baths, taken without the
formality of professional consultation, the pigs
became cured of their disorder. Their royal
keeper, having had the benefit of a philosophic
course at the schools of Athens, had acquired suffi
cient logic to enable him to make the following
conclusion : " If the springs have cured my pigs,
Avhy will they not cure me ? " Whereupon he
promptly plunged into the morass. He emerged
as cured as his swine. In consequence of which
happy miracle, Bladud was enabled to make his
bow at court. With the virtue so freely attrib
uted to legendary heroes, the chronicle proceeds
to narrate that Bladud inaugurated his own
reign by building in the morass a grand city,
plentifully supjilied with baths for both rich and
poor.

BATH. 291
Whether or not the " grand city " survived till
Rome came to take possession, is not authenti
cated. Rome, hoAvev-er, was sufficiently opulent to
supply her own luxuries. This inv-igorating moun
tain air once sniffed by a Roman nostril ; this
lovely landscape once lit upon by the all-discerning
Roman eye, — and the Roman knew a good thing
when he saw it if ever a man did, — assured to
Bath, for a century or two at least, the protection
of its dominion. The charming hills were coA-ered,
as if by a miracle, Avith costly villas ; parks were
laid out, and terraces constructed to delight the eye
and the taste of the pedestrian ; roadAvays were
constructed over the hills to the sea, along which
Britons and American tourists still travel ; the city
itself Avas beautified with houses and temples and
baths splendid enough to tempt the invalid across
seas and continents, — for the distance from Rome
to these hot springs of Bath was, after all, some
what of a journey for a gentleman in Trajan's
time. But then, what will not a man do if his liver
be out of order ? The Roman, however, it must be
remembered, above all other travellers anticipated
the nineteenth century in the ease and comfort of
his travelling arrangements. He carried, so to

292 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
speak, all Rome Avith him. He had only to unpack
his Saratoga to feel entirely at home. Here in
Bath, for instance, he soon found himself in a
miniature Rome. If he needed to pass an hour
in worship, he had the beautiful Temple of Sul-
Minerva round the corner. If he repaired to the
baths, he found as complete and as varied a club
life as at home. He would hear all the morning's
gossip in the Frigidarium, and in the Eliothe-
sium he could be quite as certain as at Rome of
being properly oiled and perfumed. Later in the
day, a very fair contingent of fashionable Rome
could be met taking the air along these Bath hills.
Altogether, a Roman might do a worse thing than
to settle here.
At a stone's-throw from our hotel, closely
wedged in among the tall modern houses of the
present city, lies a mass of ruins. One looks doAvn
upon an apparently undistinguishable medlej', —
on broken fragments of columns, on grand bases
separated from their shafts, upon bits of richly-
sculptured capitals and traceried cornices. These
shattered fragments are all that remain to make
this lost page of Roman history a vi^id reality.
Archaeologists point iu triumph to the unmistak-

Old Roman Baths, Bath.

Page 292.

BATH. 293
able traces of all the parts of these once great and
beautiful baths, — to the leaden pipes Avhich still
exist, showing the entire plan of its heating appa
ratus ; to the green pools where the gold-fish still
show their scaly golden armor, descendants of
those finny tribes that the Romans placed here ; to
the votive tablets and coins which the grateful had
hung on the Avails as tributes of their cure. But nei
ther the historian nor the archaeologist can do more
than does this green sluggish pool of Avater which
washes the broad mouldy steps of the bath leading
into it : this shadowy pool reflects two cities, — the
one in ruins, gathered in pathetic fragments near
its margin; the other erect and intact above it,
towering in the majestic solidity of the present.
Such is the history of nations.
When Rome fell, Roman Bath died. It came to
life again under the reign of the medigeval kings
called bishops and abbots. Monks took the place
of pagan epicureans. An abbey and a monastery
replaced the Temple of Sul-Minerva, on that plan
of economy which inspired the early Christians to
make paganism serA-e God after its centuries of
devotion to the devil. When the church became
the cathedral of the diocese, John of Villula built

294 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
a Norman structure befitting its dignity. In his
time Bath Avas the bishop's seat. With the re
moval of that throne to Wells in the latter part
of the same century, the Abbey Church fell into
ruin and decay. The present abbey w-as rebuilt in
the fifteenth century by Bishop King. Something
of the grandeur of the former edifice may be in
ferred from the fact that this present Perpendicular
building, of A-ery respectable size, occupies only the
site of the Norman nave. From the banks of the
river, the abbey's embellished turrets, its pierced
parapets and the pinnacled transepts group effec-
tiA-ely with the surrounding plume-like trees and
the city's picturesque sky-line. But this abbey,
in common w-ith other less complete buildings,
is best seen at a distance. Like certain friend
ships, its excellences are heightened Avhen seen in
perspective. The next and last page of the history of Bath
reads like a fairy tale. It is centred in the life
of one man, — an ideal prince of adA-enturers, who,
it is true, never ascended a throne, and yet ruled
as autocratically as any despot ; who discovered,
early in life, that in order to command men it is
only necessary to guide their pleasures ; that royalty

BATH. 295
will make quite as obedient subjects as commoners
if it discoA-er a monarch strong enough to issue
the fiat of Draconian laws. Never was there a
soA-ereignty, founded on such fictitious usurpation
of power, so powerful and prosperous as the fifty
years' reign of Beau Nash's kingship in Bath.
This solemn adjuster of trifles, this master of the
ceremonies of polite life, this rigid arbiter of fash
ion, who took dandyism as seriously as statesmen
take statescraft, did for Bath Avhat neither Rome
nor bishop nor kingly visitors had been able to
achieve. He found Bath a city of dung-hills ; he
left it the beautiful and finished city Avliich we
now behold. In 1631 physicians did not dare
recommend their patients to take the waters
internally ; "for the streets are dung-hills, slaugh
ter-houses, and pigsties ; . . . the baths are bear
gardens, Avhere both sexes bathe promiscuously,
w-hile the passers-by pelt them with dead dogs,
cats, and pigs," writes a certain Dr. Jordan.
Another writer adds : " The roads are so bad it is
scarce possible to get to the city in the winter.
Every house is covered Avith thatch, and at every
door hangs a manger to feed the horses, asses, etc.,
which bring coal and provisions into the towm ; aiud

296 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
nothing but obscenity, ribaldry, and licentiousness
prevail." Ea^cu ten years later, when Queen Anne
made her famous entry into Bath, the city Avas still
notoriously squalid, and the pleasures of the town
Avore of the coarsest order. But Richard Nash,
Esq., was a better ruler than stupid Queen Anne.
When he came the face of things was changed.
First he reorganized the pleasures, and then he re
constructed the city. The town, as we now know
it, was either almost entirely the work of his direct
energies, or the improvements were due to the im
petus which the radical changes he wrought in
spired. The new and enlarged streets, the churches
and chapels, the Guildhall, the Grand Pump Room,
the Stall Street baths, the numerous benevolent
institutions, were the direct offspring of one man's
genius for the organization of the pleasures of life.
He may have been, as Goldsmith calls him in his
inimitable portraiture, " the little king of a little
people ; " but the puerilities of his aim are dignified
into grandeur in view of such wide-reaching and
substantial results. The lesson of Nash's life is
that it furnishes such a commentary on the relative
values of human endeaA-or. How rarely are the
noblest purposes and most heroic self-sacrifice

BATH. 297
rewarded as were the selfish petty ambitions of this
man ! Such may come to be the true secret of
successful sovereignty, — that a prince should de
scend to the human popular level of presiding
OA-er quadrilles and issuing his fiat for the height
of shirt-collars and the color of waistcoats, — to
lead the fashion, in a word, both in manners and
in dress, and thus make existence for simpler men
a less expensive outlay of mental capital.
The sky is full of signs that the world will grow
in wisdom with the coming centuries ; but the
world, be it CA-er so wise, will always have this
point in sympathy Avith sheep, — whenever a leader
arises it will be quite certain to follow.
In the mean time the brake had been finished,
and Ballad, impatient of cures, having devoured
all the oats within reach, had begun a species of
refined cannibalism on his own person. He was
eating his head off, the hostler said.

298 CATHEDRAL DAYS.

CHAPTER XIII.
THE DRIVE TO WELLS.— AN ENCHANTED NIGHT.
' I ^HE brake worked like a charm. It worked so
well that we began to feel as if we had per
sonally invented it. We experienced something
of that joy which comes to a successful patentee.
Ballard trotted merrily doAvn the steepest hills ;
or rather, the merry trotting began after he had
discoA^ered the brake. At first, as a horse of en
lightened intelligence, he received the evidences of
its working-power with fine incredulity. At the
top of the first hill he promptly reined himself in.
In any other horse this self-assertive action might
have been termed balking ; but Ballad was too
sensitive to outside influences to be classed among
true balkers. A few caressive supplications, and
he was induced to make a venture dowiiAvards.
Then behold his amazement ! — half of the weight
of the carriage lifted and the A-ehicle held back,
grappled as if by a hand of iron ! He was as free

THE DRIVE TO WELLS. 299
from the load behind him now as if he had been
ou an independent flying expedition. Only the
miracle, alas ! was so far behind, so altogether
hopelessly in his rear, that there was no chance of
his ever being able to investigate it wdth satisfac
tory thoroughness. He had no choice but to walk,
or rather to run, by faith. In view of our latter-day
scepticism, it was beautiful to see how admirably a
blind acceptance of hidden laws may Avork.
To get away from Bath was almost as serious a
matter, in the amount of hill-climbing to be done,
as it had been to reach the low-lying city. Just
how deep is the valley in which the city rests, and
how steep and high are the surrounding hills, can
only be justly estimated by those Av-ho drive or by
the pedestrian. As usual, we had not gone far
before we found ourselves belonging to the latter
class of journeyers. The brake. Ballad had been
quick to discover, did not help him any the more
in going up the long hills. He therefore speedily
gave us to understand that a closer companionship,
one which brought us nearer to his heart and head,
would be more to his taste.
On this occasion we had determined to try a
little rebellion on our part. Only recently, just out

300 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
of Longleat, we had stumbled on a way of making
the slow up-hill half-hours delightful. In rum
maging in one of the bags for a remote and se-
cretiA-e pocket-flask, on our waj^ to Frome, we had
stumbled on a pocket edition of Shakspeare
instead. " GiA-e it to me. It is a gift from the gods. Now
we have something for the up-hill work. I can read
a play as w'e walk along, — something w-e both know
fairly Avell ; then we '11 dro]) it at the top, when the
trotting begins, and begin again at the next long
hill. What a find ! " I had exclaimed.
The plan had worked as only a charm can. No
more tedious dull moments, when the scenes in the
landscape dragged, or the sun was too ardent a
lover, or the wind too miserly to blow, or the hour
just one short of starvation. Here Avere balm, con
tentment, and inspiration for the dull entr'actes.
On how many hill-tops had Ave not left a brace
of those immortal lovers, whose Avoes and whose
tearful joys are a part of our own intenser ex
periences ! Viola, gay Rosahnd and her Orlando,
Egypt's dark enchantress and doom(id Anthony,
or Romeo and Juliet, breasting their stormy sea
of love, — such was the wondrous company we had

THE DRIVE TO WELLS. 301
conjured up as fellow-travellers. Even when the
book was laid aside, thrust in between the two
carriage cushions, in readiness to be pulled out at
the next ascent, it was still the echo of that melo
dious passion and the rhythm of that ecstatic verse
that filled the trees and was wafted towards us on
the light summer air. This reading of Shakspeare
amid the scenes and the land that he loved so well,
whose fair and finished charms seem to fill the
airy atmosphere of his work as do the violet
skies of Greece each line of Homer, made the
great English bard and his glorious company of
immortal heroes new and strangely realizable. As
the eyes of the spectators at Athens could sweep
past the stage out to the Pirseus, to the sea that
Sophocles made his heroes apostrophize, so here
the great framework was still left, — that gay and
smiling background on which has figured so many
a tearful comedy, so many a tender tragedy.
How many forests of Arden had we not passed!
Over the Aelvet of Longleat or under the silvery
Arundel foliage, surely it must have been over such
turf that tripped Titania's fantastic court. Nor do
all the dramatis personce seem dead, living only in
these glowing pages. Each rustic we met seemed

302 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
to have in him the making of a boor or a clown.
Dogberrys and Shallows we were quite certain we
had seen again and again at the Avayside inns and
at tavern doors.
May not this, perhaps, be taken as the highest
test of genius, — that it shall so transfix, on an
imperishable canvas of truth, the types truest to
its time and country that the portraiture shall re
main forever an immortal picture of the land and
the people ? That genius which has not so painted
the life about him as to make it forever true, so that
so long as the people endure as a race or a nation
the world shall know the people through the work
and the work through the people, has not, I think,
touched the apogee of human greatness in creative
power. Ballad, being merely a horse of talent, quite
naturally could see nothing in genius except that
it was A^ery much in his way. (If Ballad had
been a man and an author, he would have belonged
to the modern American school of realists ; he
hated things he could not understand.) He soon
developed very decided objections to Shakspeare.
Whenever he saw that small green book come out
of its hiding-place he knew his most formidable

THE DRIVE TO WELLS. 303
rival was about to take possession of us. He pro
ceeded to put into practice a series of deep strategic
manoeuvres. He began by suddenly developing
a fancy for running up the hills. He slackened
his speed, it is true, as he neared the crest, but not
long enough for the hated rival to be drawn forth.
On this particular occasion chance and the loose
morality that governs the inanimate world came to
his rescue. " Cymbeline," the play we had nearly
finished before entering Bath, had gone astray.
" Have you looked in the Amusement Bag ? " I
asked of Boston, as he continued an unrewarded
search through the various hand-pieces. The bags,
early in the trip, we found were cryingly in need
of being christened. There were fiy-e. Each one
more or less resembled its fellow in size and com
plexion. They came, in the end, quite naturally to
take the name of their contents. There Avas the
Amusement Bag, full of the books, papers, maps,
and one small and as yet untouched pack of
playing-cards. There were also the Medicine
Chest ; the Upholstery Department, with the toilet
and night-gear ; the Restaurant, Avhich ministered
to temporary physical wants; and the Wine
Cellar.

304 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
In no one of these over-full receptacles had
" Cymbeline " hidden itself. Ballad, therefore, had
his way with us. We cheerily took to the hills.
With every upward step the prospect broadened.
To look over the land was to overlook a great sea
of hills. In the valleys nestled the farms and the
villages ; on the hill-tops bristled a tall spire here
and there, a quivermg spear flashing in the sun
light. The crests of the hills Avere, however, for
the most part unbroken surfaces of woodland or
tilled meadows, so that the rhythm of their har
monious elevations was unspoiled.
The wdiole glorious prospect was splendidly
lighted by an August sun, — a late afternoon sun.
Experience had taught us that it was greatly to
our advantage to make engagements A\'itli tAvilight
effects. To start somewhat late in the afternoon,
that we might have the sunset, the long twilight
hour, and later on clear moonlight, — if the lunar
gentleman could be counted upon to appear, —
this was the ideal driving-time. Wells was at
just the right distance from Bath to make this
arrangement feasible.
We had started only a little after three by the
Grand Pumjj Room's stately clock, yet here on

THE DRIVE TO WELLS. 305
the hills, an hour and a half later, the shadows
were already lengthening.
During the days of our town life, whilst we had
been gaping at shop-windows, Nature, we found,
had gone on steadily perfecting her summer tasks.
At the end of five short days great changes had
come upon the landscape. The grain-fields, which
we had left still green and only timidly yelloAving,
were now quite brazenly golden. The wheat had
even had time to turn coquette. She was so
yellow a blond she could dare to wear poppies in
her hair. The trees also looked fuller and more
mature, as if to prove that even in five short days
a good deal may be learned in the arts of sym
metry and proportion. Their trunks looked un
commonly rich and brown, as the sun, dipping
westward, sent broad, strong beams of light
through the woods.
There had been a good stretch of fairly level
road. Soon avc came to a village. It was none
too soon. The timepiece of our vigorous appetites
had begun to set the hour of ra\-enous hunger.
We stopped at the first little tavern, wliich hap
pened also to be the only one in the straggling
village. We decided to rest for an hour, that
20

306 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
Ballad's supper and our own might have a peaceful
digestion. The Restaurant had been plenteously filled before
leaAdng Bath. We had no mind to trust oursehes
to the problematical casualties of roadside-tavern
fare. We proceeded at once to make an impro
vised dining-table of the box-seat of the carriage.
A clean napkin gave our feast the appearance
of a fashionable repast on race-day. Ham and
chicken sandwiches Avith some crisp leaves of
lettuce between, some of the famous Bath buns
and the pastry puffs for which the city is noted,
topped off AA-ith some foaming glasses of beer, — a
delicate compliment to the tavern-keeper's vintage,
although our own Wine Cellar boasted some Cha
teau Yquem of a classic date, — made a tempting
and wholesome meal.
We did not long enjoy our feast alone. At the
end of five minutes most of the village were pres
ent. When we arrived the village had been as
dead as only an inland rural village can be.
The opening of our lunch-basket was the signal
for its brisk awakening. By the time we had
spread the napkin the entire village — to a man
and the latest suckling infant — was present.

THE DRIVE TO WELLS. 307
Not being royalty, eating thus conspicuously in
public might easily have proved embarrassing ;
but the evident enjoyment of the on-lookers took
off all edge of discomfort. It was a lesson in the
uses of levies and of their effect on the masses.
No lover watching his mistress's rosy lips sipping
golden Tokay could have evinced a more vivacious
delight in dainty food than did our cordon of
rustics. When we broke into the crumbling feath
ery pastry every countenance expressed pleased
approval. As we drained the beer-mugs there
was an audible smacking of lips. Naturally such
delicate compliments to our supper deserved their
reward. When we had packed the Restaurant we
had not expected to feed a village ; but never did
a few Bath buns and tarts prove the disputed facts
in a certain great miracle to be incontestably
true. Even the infants partook. A sweet, shy-eyed
woman had come out of the tavern door. She held
in her arms a young babe. Her appearance was
the signal for se\-eral wandering babies, old enough
to toddle, to gather about her skirts, that they
might with more safety direct their greedy asking
little glances upward. Two Bath buns made the

308 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
happiest family ever seen out of a shoAV. The
mother's portion was shared by the infant.
" Are all these children yours ? " I asked as she
stood smiling in their midst.
She blushed a vivid crimson as she looked shyly
askance at the row of curly heads about her knees.
" Yes, mum, please, mum ; " and she dropped a
courtesy. " There 's five of 'em, mum, I do be
lieve," — as if counting them were an altogether
novel experience. Then, emboldened, she came
nearer, and took courage to look me full in the
face. It was delightful to look down into her eyes,
— the shy, soft, maternal eyes. " You see, mum,
it 's a long family, mum, and they came so fast I
don't remember rightly. There 's Willie, noAv, he 's
the oldest; he's off mostly to the vicarage, — he
sings in the choir and does chores. But Avoii't you
be feeling tired, mum, an' come in and take a
seat ? "
" Thank you so very much, but we are going off
presently." " You have come a long ways, maybe, — from dif
ferent parts," she still continued, as if she felt, now
that the ice was broken, that talking to a stranger
was after all not so terrifying an undertaking.

THE DRIVE TO WELLS. 309
The other bystanders looked at her in undisguised
admiration. Perhaps they had not suspected her
hidden talent for dialogue.
" Oh yes," I answered her, to encourage so brave
a venture ; " we have come a long distance, — from
London and from across the seas, — from New
York." " Yes ; I said from different parts," she replied,
not to be put down with any such overwhelming
distances. They evidently couA-eyed no meaning
to her mind. Her eye did not lighten ; there was
only an obstinate tightening of the facial muscles.
Her geographical limits were bounded by the hills ;
but she was a woman, and was outwardly not to be
put in the wrong. It was very evident, hoAvever,
that we had improA-ed our position as adventurous
travellers with the male members of the group.
They all gathered closer, and began to take an
interest iu Ballad and the trap.
At the outskirts of the village, as we drove oft',
there stood a lovely vicarage. It had the straight
parapet and the muUioned Tudor casements, with
the diamond-leaded glass of the period, to proclaim
its three centuries of antiquity. The moss and
the ivy had had so many years to weave their

310 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
mantle of green over the door-lintels and the rain-
stained fagade that they had ended by clothing
the entire establishment. A boy's voice through
the shrubbery rang out clear and sweet. It was
a snatch of some old glee, with quaint old-time
changes in it.
" It is the choir-boy, Boston, doing a song as he
tidies up the barn. Hoav pure his voice is, and how
true ! It has the ring of a skylark. And how the
song fits into the scene, does n't it ? It is like a
madrigal to that Lady of Light."
For the west was aflame. A great glory of
light filled the western horizon, spreading in
fainter tints up to the very zenith. The land
scape lay beneath, calm, peaceful, serene, as only
an English landscape lies under a tinted sky, its
velvet cheek scarcely a shade deeper in tone. The
sun meanwhile was rolling up his day-canvas.
The scene was being set for moonlight effects.
According to the most approved modern devices
for stage-shifting one scene Avas melting impercep
tibly into the next. The sun, being an older and
very experienced hand, was making a series of pic
tures of each point of transition. We had had a
blue earth and a blue sky, a paler daffodil firma-

AN ENCHANTED NIGHT. 311
ment, and a darker, greener landscape ; and now
there was that rich light in the west, and in the
east a pale yellow moon. For one brief moment
the tAvo chief actors in the scene faced each other.
The sun gave his rival a long, luminous, splendid
stare ; then he dropped behind his breastwork of
hills. Slowly the moon mounted to take serene
possession of the night ; slowly the color faded out
of the west ; slowly the earth took on her sombre
evening garments ; slowly the woods thickened
into darkness, the bluish greens in the meadows
turning into warm browns and blackened purples.
Then, as the moon rose higher in the rich, dusky
summer sky, the breasts of the hills whitened to
silvery grayness, the plains became a lake of
misty light, and earth and sky seemed floating in
a wondrous illumined halo.
For several hours we lived in this silver world.
We were still toiling up the Mendip Hills, and
our road took us into the fairy upper fields of
light. The moonlight streamed into the depths
of the forests, making the far distances as bright
as day. Above us the hills towered, their heights
white with light; while the nearer hollows were
as dark and deep as wells.

312 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
Then quite suddenly the descent began. The
road now was as broad as a wide boulevard. It
wound in beautiful, sinuous coils about the moun
tain-side. As we looked doAvn into the valleys
below, we saw a fantastically lighted, half-obscured
landscape. The mountain-sides were sw^athed in
mist, — a gauzy veil that coiled its light tis
sues about the jagged rocks. At a turn in the
road, the yawning abysses were exchanged for
brilliant, clearly cut bits of woodland scenery,
as frankly revealing themselves as meadows at
high noon. We were in the midst of all the
stillness and the mystery peculiar to high alti
tudes. The noises of the night Avere hushed.
In this enchanted region not even a fairy Avas
astir. Finally, like stars shining through a misty sky,
the distant lights of Wells pierced the illumined
gauze that coA-ered the valleys. As we neared the
town, there was no break in the enchanted spell
of beauty. Still the moon shone clear in high
heaven ; still the trees were clothed in light as
in a heavenly garment ; still our broad roadway
was a path of shining sih-er. It led us into the
damp and misty valley, where the wandering night

AN ENCHANTED NIGHT. 313
air was fragrant with perfume ; it led us past
the suburban garden and the whitened villas, and
finally it ceased and became a little narrow cobble-
paved street.
And this was Wells.

314 CATHEDRAL DAYS.

CHAPTER XIV.
WELLS, AN ENCHANTED CITY.
npHE little city was under the spell. It lay
folded, entranced, in the garment of warm
white light. The houses did not seem quite real,
as we passed them, wrapped in that soft mellow
radiance. The stillness made the dream more
vivid. The silent, white little city neither moved
nor stirred as we drove through its sleeping
streets. Suddenly there came the flare of lamp and candle
light to make broad streaks of dull yellow on the
white paving-stones. It was the light from our inn.
A woman's figure, leaning against the door-jamb,
started forward as we drove up. When Ballad was
brought to a halt, she was at our side to greet us
with a smile and a soft " Good-evening." She was
our landlady. She was a young woman, but she
was in widow's weeds ; and her sombre draperies
and dazzling white cap gave to her comeliness a

WELLS, AN ENCHANTED CITY. 315
look of distinction. It Avas only in keeping with
the hour and the night, we said, that we should be
received by a pretty, sentimental landlady, with a
taste for moonlight revery. Her romantic turn,
however, did not seem to haA-e been allowed to
interfere with a very decided genius for affairs.
The inn was like wax ; and our supper Avas quite
a little banquet.
"Do you know that any woman who can keep
one eye on her servants and the other on the moon
is a being for whom I have a profound respect ? "
I announced to Boston, as we unfolded our snowy
napkins. " Would you mind my making it a trifle warmer
than respect ? I feel a positiA-e affection for her
just noAv. This is the best bouillon I haA^e tasted
on English soil," he replied.
In spite of its excellence we both felt we were
eating the meal in more or less of a trance. For
the windows were open, and the warm night air,
like the soft flutter of a bird's wing, caressed our
cheeks. We w-ere so close to the street that the
little garden belonging to the inn, across the way,
sent a cloud of perfume into the chamber. We
could see the tiny fountain splashing in the moon-

316 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
light, — a thread of diamond dewdrops glistening
in the white night. On the bench near it some
people were seated ; their voices stole up to us in
pleasant, droAvsy murmurs. But beyond it all,
beyond the garden and the fountain and the trees,
rose a Avondrous sight. It Avas the cathedral, loom
ing up to heaven, cut in solid sih-er against the
sky. " Come, let us go," I cried, pushing the table
aside. " This is no time for eating or for swinish
slumber. We '11 make a night of it."
The figure leaning pensively against the inn door
was still there as Ave passed out, looking unaffect
edly up at the moon. This time it did not moA-e ;
but it spoke in the soft, clear English voice, —
" It 's a beautiful night, is it not ? Wells is so
pretty by moonlight ! Shall you be going to the
cathedral ? " A white hand pointed the way.
" And be sure to see the moat, beyond the gate-
Avay, yonder. It 's most loA-ely to-night."
" She 's as perfect as if she 'd been made to
order, — for us and the night," exclaimed Boston,
in what for him was a tone of rapture.
The low eaves of the houses made a black shadow
for us to walk in. Then came a great gateway,

WELLS, AN ENCHANTED CITY. 317
a long high wall, within which, stretching out to
the borders of some lofty trees, was the grassy
cathedral close. It lay at the feet of the cathedral
like a whitened shroud. The trees, with their lace
like foliage, made the only shadows that fell upon
the transfigured lawn. The great fagade of the
cathedral rose into the sky like some fair and dis
embodied spirit ; it was as unreal as a phantom
ghost. Its outlines seemed to float entranced in
the mellow light. Then, as we came nearer, the
A-ast and splendid surface resoh-ed itself into shape
and outline. The three low portals yaAvned like so
many caA-erns. The columns bloomed lilie rounded
limbs turned to the sun. The turrets soared aloft
into the summer sky. But in spite of the bloom
and the aerial lightness, there rested on the whole
the spell of a statue-like sadness. A strange,
quaint company covered that glowing surface.
Earnest, saintly faces leaned out into the silver
light. Under stone canopies, immobile as images
of fate, stood the effigies of kings and martyrs.
Apostles and tender women lifted upward adoring,
pleading faces, blanched with celestial passion.
Above, tier on tier of angels seemed to be ascend
ing into glory. Truly, this was the ideal cathedral

318 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
fagade. It was an open Bible of Belief, imaged in
stone. Then the moon went under a light cloud ; and
there Avas only a black mass in the eastern sky.
There was light enough, however, for us to
thread our way toAvards the other gatcAvay. As
we passed beneath its high arch, we came face to
face with Iavo people, — a man and a girl. As we
made way for them to pass, I saAV that their hands
had been locked. She was so near that I could
look into her eyes ; they glowed like two fiery
stars. Was it the shadow of the Avhite burnoose
she wore over her head that had blanched her
cheek to the same whiteness of passion we had
seen on those silent faces yonder? As they neared
the cathedral, they stopped. The great mass was
still in the gloom ; but the light in the sky fell
upon the living figures. They stood for a moment,
quite still, looking up at the stony faces ; then
the man stooped and kissed her.
" I am glad he did. I could n't bear to sec them
looking up at those rigid faces. It was like young-
love gazing at renunciation. Poor things ! I hope
it is n't a prophecy," I said ; and we crept away
beyond the arch a trifle guiltily. The darkness

WELLS, AN ENCHANTED CITY. 319
seemed to deepen, as we walked on; the air sud
denly thickening, as if with the heat of some stifled
human emotion. Then, as we came into the open
market-place, a great brightness filled the night,
lighting up a picture we were both glad and half
ashamed to see ; for our lovers had gained the op
posite side of the great square, and on its white flag
ging a shadow etched itself in black, the shadow of the
two clasped in each other's arms. Imaged thus, they
lay motionless a moment; then, at the sound of our
footfall, the figures started asunder, hurrying away
beneath the friendly blackness of the window-eaves.
For us, as we also hurried away, came a moment
in fairy-land. The market-place, with its rows of
silent-faced houses, was the last glimpse we had of
the world, with its reminders of the realities of life.
Was it, in truth, a real world at all, — this that we
had entered after passing beyond yonder stately
gateway ? There was a path, it is true, that wound
in and out among noble trees ; but to what, if not
to a realm of pure romance, belonged that fair
and shimmering sheet of water which girdled the
rounded bastions of that fantastically garmented
wall ? Beyond, in the misty distance, gleamed a
vision of towers and turrets, the fairy palace of

320 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
this fairy world. The walls were still stout and
strong, but they were covered with trailing vines
and studded with foliaged trees, — a breast of steel
hung with garlands. The drawbridge even in the
dead of night w-as down ; a host of pixies might
have crossed it ; and, as if in answer to some un
seen Lohengrin's trumpet-call, a flock of kingly
swans floated, serene and calm, over the silvered
bosom of the waters. Their cries, answered by
the " Quack, quack ! " of some ducks that formed
their train, were the only sounds that took posses
sion of the still, voiceless midnight. It was the
myth of the Middle Ages come to life, apparelled in
its matchless beauty and in the grandeur of its state.
The sweep of a hand across a guitar, just a liquid
note or two from a human throat, and it would
have been Italy instead of staid respectable Eng
land, that knew no better than to go to b'jd and
sleep aw^ay such a matchless night, — it w-ould
have been the house of the Capulets instead of the
palace of a bishop. How Juliet's round arm Avould
have gleamed over the curve of yonder bastion, and
what a mirror for the midnight of her eyes this
glassy sheet, as Romeo climbed to her lips along
that pliant ladder of vines ! As it was, two North

WELLS, AN ENCHANTED CITY. 321
American savages entered and took possession of
the scene. Was it a presage of the future, a pro
phetic image of the dominance of our new race, —
this reflection of our motionless figures in the
waters of the moat ? Were these the new heirs to
the golden past, coming to take possession ? Are
we not, in truth, the rightful heirs to all this glory,
this beauty of the past ? For whom else if not for
us liA-es this golden legend, — the legend of history,
of romance, of medievalism ? Sentiment and imagi
nation help us to cross the filmy bridge. Once in
that delectable land a new and Avondrous strength
to do, to dare, to create new castles fairer than the
world has ever seen, to sing songs such as human
throats did never utter, should be our longed-for
prayer of inspiration.
Something of this rhapsody I ventured to breathe
to Boston. He listened with exemplary patience
to the end ; then for all answer he bade me look
at the reflection of my face in the still waters.
The features were so ridiculously puffed out, so
exaggerated and distorted, that I turned away with
a laugh. It was the malicious, contemptuous re
tort of the Past to the presumption of the Present.
I accepted the lesson in all humility.
21

322 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
It was high noon before we were awake to see
what the city was like by daylight. We expected
that the illusion of the night before would be gone
with the moonlight, but we were forced to admit
that the town held its own uncommonly well. The
little garden across the street was a brilliant glow
of color under the broad sunlight. It was so gay
and bright a spectacle, indeed, that we were quite
w-illing to exchange it for the spectral camping-
ground of the sentimental ghosts of the night be
fore. The cathedral also had lost its shroud of
mystery ; it rose into the fair summer sky in
stately majesty and splendor.
" All the same, in spite of its beauty, let us go
about the town first, before making a tour of the
cathedral. It's too fine a morning to spend be
neath stone aisles," I said, as we strolled out.
" As you like, my dear," Boston complied; " only,
to-morrow, you know, we must be off. The ca
thedral, Murray warns us, is a city by itself. We
must choose betAveen it and the town. We haA-e
lost half a day already."
" Lost half a day ! " I burst forth. " Would you
barter last night's midnight adventures for twenty
ordinary days ? Why, if time Avere measured by

WELLS, AN ENCHANTED CITY. 323
sensations, as it should be, such a night would
count as a whole decade."
" By which method of calculation you would be
about a thousand years old, with your talent for
emotionalism," was Boston's chaffing retort. But
in spite of the chaff, Boston, I could see, now that
it was broad daylight, was more or less inclined to
make light of the raptures of the previous evening.
Man, even superior man, will never rise to the
height of tolerating the indulgence of sentiment
unless it leads to something, — to marriage, for in
stance, or to verse-making which can command a
marketable price.
Our stroll through the city proved it to be a
compact little town. It could be held in the hol
low of one's hand, so to speak. The streets were
lined by a fairish assortment of houses, old and
new, those fronting on the market-place being the
most pronouncedly picturesque. Here all the life
and movement — a somewhat sluggish movement,
at best — focussed itself. The noble gateways, the
walls enclosing the cathedral close and the bishop's
palace, — the stately towers of the one and the tur
rets of the other, — were a display of ecclesiastical
splendor in marked contrast with the meagreness

324 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
of the town. Wells is first and pre-eminently the
bishop's seat and the site of his cathedral. The
city is an accidental growth about their ramparts,
like the growth of barnacles on a rock.
One little street, however, charmed us into
making a tour of discovery along its narrow side
walk. It had started bravely and fairly enough
out from the market-place at right angles Avith our
inn ; then w-e found it taking strange and capri
cious turns and windings. The houses, half of
them, appeared too old and decrepit to follow its
whimsical vagaries. Many of them had strayed
into back alleys, and others had sunk dejectedly
by the Avay. One house, howev-er, had taken on
ncAV strength and courage. Its old face w-as un
blushingly made up with fresh paint ; and its worn
sign-board was offering, in a mosaic of blandishing
pictures, a vista of enjoyment to the visitor who
should venture within. It was a bric-a-brac shop.
We Avere ourselves suffering from a mild form of
the mania. The fever had not been abated by the
temptations which had assailed us at Salisbury,
Winchester, and Bath. There was an air of con
scious Avcalth and dignified reserA-e in the scanty
but rare bits of tapestry, and the one or two old

WELLS, AN ENCHANTED CITY. 325
carven chests which filled these narrow Avindows,
which there was no resisting. We must behold
what lay beyond if it brought financial ruin.
An old man came forward to meet us as we
entered. He wore a workingman's blouse and a
long faded blue apron ; their dull tone made an
admirable background for his powerful face. The
hair and fiowing beard were as grizzled as a polar
bear's, and the face was seamed with deep Avrin-
kles, — the Avrinkles of thought and care. But in
his deep blue eye, as it met ours in a look of pene
trating interrogation, there was an extraordinary
light and poAver. It was the artist's nervous,
quickened eye, impressionable and perceptive. If
his looks were remarkable, his manner was en
tirely commonplace. We Avished to see some Chip
pendale chairs ? Yes, he had some, but he had
forgotten just how much carving there was on
them ; would we take the trouble to look at them ?
They were in the other house. The house we were
in, and of which we appeared to be making a more
or less complete survey, would have furnished the
delight and occupation of an entire day could we
have consecrated it to such enjoyment. Trous
seau-chests with rare Gothic carvings. Delft plate.

326 CATHEDRAL DAYS
Sheraton sideboards, fourteenth-century mantel
pieces towering to the ceiling, and admirable tap
estries crow^ded each room through which we passed.
They were as closely massed together as so much
old rubbish. Then came a.n open courtyard, full of
flower-pots and green with A-ines. The old house
had been an inn for years past. He had bought it,
our guide went on to explain, to hold all his " stuff "
together. It had been scattered before in differ
ent shops. But even the inn was n't big enough ;
so he had bought the house adjoining. He pro
ceeded to lead us to an upper loft. It was bril
liantly lighted, and Avas filled w-ith workmen. Old
bits of tables, panels, and sideboards were stand
ing about. Some of the men Avere busy polishing,
mending, and repairing these ; but most of them
Avere bending over new wood, carving industriously.
They were copying the old models licfore them.
And we had traced to their source the secrets of
Wardour Street ! We knew now how the new work
was made to look so miraculously old.
The master of the shop stopped to glance over the
shoulder of a workman near the door. Out of the
block in his hand emerged a half-draped figure.
He Avas putting the finishing touches to the head.

WELLS, AN ENCHANTED CITY. 327
" You must cut the throat doAvn ; it is too
broad. Don't you see how slender the figure is ?
It ain't a Amazon or a Bacchante ; it 's a Psyche."
The old man then took the knife, making one
or tAvo bold incisions. It was the stroke of a
master. The throat now was as slender as a
lily-stalk. " The drapery over the knee ought to have some
wrinkles in it ; one or tAVO folds would take aAvay
that rigid look," whispered Boston to me.
But the old man had heard him. He turned
quickly with his Avonderful eyes ablaze. " Ah ! you
know something about carving, then. You are an
artist, sir ? " he asked, with an entirely new man
ner, — a manner full of intensity and awakened
interest. " No, we are only art-lovers," replied Boston,
smiling. " Come, then, I '11 show you something worth
looking at. The chairs are in there ; but there 's
plenty of time for them," with a wave of dismissal
as if Chippendales were of a very trifling order of
interest. " There are some carvings doAvnstairs
you will scarcely see beat anywhere, sir. They
took the prize at the Exhibition, sir."

328 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
He led us hurriedly, almost tremblingly, down the
rickety stairs. We repassed the dark alley-ways,
the open sunlit court, the crowded stuffy rooms.
Finally came a room, large, well lighted, with only
two or three great pieces in them ; but each was
a chef-d'oeuvre. One, a massive sideboard, was
crowded with a wealth of figures in full relief.
" It 's a scene from Chaucer's Canterbury Tales,
sir. It 's the starting out from the Inn. It 's a fine
subject, ain't it, sir? — and new, too. It won the
prize." There was no need of a prize to stamp the great
work as a masterpiece. The figures were instinct
with life. The entire scene was treated with won
derful naturalness and feeling ; it was as animated
as a living pageant.
Our praises brought a flush to the old man's
cheek. " You 're A-ery kind, my lady. I see you love
art. Did I carve it all quite by myself ? Oh, dear,
yes ! I have n't no workman could deal with such
figures. You see, sir," — and in his earnestness
(the shop-keeper had long since been lost in the
artist) — in his earnestness the old man sat doAvn
beside us on a long carved settee and laid his

WELLS, AN ENCHANTED CITY. 329
work-worn hand on Boston's arm, — " you see,
wood-carving has made great progress in our day,
but there 's only a few of us who really know the
art. In the old days master and workman worked
together, side by side. In our day it is boss and
day-laborer. The boss must be overseer ; he 's too
fine for dirty work. I'm boss, but I'm a work
man too, and so I get along. I 'm teaching my
men myself, but it 's slow Avork. They ain't edu
cated, to begin with, and it 's sIoav work teaching
them mythology and how to handle their tools too.
But it '11 come, — it '11 come, sir."
It was beautiful to see the fire that lit the old
eyes and the flame that touched the wrinkled
brow. The bent form, the eager trembling hands,
the grand old head with its patriarchal beard and
its ardent young eyes, — the immortally young
eyes of the artist, — how admirably the figure fitted
into the background of the rich strong carvings
and the delicate grays and greens of the old tapes
tries ! It was the art-spirit of the Middle Ages
come to life, but to a life fettered, as is its period,
with the shackles of a hoary antiquity.
We saw no Chippendale chairs that day ; but
we had stumbled on genius, — genius in carpet

330 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
slippers and a blouse, but with a soul and a brow
that had been kissed by the Muses.
" I see now just what kind of men those old
mediaeval workers must have been. They were
dreadfully shaky in their grammar ; but they
knew the poets and the old gods and the Bible
as we know Shakspeare. That old man has re
created an entire period for me. I know those old
workers now."
" Yes, he was a study ; and he was as shrewd
as a Yankee. He had no Chippendales ; he used
them for purely strategic purposes. He meant us
to buy his mantelpiece."
" Boston ! "
But I desisted ; I remembered in time that it
was long past the luncheon hour, and that no man,
under the dominion of hunger, can be expected to
be just.
We were to devote the rest of the day to the
cathedral ; but just because it was an opposite
neighbor, we indulged oui'selves in making a little
detour before entering it. Our feet involuntarily
turned toAvards the moat and the bishop's palace.
As it turned out, this proA-ed the true and most
perfect plan of approach. To cross the close and

WELLS, AN ENCHANTED CITY. 331
enter through the western front is the common
place tourist's method. To assault the bishop's
palace, and gain one's first glimpse of the twilight
interior, as the bishop himself does, through the
garden and the cloisters, is to see the great cathe
dral in its full strength of beauty.
As the draAvbridge was still down, I crossed
it. I saw that it was held in its defenceless posi
tion by ropes of vines and chains of moss. But
the massive door beyond still looked formidable
enough to resist a stout siege. I began to attack
it vigorously.
" What are you doing ? " cried Boston, who had
stayed behind to look at the walls and the waters
of the moat.
"I want to see what a drawbridge is like, — I
never crossed one before, — and also to see — "
But we had been discovered. One of the pan
els of the great door opened, and in its narrow
frame the figure of a particularly attractive young
Avoman defined itself. She smiled, as if she had
expected us. The smile and her prettiness pro
duced their instantaneous effect upon Boston. The
electricity of a pretty woman's glance is as yet the
fastest known time made in the universe.

332 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
" We were told this was the way to the bishop's
palace," said Boston, with his best boAV, and with
the unblushing mendacity men are capable of
summoning on such occasions.
" You are quite right, sir. Visitors are admitted
during the bishop's absence. Will you please step
this way ? "
The way led us along a velvety laAvn and past
sunny and exquisitely trim gardens. We followed
with alacrity ; or, to speak w-ith entire truthfulness,
only one of us strictly followed. My companion
might be said to be enjoying a personally con
ducted tour of inspection. For so great became
Boston's interest in our charming guide's intelli
gent explanations of the ruined hall, the moat, the
terrace, and the wells, that insensibly, doubtless, he
found himself Avalking by her side ; and the paths
Avere narrow (they always are Avheii a man finds
he must choose between two w-omen). But, reader,
I found it in my heart to forgive him. A man who
could have remained indifferent under the soft spell
of those brown eyes and that blooming complexion
Avould remain unmoved before the spectacle of his
wife in her best gown. One ought to be willing to
pay the price for discriminating sensibility.

Bishop's Palace, Wells Cathedral.

Page 332.

WELLS, AN ENCHANTED CITY. 333
A bishop's palace I had always imagined would
be different from the dAvelling, however regal, of
any other earthly potentate; and for once the intui
tion was sustained by reality. We had seen no
such collection of buildings as this in England.
Perhaps no one, indeed, except a bishop would
have dared to appropriate so much of earth, on
his way to heaven, for purely domestic and festi
val purposes. The conception which possessed
the ingenious and affluent imagination of Bishop
Joceliii certainly proA-ed him a colossus in magni
tude and magnificence of design. No other group
of buildings so triumphantly attest the grandeur
of mediteval ecclesiasticism. The cathedral, the
chapter-house, the close, were in the original plan
to be but a portion of the vast whole. The tem
poral side of a great bishop's state was to be rep
resented by the adjacent palace, engarlanded by
flow^er-beds, terraces, and lawns. The plan, one
would have thought, might have satisfied the most
exacting and luxurious of thirteenth-century bish
ops. But when the palace was completed it Avas
found to be on too modest a scale for the next
spiritual incumbent ; it was too small for occasions
of state. Bishop Burnell thereupon in 1280, with

334 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
the ease with AA^hich great lords in those days grati
fied a want or indulged a caprice, built him a great
hall. The praise that it was the longest episcopal
hall in England must have sounded sweet iu his
ears. Even the greatest of us have our little
vanities. The great banqueting-hall lies in ruins now. A
portion of the Avails is still standing ; but the
wide vacant windows, with their suggestion of
festival state, are as so many yawning graves.
There is a touch of malice the old sculptors little
dreamed they were hinting in the grotesque heads
beneath tlie drip-stones. They surround the old
ruin like a band of jeering demons, grinning as if
with Satanic glee over its decay and abandonment.
In blooming radiant contrast with this image of
death, stands the palace. It is a gem-lilce little
building. Its ancient portion is in a perfect state
of preservation, and the modern additions have
been made w-ith admirable taste. Its gables, tur
rets, lancet and Tudor-muUioned windows, make an
enchanting ensemble. It is as chastely draped as a
goddess, with its flowing garment of vines and 'wy.
A glimpse was allowed us of the interior, — of the
galleiy with its groined roof and richly carv-ed

WELLS, AN ENCHANTED CITY. 335
doors, and of the vaulted lower story, formerly the
old cellar and entrance, now restored and used as
a dining-room. We strolled later on towards the terrace. It
overlooked the moat. The afternoon sun lay warm
and dazzling on the sparkling waters, on the ivy
along the Avails, on the great and noble trees within
the park. The beauty of it all was very different
from that of the night before ; but in full sunshine
it was quite as much a region of pure enchantment.
The views were as varied as they were surpassingly
lovely. In the blue distance was Glastonbury Tor.
Beyond the meadows, in the park, shone the jagged
sides of Dulcot Hill. On the right, through the
trees, the cathedral towers lifted themselves into
the blue ether. On all sides the hills stretched
away, surrounding the country and enclosing it, as
the costly cathedral and the palace Avere enclosed
by their own walls and ancient bastions ; it Avas a
double fortification.
On our way back through the gardens towards
the cloisters, we noticed innumerable wells or
springs, lying unenclosed and bubbling with life.
These wells were at once the glory and the origin
of the city itself, our guide explained. It was the

336 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
discovery and the prevalence of these natural
springs which decided the mediaeval bishop to fix
upon Wells as the seat of the diocese. The moat
is still fed from St. Andrews, — " the bottomless
well," the original great well of King Inc. It still
rises close to the palace, and falls in a cascade into
the moat. All the centuries have not run it dry.
During the Middle Ages this well made the palace
almost impregnable. Its continued abundance has
preserved to modern eyes, in perfect preservation,
an ideal picture of those earlier methods of war
fare. In our own day the Avell has felt the modern
movement. It has adapted its resources to modern
utilitarianism ; it turns scA-eral mills, besides serv
ing to cleanse the city's streets.
After the glare on the terrace, the damp sweet
coolness along the garden paths that rimmed the
bubbling springs was full of refreshment. The
delicate sound of the bubbling waters and the dis
tant notes of the falling cascade made a delicious
liquid harmony. No other music but that faiint
silvery tune Avould have fitted into the perfectly
finished surroundings, or would liaA-e seemed in
keeping with the domestic elegance of the gem-like
palace, with the softened tragedy of the ruined

WELLS, AN ENCHANTED CITY. 337
hall, with the lovely scents and perfume of the
white roses, the jessamine, the blooming vines, and
above all, with the spiral loftiness of the cathedral
towers. The melody of falling water is the most
delicate of all sensuous sound, — it is music with
out the voluptuousness of rhythm.
We gave ourselves up to its witchery and to the
scene. We might stay as long as we liked, and
walk about, our charming guide considerately said.
" For the cathedral, sir, you see is quite handy,"
she added at leaving, as she lifted her dark eyes in
farewell to Boston.
It was a novel view to take of so impressive
a building, this of a cathedral being " handy ; "
but doubtless she only unconsciously reflected the
bishop's own view of the edifice, — in time, very
probably, his cathedral does come to assume the
aspect of a personal belonging. Such was the atti
tude of the older holders of the See in the great
Middle-Age days ; and why should not such a feel
ing be hereditary, along with the office and the
duties ?
In whatever light the present bishop may view
his noble temple, there can be no finer point from
which to see it in its fullest beauty than from his
22

338 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
own gardens. Subsequent experimental observa
tions, taken at various other points, only served
to confirm this first decision. First, through the
trees you catch exquisite detached bits, — the
traceries of the windows in the Lady Chapel and
the southern transept framed into the freer breeze-
blown branches ; then the entire apsidal portion,
together with a wonderful view of the whole south
ern side, transept, central and western towers,
chapter-house, and Lady Chapel, rise in splendor
above the tree-tops. From no other point is the
cathedral at once so impressive as a whole and so
supremely and astonishingly picturesque. With
such a reA-iew of its great and stupendously lovely
beauties, you are willing to accept Wells as Messrs.
Fergusson and Freeman would have you, — you are
willing to declare it the most perfect and complete
of all the English cathedrals.
Then, if you happen to be less of a critic and
master of technicalities than these learned gentle
men, if you will persist in using your own eyes, even
if they be but those of an audacious amateur, as
you proceed on a more detailed tour of investigation
you will awake to the surprise of discoA^ering that
you touched the climax of the cathedral's grandeur

Wells Cathedral, from Moat.

Page 33S.

WELLS, AN ENCHANTED CITY. 339
ill that first view. As you endeavor to spell out its
various portions, you cannot avoid encountering Iavo
prodigious disappointments at the very outset. The
frankness of full daylight will reveal the fact that
the western front is a failure, — a positive, unde
niable, and obtrusive failure. This is the more
vexatious since it possesses in a high degree a
distinct note of impressiveness. This impressive
ness is due to the effect which so rich a multitude
of statues must inevitably present. Such an array
of serried saints and martyrs is as overwhelming
as an army. But sculpture should be to architec
ture what acting is to the drama. It should be
thought embodied in action. It must subordinate
itself to the feeling it is meant to express. In this
Wells fagade the structural values are displaced.
The architectural design is but a screen to serA^e as
a background for the placing of the figures in
position. The result is a want of depth and ear
nestness in the superficial architectural lines, which
not even the dignity, the grace, and the irresistible
simplicity of the sculptures themselves can supple
ment or efface. Added to this, is the note of
discord contributed by the two western towers.
Their unfinished tops, for all their refined and

340 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
noble finish of detail, giA-es them a truncated ap
pearance. They are but the torsos of towers.
The next shock of surprise comes from the first
view of the nave, or, to speak more exactly, of the
nave and the inverted arches at the intersection
of the transepts. The nave itself is as completely
lovely as a perfectly finished statue. It is in the
very best style of the Early English period. The
wonder is the greater that it should have been
disfigured by these curiously incongruous inverted
tower arches. As an ingenious and clever archi
tectural plan for strengthening the supports of the
great central tower, one can conceive of the
project being admissible on paper ; but one is
lost in horror at the thought of so monstrously
ugly a conception being perpetuated in stone.
This fact once accepted, and the additional one
that all perspective is rendered impossible, both
by reason of the organ and the arches, and the
remainder of the cathedral Avill be found almost
unsurpassable in point of beauty. Nowhere in the
kingdom, perhaps nowhere in the world, will be
seen such a combination of all the highest elements
of architectural beauty as one finds in this Wells
choir, in its exquisite Lady Chapel, its retro-choir.

WELLS, AN ENCHANTED CITY. 341
and in its adjoining chapter-house. Where find
such varied yet harmonious symmetry of design,
such spirited yet chastened originality, such ele
gance in proportion combined Avith such a wealth
of elaboration in detail ? The choir, lofty, impres
sive, and gloriously lighted ; the Lady Chapel, of
such extreme beauty as makes it the model pro
duction of the very best age ; the retro-choir, with
its symmetrical arrangement of piers and clustered
columns ; the chapter-house, reached by a flight of
steps as beautiful as is the magnificent building to
which it leads, — surely such a collection of build
ings under one roof is rare in any of the greatest
building-ages. It is sufficiently rare in England to
Aviii one's consent to the A-erdict of those who know,
to a full and complete assent Avith their praise of
Wells. These gentlemen, besides their praise, will tell
you that Wells was completed within a compara
tively short period, which partly accounts for its
perfections. There was, of course, an early Saxon
cathedral which had fallen into decay. On its
ruins rose, in the thirteenth century, the now exist
ing nave, transepts, the central tower as high as
the roof, and the west front. The apsidal portions,

342 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
the choir. Lady Chapel, and chapter-house, were the
work of subsequent bishops during the latter part
of the thirteenth and in the beginning of the four
teenth century. It was ncA-er a monastery nor a
conventual church, but was always held as a cathe
dral proper. The cloisters, in proof of this, are
only an ornamental walk about the cemetery, not
designed to serve as a part of a monastic enclosure.
Of all the bishops whose lives and careers are
most closely identified with this bishopric of Bath
and Wells, none so appeals to modern sympathies
as does the blameless, courageous Bishop Ken. He
owed his bishopric to the latter of these qualities,
and also to a corresponding generosity rare in the
make-up of kings. He it Avas Avho at Winchester
had the courage to refuse to receive that fascinat
ing little wanton Nell Gwynne, who had accompa
nied her royal loA-er on a visit to that city. When
the bishopric of Bath and Wells became vacant
shortly after, Charles II. proved himself CA^en greater
than this stout Christian. He rose to the height of
forgiving an injury. " Odd's fist ! " he cried to his
courtiers, " who shall haA-e Bath and Wells but the
little fellow who would not give poor Nellie a lodg
ing ? " And this " most holy and primitive of

Wells Cathedral, from the Wells. Page 242.

WELLS, AN ENCHANTED CITY. 343
bishops " could thenceforth take his strolls on yon
der lovely terrace, and feast his poet's eyes on the
loveliness of this goodly estate, until he was ban
ished to Longleat ; for he fell with his benefactor.
But the author of those poetic hymns, " Morning,
Evening, and Midnight," and the picture which
history perpetuates of his singing to his lute at
sunrise, as was his daily custom, can never be truly
banished from the memory of men, not, at least, so
long as gentleness, high courage, and lofty piety are
loved and reverenced on earth.

344 CATHEDRAL DAYS.

CHAPTER XV
TO GLASTONBURY.
'T^HE next morning, as we were strapping the
-*- last bag a few moments before leaving, an
extraordinary bustle and noise came up the street
and into the open windows. There was a great
clattering of horses' hoofs, a clanking of heavy
chains, and the rumble of stout wheels over the
cobble-paved streets.
We looked out. It was to look down on a
brilliant spectacle. An artillery company — guns,
troopers, and officers whose sabres flashed in the
morning sun — w-ere clashing along the narrow
thoroughfare. The town was in the streets ; at
least that portion of it which was not craning its
feminine neck out of the windows was gathered
in awed, admiring groups on the sidewalk. The
groups scattered now and then, only to re-form,
as the four or five young officers in charge of the
company plunged their horses into the midst of

TO GLASTONBURY. 345
the crowd to ring out the orders along the line.
The troops, though evidently weary and whitened
by the dust of prolonged travel, had that dashing,
well-set-up air of the best military discipline char
acteristic of English soldiery. They were only
travellers passing through a little provincial town
en route for a northern city ; but they entered the
narroAv street as if they were an army come to take
possession of an enemy's country. Their entry was
made in such form that it seemed only part of a
well-arranged series of attack.
From the picturesque point of view, this peace
able invasion proved as good as a veritable assault.
These scarlet coats lit up the dull gray streets
into flashing brilliancy. The troopers' backs made
a long line of flame across the Ioav leaden-hued
houses. The noise and the bustle in the streets
made a bristling accompaniment to the clanking
of the chains and the heavy thunder of the gun-
carriages. The town, which had been asleep ac
cording to its custom of centuries, had suddenly
waked up. Its slow pulse had been galvanized into
a new life. A part, at least, of the active forces
of the nineteenth century was sweeping along its
sluggish stream, and the tidal wave was stirring

346 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
the slow current. It was curious to note the con
trast between the gaping townspeople and these
alert-looking soldiers. The jjeople looked on in
woodeuish wonder, with becalmed eyes, as they
stood about in motionless attitudes. They might
have been a fourteenth-century instead of a nine
teenth-century provincial crowd, so alien and re
mote did they seem to the stir and the modern
vigor these fine-looking artillerymen brought with
them. It is only, we said to each other, as we
leaned on our elbows, looking down upon the
stirring little scene, — it is only by some such
sudden and vivid contrasts as these, — by the
introduction in sharp juxtapositions of these Iavo
periods, the period of the present projected into
the midst of this fossilized past, that one can be
made to realize fully the antique spirit that still
inhabits these mediaeval towns. Their real exis
tence appears to have stopped three or four hun
dred years ago. They have liA-ed on in calm,
pulseless inactivity, virile only in the sense of
being representative of some of the still surviv
ing features of feudalism. Their real life is in-
rootcd in the past. They are as unmodern and as
unprogressive as if they had been bottled in the

TO GLASTONBURY. 347
Middle Ages, and had been preserved as specimens
of the mcdiceval in the Museum of the Picturesque.
Yet Avho Avould haA-e it otherwise ? These little
toAvns are the nests Avhich all the ages have been
busy making for the immortal mating of those
fugitive birds, Art and Poetry. Without them man
would be as sterile, from the imaginative point of
view, as a North American Indian. Their lifeless
unmodern spirit helps to create and sustain the
charming illusion of their remoteness, and the
sense of their historic isolation. Their dulness
seems only a part of their Quaker grayness. It is
a calm Avhich is in keeping with the tAvilight hush
that broods under their cathedral aisles. Thus they
charm into drowsy luxury of enjoyment the tour
ist's senses and faculties, as they continue to live
on contentedly in the torpor of retrospection, by
the fine subtle opiates of their matchless beauty.
These and other profound and philosophic reflec
tions were brought to an abrupt close, — for the
troops had been ordered to halt. The first four or
fiA-e gun-carriages and two of the younger officers
Avere to be quartered on our inn. In the tAvink-
ling of an eye the troopers were off their horses,
the carriages had been quickly and dexterously

348 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
wheeled into the courtyard, and a moment later
the officers' swords were heard clanking along the
wooden stairway.
The excitement A\-hich had ' pervaded the town
now took possession of our little inn. It Avas
thrown into convulsive throes of energy. The
energy, however, appeared, by auricular evidence,
to be concentrated in the male element of the es
tablishment. The hostlers and Avaitcrs appeared
to be in liA-ely response to the sudden call of the
emergency. But the women had evidently quite
lost their heads. The maids stood about in con
scious pairs, smiling vacuously at the troopers,
tAviddling their apron-strings. It Avas painful to
learn, on Boston's going down to order Ballad to
be brought round, that the appearance of the two
young officers had even had the power to put the
handsome landlady in a flutter. The rule that
temporary paralysis invariably sets in among wo
men at the sight of a few brass buttons and a
uniform, was apparently to find no exception in
this instance.
We w-ere soon in need of other consolation than
a talent for making light of a disagreeable situa
tion. We waited a long half-hour, and still no

TO GLASTONBURY. 349
Ballad. As the sun was meanwhile mounting
high, and noon was approaching, there was a
better reason than mere irritation for our impa
tience. " Confound the women ! I wish they could do
anything, CA-en to answering a bell-rope, as well
as a man," cried Boston, in his disgust and
vexation. " As the men of the establishment appear to
have kept their heads, I'll go and see if I can't
impress a hostler," I said. " There 's nothing like
carrying a war into an enemy's camp." And I
determinedly opened the door.
It was to stumble on a bit of genteel comedy.
In the door directly opposite was framed the fig
ure of one of the young officers. He was in jaunty
deshabille, and was holding in charmed dialogue
one of the pretty chambermaids. Some point in
his gay discourse appeared to render a pinching
of the latter's rosy cheek necessarily explanatory.
The girl was responding by a dazed little courtesy.
My appearance was the signal for a hasty dropping
of the curtain. The door was shut to with a bang ;
and the girl, in a cloud of blushes, disappeared
round an angle of the hall-way.

350 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
It was our fate to witness still another encounter
of this young gallant, which, however, did not have
quite so brilliant a finish. Ballad had been at last
brought to the door. There Avas the usual delay
in the courtyard before the trap was entirely
packed and loaded. Then, when the last hostler
had strapped the last strap and had pocketed the
last shilling, we issued forth to drive slowly and
lingeringiy out of the little town. We had turned,
as was our Avont, to take a farewell glimpse of the
cathedral, at the first corner which w^as to hide
the great structure behind a wall of house-fronts.
As our ej^es gradually descended from the glitter
ing tower-tops, swimming in noon-light, into the
glare of the streets, with a black shadow cut here
and there by an eave or a window-ledge, three
figures stood out in brilliant contrast against the
Avhitened house-fagades. Two of the figures were
those of the two young officers. They Avere re
splendent in scarlet coats and gold lace. The
third was that of a young lady, tall and gracefully
slender. She was walking along close beneath the
wide window-ledges, to catch Avhat shade their
broad shelter might afford. She was carrying, as
is the custom of English ladies in rural cities, a

TO GLASTONBURY. 351
small wicker basket filled with odds and ends of
shopping. A carriage followed slowly behind. As
the three figures advanced, there Avas a little well-
bred start of surprise on the part of the young offi
cers ; their hats were raised, and mutual greetings
Avere interchanged ; but beneath the young lady's
richly feathered Gainsborough, a frigid distant
smile met the eyes bent upon her. Tavo languid
finger-tips were extended, a monosyllable or Iavo
were uttered, and she passed on.
" I 'm glad they were snubbed, — and she was
pretty too," I said to Boston, as we turned a
corner. "Why were you glad? They were perfectly civil,
apparently, and they were rather fine-looking too, in
their way," answered Boston, in the tone men use
Avhen they feel it necessary to defend one another.
" Oh, they were good-looking enough, but they
had such a London swagger, and such a London
er's talent for losing no time in sowing a Avild oat
or two. The modern man — "
" The modern man sows fewer than his grand
fathers did."
" That 's only a relative progress. Society Avill
never be on a truly right basis until — "

352 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
" My dear, I '11 grant anything. It 's getting too
hot for temperate argument or even for sane talk
of any sort. Would you mind holding your para
sol out of my eyes, please ? "
The heat was, in truth, tropical. It was as hot
as Naples or New York. Besides the heat to
endure, there was a sirocco of dust. Why, of all
days, had we chosen this one for a noon drive ?
Why had we not kept to our lately discovered plan
of starting at sundown and arriving in the small
hours, in the cool of the night, at our destination ?
We kept repeating this question — asked unwisely
all too late, else there would be no errors in life to
regret — most of the way along our torrid high-road
to Glastonbury. The road, the \-iews, the land
scape, were spoiled for us. The sun beat his fierce
light on a road as destitute of shade as a plain.
The dust was as a wall between us and the out
lying country. This drive from Wells to Glaston
bury may be the most beautiful in England ; for
us it proved only an eight-mile journey of torture.
The sole point of interest, as avc neared the low-
lying hills about Glastonbury was centred for us
in the All -Weary Hill, where in the dim early
centuries Joseph of Arimathea was supposed to

TO GLASTONBURY. 353
have finally rested after his long brave pilgrimage.
With that ardent disciple we felt now a ncAV bond
of sympathy. Our belief in the reality of his pres
ence here was strengthened by the need of the
proof that so reliable a fellow-traveller had sur
vived the journey. Much after all, perhaps, of our
fine incredulity regarding certain mythical state
ments might be changed into quickened belief were
more of us, in these more comfortable days, sub
jected to the commoner hardships of life. We are
out of touch with the old martyr's hardships and
the toil of the early disciple's daily life ; we no
longer live in conditions yvhich make the Apos
tle's simple faith or the propagandist's fervent un
dismayed audacity realizable. From the purely
physical standpoint we are removed from them by
far more than mere centuries of time. We are
too Avell fed, too warm, too rested to believe very
acutely in willing ascetics, in voluntary nakedness,
or in gladly self-enforced labor and toil. Physi
cally, our conditions are as changed as morally avc
stand far removed from the early primitive condi
tions under which great spiritual deeds were possi
ble and almost easy. If Boston and I, for instance,
had arrived here in Glastonbury by train, unwearied,
23

354 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
unheated, unvexed by dust and the discomfort
of enduring a broiling sun for nearly two hours,
our interest in Joseph of Arimathea and the story
of his resting on yonder hill would have fallen,
Avithout doubt, on dull, incredulous ears ; but a
little dust, heat, and fatigue made him and his
journey seem entirely real. As a traveller, his
experiences over-topped ours, it is true ; but had
he suddenly appeared among us, we should have
sat doAvn at the common board, — there must have
been tavern-boards even in his time, — we should
have interchanged experiences and clasped the
hand of fellow^ship and rejoicing.
Had neither history nor guide-books been written
to establish the authentic antiquity of Glastonbury,
its age would have written itself. The town, as
we droA-e into it, had the unmistakable mouldi-
ness which centuries of life and bygone careers
leave as a part of historic deposit. The church
towers looked more like fortresses than belfries ;
and the narrow streets had the richness of gray
coloring w-hich old stones yield. The bits of moss,
of lichens, the tufts of foliage here and there in the
chinks of the old houses and in the cracks of the
old walls, were like the gray, stumpy bits of beard

TO GLASTONBURY. 355
old men groAV, too thoroughly inrooted in unyield
ing soil to obey the razor or the scythe.
Chiefest and most beautiful of the old houses in
this still ancient Glastonbury is the George Inn.
The architectural authorities who tell you so much
of its beauty do not tell you enough of its charm.
The beauty lies in the unity and grace of its
fagade ; but the charm is to be found in its hav
ing preserved so astonishingly the old methods of
living. The walls are thicker, for instance, than
many of the rooms are wide. The light which
came through the picturesque muUioned windows
was scanty and treacherous. The little sitting-
room, which was coffee-room, inn-parlor, and com
mercial room in one, was as darkly lighted as a
dungeon, and not much more commodious. It would
have been impossible, in a word, on a hot noonday
to have been more antiquely uncomfortable. Our
ancestors presumably considered the compensations
of safety as a happy exchange for larger comfort
or freedom. But the nineteenth century, which
has no use for Availed towns or narrow streets or
thick walls, prefers, on the whole, rather to play at
medisEvalism than to live it. This was our own
first experience of a genuine fifteenth-century

356

CATHEDRAL DAYS.

luncheon in a fifteenth-century inn. The comely
serving-maid who brought in yesterday's shoulder
of lamb, a huge cheese, and tankards of beer of the
size and quantity accredited in fiction to the heroes
of that strong age, made the fitting human com
pletion to the rest of the picture, — to the little
dark room, with its low ceilings, its fortress-like
walls, and its rough deal furniture. There w-as
nothing to mar the unity of the Avhole as a mas
terly bit of medigeval reproduction. As a final
touch, there were the grunting of pigs and the
cackling of hens in the courtyard, added to Avhich
was the pervasive odor of manure and hay from
the stables, which, for convenience doubtless, had
been built directly beneath the inn's sitting-room
windows. The innkeeper appeared to be enough of a con
noisseur in architecture to prefer a prolonged con
templation of the unequalled beauties of the exterior
of this famous little inn, to subjecting himself to
any reminders of its internal deficiencies. On our
arrival we had found him planted, Avitli legs wide
apart, at a comfortable angle for a protracted survey,
beneath one of the loAver Avindows. He w-as still
there Avhen, after luncheon, we had come to the

Arch, Glastonbury.

Page 357.

TO GLASTONBURY. 357
point of asking our way to the abbey. He was
again at his post when we returned some Iavo hours
later. Our Avay, he told us, was not far. We were to
cross the street, turn under yonder old archAvay,
take a little alley to our right, follow betAveen the
tAvo high Avails till we reached a small green door
which would open at the touch of a bell. All this
sounded very mysterious and inviting ; for ruins
in these old countries haA-e come to be as guarded
and as ingeniously tucked away as bits of hidden
treasure. To the stranger, part of their charms
perhaps lies in these quaint and curiously unex
pected methods of approach. The homeliness of
this path along which w-e were proceeding, for in
stance, made our first sight of the great abbey's
ruins doubly impressive. We passed through a
courtyard filled with farm-wagons, rakes, and
scythes. The long wall closed about rows of
straggling, weary-looking old houses ; and the lit
tle green door seemed not unlike those mysteri
ously commonplace doors in fairy-land which, once
opened, usher one into paradise itself.
This particular paradise was a paradise of ruins.
Glastonbury Abbey lies mostly on the ground.

358 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
Such portions of it as are still standing are the
debris of a colossus. No one thing so strikes
upon the eye at a first glance as does the im
mensity of it all, — the tremendous SAveep of lawn,
once entirely covered with the old conventual build
ings ; the grandeur of the still remaining walls,
Avhose fitting roof seems heaven's vast vault ; and
the still standing glory of the great trees, Avhose
tops overhang the nave aisles. It Avould be impos
sible, I think, for a magnificent building in ruins
and Nature, grandly, nobly alive, to form a more
deeply and profoundly impressiA-e union than do
these Glastonbury enclosures. Nature has supple
mented Avhat time and the desecration of man have
attemjited to destroy. These great laAviis and giant
trees have preseiw-ed at least something of that gran
deur Avliich must ha\-e been, even during its greatest
day of glorj-, the noblest feature of this abbey.
That the abbey and its dependencies once coa--
ered sixty acres of ground seems entirely realizable,
Avitli this splendid sweep of velvet before one. The
branches of the trees, as they play beneath the
touch of the light Avinds, are Nature's gracious sub
stitute for the lofty vaulting Avliich once covered
the long stretch from yonder distant nave to this

TO GLASTONBURY. 359
crumbling, aerially roofed St. Joseph's Chapel.
The latter, CA-eii in its decay, is still one of the
most perfect examples of the transitional period.
The Norman windows, with their rich embroidery
of tooth-Avork and of embattled mouldings ; the
slender nave aisles, with their semicircular arches
covered with roses, crescents, and stars in the
spandrels ; the noble doors, massive in their struc
tural solidity, — make such a fusion of the best later
Norman features and the Early English nascent
forms as is unmatched for harmonious unity. As
one deciphers the half-obliterated features of this
once supremely lovely little building, one is lost in
a rapture of wonderment as to what its perfect and
completed whole must hav-e been. What a miracle
of luxuriance in ornament, what a harmony of
flowing lines, and Avhat an infinity of device in it
all ! Such portions of the great abbey as are still
standing — the tall side walls, the few bits of sculp
ture still traceable in St. Mary's Chapel, the pier-
arches, and the short, broken bits of vaulting here
and there — everywhere repeat these notes of afflu
ent richness in design, and the superabundance of
ornamental wealth, which St. Joseph's Chapel first
reveals. The abbey was built, in a word, before

360 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
the sculptor's chisel or the architect's inventiveness
had begun to tire. Both here rioted in the sense
of an almost reckless fertility of invention. The
Norman died here in a blaze of glory. The truer,
more native Early English was cradled into birth
by a parent whose own life was ending in the
midst of a transfigured glory.
That the abbey was as rich in worldly posses
sions as it was glorious in architectural splendor,
is a part of that history which made these great
mediaeval monasteries such a Avondrous paradox.
Within these sixty acres reigned for centuries a
stupendous conA-entual hierarchy. These Benedic
tine monks had foresworn the Avorld, only to re
possess its luxuries under more assured conditions.
When Henry VIII. came, they had become so
drugged with the rich poisoned wines of enjoyment,
that not only the monks but the abbot himself
turned thief and common pilferer. The abbey
treasures were deliberately stolen, hidden aA\'ay, or
sold by the pious ascetics Avho had voluntarily taken
the vows of poverty and sanctity. Torre Hill, on
which now bristles a sturdy tower, commemorates
Henry's view of the situation. The abbot who
refused to yield up his abbey into his king's hands.

TO GLASTONBURY. 361
and then began a deliberate system of thieving to
insure at least the possession of the abbey's treas
ures, paid for his short-sighted political sagacity
and impiety with his life. With Whiting's execu
tion, the monastery was confiscated to the use of
the more powerful king. It was abandoned, and
finally crumbled into ruin ; but in its decay its
utility may be said, perhaps, to have begun. The
magnificent pile, as liaA-e so many of the great
buildings at Rome, served as a quarry for desecrat
ing builders. Half of Glastonbury town, as well
as the long causeway across the Sedgemoor, has
been constructed out of its fallen mass of ruins.
There are two incidents in the history of Glas
tonbury which stand out in luminous relief against
the background of its later monkish luxury and its
earlier days of ascetic piety. The one is the story
of the life and career of Abbot Dunstan. The
record of his brilliant achievements reads all the
better in the pages of serious history, as a welcome
relief to the interminable chronicle of the w-ars
with the Danes, the chief political and military
events of his day. But there is a tender episode in
his career which has always seemed to me to throw
a flood of light on the customs and manners of a

362 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
period we are wont to liken to Cimmerian dark
ness. In his earlier days Dunstan, like Abclard,
as well versed as he in the learning, philosophy,
and poetry of his day, was followed by a train of
pupils. The versatility of his gifts is proved by the
statement that a lady summons him to her house
to design a robe she is embroidering. He and her
maidens bend together OA^er their task ; and a harp,
which he has strung on the wall, " sounds w-ithout
mortal touch in dulcet tones." The monk had
anticipated the modern aesthete, you see, by just
a thousand years ; but he was a better lover than
the emasculated specimens which hyperculture
breeds in our day. As monk at Glastonbury,
Dunstan became the spiritual guide of a woman of
high rank, whose virtues Avere as great as her
beauty Avas rare. In the simple, fervid English of
those days the chronicler says, " and he ever clave
to her, and loved her in Avondrous fashion." It
Avas only at her death that he became abbot.
The other incident in the history of Glastonbury
is the one, above all others, which aureoles it with
the halo of poetic associations.
The picture glows with the color of tradition.
Two monks go forth into the morning to dig, in

TO GLASTONBURY. 363
the noAV untraceable cemetery, the grave of one of
the brothers. As the earth yields to their labor,
their tools strike hard against a stone. Beneath
the stone rests a stout oaken coffin. They Avrench
the coffin open, and behold, within lies the figure of
a kingly, stalwart man, on whose breast rests the
head of a yellow-haired woman. The figures are
none other than those of the stainless king and his
erring and beautiful Guinevere. A leaden cross
beneath the stone bears the inscription, " Hie jacet
sepultus inclytus Rex Arthurus in insula Aval-
Ionia." The story appears almost too obviously
in consonance with the demands of historic justice
to be taken for historic truth. Launcelot and the
poets having done their uttermost to perpetuate
Guinevere's perfidy during her husband's lifetime,
the historians have felt it, perhaps, to be but the
barest justice to place them, indisputably, side by
side in death.
Legend and poetry seem far more fitting notes
to issue forth from these " ruined choirs " than the
reminders of the monks' fat living and their deep
wassailing, which the massive square kitchen re
calls. The building stands almost intact, beyond
the main ruins. The cowled brethren of the

364 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, with such a
capacious little fortress as their cuisine, were as
suredly not starved. What a refinement of aes
thetic and religious epicureanism is suggested by
such a chapel as St. Joseph's, in which to worship
of a morning, and the sitting down after Mass to
such a dinner as these huge spits and yawning
ovens must have furnished ! One must be brought
face to face w-ith such a spectacle as Glastonbury
presents even in its ruins, to have some of the
great pictures of the past thrilled with a new life
and meaning. To read of such a monastery as
this and the history of its career, from its estab
lishment sixty years after Christ to the dramatic
finale on Torre Hill, can scarcely fail to interest
the least imaginative reader ; but to stand here
within sight of these giant walls, before these
vast perspectives and their crumbling glories, is to
have the shadowy aisles filled with the pomp and
splendor of those bygone ceremonials, with the
long procession of the Benedictine Brothers, Avith
the kingly abbot, who, as he swept in state from
his monastery along the cloistered walk, could rest
his eye on a fair and smiling country, Avhich, far as
he could see, was all his own. As the choir-boys'

TO GLASTONBURY. 365
chorals smote his ear, heaven and earth must in
deed have seemed to clap their hands for joy over
so royal a possession. Perhaps, if the sons of
heaven had not attempted to appropriate so much
of earth, the swift-footed Nemesis of the Reforma
tion might have stayed its speed. It is a pity
that these brethren could not have gone out in a
greater blaze of spiritual glory. One would like to
cover the abbey ruins with the veil of a sentimental
tissue woven of wholesome admiration ; but the
monks were such a poor hybrid of man and beast
that Henry VIII. for once at least poses as a
righteous executioner.

366 CATHEDRAL DAYS.

CHAPTER XVI.
TO EXETER.
'' I "HE drive to Bridgewater was a dull one, in
spite of our having secured the twilight
as a torch and the stars as fellow-travellers.
Bridgewater was as dull as its approaches, the
town being in the heart of a long stretch of flat
lands, the sole uninteresting feature wo had seen
on the face of this loA-ely Somersetshire. Bridge-
water, however, might have been even less attrac
tive than we found it, and it would still have
been fraught to us with a serious import, for our
reaching it at all Avas to mark an epoch in our
journey. It had been decided at Salisbury, between two
tall and viciously feeble candles that refused to
shed any save the most meagre light on the
county-maps, the guide-books, and the discussion,
that we should go from Bridgewater to Exeter by
train. This decision had not been arrived at, as

TO EXETER. 367
may well be imagined, without much and serious
thought. The inception of the plan had grown out
of a mistaken policy of which we had never been
Avholly able to rid ourselves, — the folly of asking
advice. The hills about Bath and the betrayal of
Ballad's weakness in the matter of ankles had
engendered the vague fear in our minds that the
Devonshire hills might prove to be even more
prolific in disaster than Stonehenge and Coombe
Down. On one or two incautious occasions we
mentioned our fears to a friendly Somersetshire
hostler ; thereupon the entire county seemed to
arise as one man to save us from what, it appears,
would be certain peril.
" He 's too light, sir ; he ain't up to such rough
work." " The hills, sir, why, the hills is like the sides of
a house ; an' he 's for easy-goin' travel, he is."
" You 'd be left high and dry, tak' my word for
it, sir ; he 'd drop on your hands after the first
mile of stiff climbing."
When hostlers agree, how is the untutored, un-
horsey mind to stand firm ? We weakly yielded ;
and on one particularly bright, late August morn
ing we all three took the morning express to

368 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
Exeter. The gain to Ballad of such an arrange
ment was obvious. Securely fastened in the freight-
car, he was, perhaps, for the first time since the
beginning of his travels, able to enjoy the scenery
from an impersonal critical stand-point. Our own
loss of tAvo days' driving through the Devonshire
lanes and hills Avas equally certain.
Through the narrow slits of the railway-carriage
windows it was possible, however, to snatch swift
if unsatisfactory glimpses of the country. For at
least a third of our journey we were to be in
Somersetshire ; the landscape, therefore, still wore
the smile of a friend. The morning, had it been
made to order, could hardly have been better
chosen for this our last view of this noble county.
The sky had just the right quality of tone, and the
atmosphere the perfect note of clearness, to bring
into harmony the distant hill-lines and the softness
of the nearer meadows. The country seemed to
roll away as if in happy, conscious abandonment
towards the brilliant edges of the morning horizon,
carrying with it the wondrously tender green and
gold and brown undulations. In the valleys the
shadows were still nestling, as if loath to leave their
midnight camping-grounds ; on the hills was still

TO EXETER. 369
lingering the faint blue mist, the breath of the not
too broadly awakened day.
In spite, however, of such a banquet of beauty
for a morning repast, the haunting sense of regret
was not wholly stilled. A carriage rolling leisurely
along a well-shaded lane, raising a light cloud of
white dust, which the whiter smoke of the train
voraciously devoured, seemed to emphasize with
peculiar impressiveness the poignancy of our re
morse. Why had we been wise ? What, after all,
were perpendicular hills compared to the joy and
delight of our lost open-air days, with their leisurely
calm, with Nature at arm's length, and Adventure
perhaps, plumed hat and sword in hand, to meet us
en route ? The hills, now that we faced them,
seemed commonplace enough, like most of the
troubles in life which experience levels to the
reach of our capacity. Already, what with our
regret and remorse, the whole of our enchanting
tour seemed to belong to a part of our past, — a
glorious bit of experience relegated to the perspec
tive of retrospect instead of being the living, acting
present. One event in our journey dispelled for a time
these dismal thoughts. This event was our en-
24

370 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
trance into Devon. The country gave us no en
lightening hint of the precise moment when we
should cross the boundary-line between the two
counties. But a short distance before reaching
Taunton our sole fellow-traveller, a young Britisher
of florid aspect, who had been diligently engaged
in reading a strangely familiar-looking little brown
book, " The Tourist's Guide to Devon," remarked,
" We shall be in Devon in a few moments," imme
diately resuming the perusal of the little brown
book. He belonged to the class of tourists who
prefer to see scenery and a new country properly
bound betw^een the pages of a book, with well-
arranged notes and statistical information ; they
are then quite sure of doing the thing thoroughly.
It Avas at Wellington, several miles farther on,
that the first proofs of a distinctly different and
alien beauty in the scenery proclaimed that Devon
Avas equal to maintaining its reputation for certain
high qualities. The land all at once took on
strange depressions and abrupt alternations. Sud
denly there burst on our sight a magnificent
stretch of country. The spurs of the Black Hills
projected into the landscape Avith the ruggedness
of robust mountains. Farther on, the rude little

TO EXETER. 371
villages, the primitive-looking huts, and the com
paratively sparse population proved that the wilder
characteristics for which Devon is so much praised
are no fable. The romantic character of the land
deepened in charm as we sped along ; the streams
were fuller and the dells more sylvan, while there
was a bolder vigor of outline about the uplands
and the remoter hills which made the feet long to
press them.
No one — at least no American, I think — enters
Devon without experiencing a peculiar thrill of
interest. It may be partly because the imagina
tion has been stirred immemorially by historians
and novelists, by the traditions and descriptions of
the romantic character of its scenery, or it may
be due to its noble historic periods and its prolific
breeding of heroes and heroic deeds ; but certain
it is that no other English county appeals to
American sympathies with just the same quality
of magnetic attraction as do the hills and the
streams of Devonshire. Although it is English
to its heart-core, in crossing its boundaries one
has the sense of entering a different, though not
a foreign, country. It seems to be apart from
the rest of England. One has a vague sense that

372 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
its Exmoor hills and its Dartmoor forests still
abound in picturesque episodes, as they do in their
legends of pixies and fairies. Devon is the fairy
land of the imagination ; it continues, by the sheer
force of the magic that lies in its historj^ and
scenery, to be a part of the romance of our own
lives. One of us, I remember, in his enthusiasm,
went to the length of finding plausible reasons
for these enchanting Devon characteristics, — for
its individuality, its still-continued halo of romance,
and its appeal to our transatlantic sympathies.
The solution of them all was to be found in the
fact that instead of Devon's being un-English, it
was superlatively English : it was the ideal, the
typical, the only truly national England ; its land
scape corresponded, as did no other in this green
isle, to the traits of the national character, — for the
Englishman is not as yet so highly and completely
finished as are his sylvan Wilts or his rolling
lawns of Sussex ; whereas in this ruder landscape
the contrasts abound which are prefigured in his
OAvn nature. And a hand was used with effect
ive, sweeping gesture, I also remember, to include
the smoothness of a near sunny patch of corn, the
ruggedness of the distant hill-lines, the broad

TO EXETER. 373
spaces of solitude, and the mingled brilliancy and
delicacy in the atmosphere, in triumphant proof of
this theory.
I also quite distinctly remember, although my
note-book very considerately does not record the
snub, that whoever was listener somewhat unfeel
ingly remarked, that the idea was suggestive and
possibly worthy of consideration; but in vicAV of the
fact that we were rapidly nearing Exeter and the
time had come to collect the hand-luggage, it would
be wiser on the Avhole to dismiss it and to keep,
instead, a sharp lookout for a porter.
The Rougemont Hotel was too near the railway
station for the usual cursory glimpses one gains
from a cab or an omnibus window, — glimpses
which, like all first impressions, are valuable as a
background, if only for purposes of future com
parison or alteration. We had been assured, Avith
much earnestness of asseveration, by each one of
our guide-books in turn, that Exeter had preserved,
in an extraordinary degree, its aspect of antiquity ;
that we should find it, indeed, an epitome of
Devon's former greatness and glory.
In our five minutes' walk from the station
to a superlatively modern hotel, the impression

374 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
produced by this first shock of contact was that it
might have been built yesterday. The force of
this impression was certainly not diminished by
the figure of the hotel porter in a London livery,
who stood ready to grasp our hand-luggage, nor by
the admirably appointed elevator, furnished with
enough mirrors to satisfy even a Frenchman's
vanity, nor by the large, airy, and elaborately up
holstered apartment into which we were ushered.
In themseh-es there is nothing, to CA^en a senti
mental pair of tourists, positively offensive in casy-
chairs or in a spring-mattress. Boston, a little
later, at luncheon, formulated both our disappoint
ment and our subsequent appeasement, as he took
his experimental sip of the ox-tail soup.
" After all, a good soup does tempt one to put
up with civilization."
" Yes," I replied ; " at its best and at close
quarters civilization is, perhaps, an improvement
on hoary antiquity."
We w-ere soon to find, however, that Exeter was
as rich in -hoary antiquity as in the latest experi
ments in civilization for subduing man by making
him comfortable.
An hour after luncheon, as we turned away from

TO EXETER. 375
the glaring brick fagade of the Rougemont toAvards
the city's thoroughfares, we had left in the twink
ling of an eye three hundred years — nay, five —
behind us, and were in the heart of the grandly
beautiful ancient city. The antique picturesque
ness of Exeter, it was obvious at the very outset of
our tour of observation, Avas too abundantly rich
in a sense of its own completeness to be either coy
or secretive. Instead of one's having to seek for
the jewels of the lovely old city among its dung
hills, its glories are set in lustrous conspicuousness
in the very centre of its crown. High Street, the
city's main thoroughfare, is as crowded with its
multitudinous collection of old houses, quaint
churches, enticing low shops, and with the em
broideries of its carvings, as an over-filled museum.
The houses, in the variety and diversity of their
architectural plan and arrangement and in the
lovely blending of their sad soft colors, can best,
perhaps, be likened to a collection of finely pre
served old portraits, on whose garb and facial ex
pression the seal of the long-ago centuries has
set its mark of remoteness.
It is unquestionably, I should say, the most pictur
esque thoroughfare in England. This superlative

376 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
degree of pre-eminence it maintains, perhaps, be
cause of its possessing two entirely opposite traits,
— it strikes you as being at once the oldest
and also the youngest of streets. It has possessed
the talent of preserving, amid all its ancient fea
tures, the art of looking perennially youthful. In
our own day it is the busy, vigorous, commercial
air of activity and prosperity, — the young blood
coursing through its old veins, — which makes its
life seem sympathetically modern. This charac
teristic strikes, I fancy, the key-note of Exeter's
long- preserved vigor of life ; she has always been
in direct and active response to the stirring ac
tivities of her day. Like Rome itself, her cities
have been built and destroyed, her people have
been scattered and her tribes have perished, and
yet she has lived on, renewing, phoenix-like, her
youth and her vigor. The city, as a whole, pos
sesses this dual aspect : it sits on its hills proudly,
nobly, Avitli an air of unshaken permanence and
immovable stability, with something of the pride
and the conscious dignity of the unconquered and
unconquerable, — an attitude and bearing we are
apt to believe belonged to the proud and passionate
feudal towns, which they maintained as their heritage

TO EXETER. 377
of heroism ; yet the city's heart, the centre of its
busy frame, pulsates with modern life, and is visi
bly thrilled w-ith the modern movement. It is this
union of antiquity and modernness which invests
Exeter with the qualities and character usually
found only in capitals. More than any other Eng
lish city did Exeter impress us as an independent,
autocratic city, one more used to wearing a crown
than to bowing before another, — a kingly city, in
other words, accustomed to meeting soA^ereigns on
an equal footing.
The culminating point of the picturesqueness
of High Street is the beautiful Guildhall, with its
spacious Elizabethan colonnade, which projects,
with its four grand columns, into the crowded
street. The eye has endless sport and delight in
deciphering the worn figures, in plunging into the
fine shadows made by the overhanging galleries,
and in resting on the noble mass as it proudly
steps forth among the meagre nineteenth-century
buildings, with their superficial smirk and preten
tiousness. Among the many other rich and Avell-
preserved treasures with which Exeter abounds, is
an ideally perfect Elizabethan house in the cathedral
close. Its two-storied projecting casements, entirely

378 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
filled with the diminutive glass panes of the period,
is said, by its proud possessors, to be the only house
of similar design in perfect preservation in Eng
land. The house is now a photograph-shop ; and
its enlightened owner delights in showing an upper
chamber, panelled to the ceilings with rare oak
carvings, above which, in the frieze, are most of the
famous arms of the English past and present peer
age ; for this upper chamber was once the famous
Exeter club-room, and has resounded to the wit
of Sidney, to the gayety of Raleigh, and to the
grave eloquence of Drake. The smallness of the
chamber, its rich yet severe finish, and its sugges
tion of cosiness and comfort were better than
pages of history to picture the intimacy and the
jollity of those bygone days, when the great and
famous were not scattered about in large cities nor
lost in giant club-houses, but met above an ale
house to plan their brave schemes of adventure and
to laugh and sing as the cup went round.
Exeter is so rich in the consciousness of its dra
matic and romantic career, that the fact of its
being a cathedral city at all appears to be merely
a matter of detail. It can, indeed, afford to regard
as secondary in importance that which in other

TO EXETER. 379
cathedral towns is the sole reason of their exist
ence ; yet Exeter Cathedral is such a priceless
piece of splendor, such a truly royal ecclesiastical
jewel, that it might well serve as the unique and
solitary glory of a city's boastful pride.
A very obvious part of the charm of Exeter
Cathedral lies in the fact that it has to be sought
for. It is so well and dexterously concealed from
view, as one passes along High Street, that one
might be some days in town without so much as
suspecting that one of the finest cathedrals in
England was a near neighbor. It was almost by
chance, I remember, that as we turned into a long
quaint alley-way filled up with little low shops, we
caught a glimpse of a green plot of grass and some
trees in the distance. Our guiding instinct divined
these to be the cathedral close. The crooked
alley-way, with its jumble of lurking recesses, gay
shops, and overshadowing projections, made the
wide, airily open close, with its beautiful assem
blage of old houses and the grand cathedral, set
like some Eastern potentate in the midst of his
silent court, doubly effective and impressive.
There is a wonderfully appealing and persistent
charm in such Old- World contrasts; the beautiful is

380 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
rendered doubly attractive by the innocent deceits
and the various dev-ices which time and happy ac
cident together have arranged as a part of the set
ting of the scene. One comes to the point, at the
last, of finding an alluring coquetry in every crooked
alley-w-ay and dusky opening. In Exeter this spe
cies of what might be termed flirting with chance
may be carried on to a most unlimited extent ; for
the city abounds in wanton little streets, in mys
terious turnings and romantic alley-ways, that end
by leading one into a maze of adventure. But the
king of surprises holds his court in the cathedral
close. No street was ever made up of such an
innocent collection of projecting casements and
unsuspicious-looking windows as the one that leads
to the feet of the grand towers of the cathedral.
Walking forward towards these towers which flank
the cathedral like two colossal sentinels, gradually,
and as if designed Avith the utmost skill and art so
as to insure this slow first view, the path along the
greensward leads one gently to the grand fagade,
and there you take your first full view of the
glorious front. There are first impressions and
first impressions, as there are cathedrals and cathe
drals ; there are impressions that are doomed to

TO EXETER. 381
fall into the shadowy background of disillusion, as
there are cathedrals which, like many another
strong and beautiful experience, gather in volume
of effect as the after-knowledge of their greatness
deepens. But before some of the great and glorious
triumphs of art, the first and the last view of their
beauty remains the same ; their all-conquering love
liness brings an overmastering ecstasy of delight.
A certain strong and vivid current of emotion is
sure, under the right conditions, to accompany
such a moment. For art and music have this in
common, that their most triumphant harmonies
produce a like physical effect; the breath comes
swifter, the eyes unconsciously moisten, and the
throat is seized upon by that delightful emotional
clutch which paralyzes speech and action. It was
such an effect as this that Exeter produced on me.
It was the first and only English cathedral I had
seen that brought with it an overwhelming feeling
of rapture. The delight and joy in its beauty
marked the moment as an epoch in pleasurable
experience. It was a moment to be classed with
the San Sisto, with the Venus di Milo, and with
Schubert's Unfinished Symphony moments.
To analyze the beauties of Exeter is only to add

382 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
another note to one's joy in them, their quality and
rarity being of such an order as to warrant one's
cooler admiration. The front is as unique in design
as it is architecturally beautiful. There is that
rarest of features in English cathedrals, — an elabo
rately sculptured screen, thoroughly honest in con
struction. In originality of conception this front
is perhaps unrivalled, at least on English soil ;
there are three receding stories, so admirably pro
portioned as to produce a beautiful effect in per
spective. The glory of the great west window is
further enhanced by the graduated arcades which
have the appearance of receding behind it. Above
the west window rises a second and smaller tri
angular window in the gabled roof. Thus the tri
angular motif is sustained throughout, from the
three low doorways in the screen up to the far-
distant roof. This complete and harmonious front
is nobly enriched by the splendid note of contrast
in the two transeptal Norman towers, whose mas-
siA^e structural elegance and elaborateness of detail
lend an extraordinary breadth and solidity to the
edifice. The grandeur which distinguishes the exterior
is only a fitting preparation for the solemnity and

<
u PiMHW
W

TO EXETER. 383
splendor of the interior. Passing beneath the
thickly massed sculptures of the low portals, the
effect of the vastness of the nave is striking in its
immensity. Curiously enough, in this instance,
this effect of immensity is not due to an un
broken stretch of nave-aisles or to a lengthy
procession of pier-arches, but to the magnificent
sweep of the unencumbered vaulting in the roof.
An organ screen intercepts the line of Adsion at the
entrance to the choir. This, however, is the sole
obstruction which the eye encounters. Above, the
great roof, with its unbroken three hundred feet
of interlacing lines, rises like some mighty forest,
its airy loftiness giving to the entire interior
a certain open-air atmosphere of breadth and
vastness. For once, I fear, our sense of duty slumbered.
Architecturally, we may be said to have been dere-
hct in assiduous devotion to the inexhaustible
beauties of this wonderful cathedral. The zest
which had characterized our earlier attacks on
the architectural peculiarities of Winchester or
Wells had given way, before the enrapturing per
fections of this interior, to the lethargy of a purely
abstract and sesthetic enjoyment. We read from

384 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
the pages of Murray, and we heard from the lips
of the verger, that the geometric traceries in the
windows were of the very rarest order of perfection,
that the windows were themselves extraordinarily
large and pure in design, that the roof was per
haps excelled by no other in its lightness and grace
or in the beauty of its slender vaulting shafts and
in their delicately carved bosses, that these bosses
in their variety and carving were marvels of sculp
ture, also that the transformation of the interior
from the Norman to the elaborate Geometric was a
triumph of completeness and finish surpassing the
less thorough reconstruction of Winchester and
Gloucester ; but we read and heard all this as in
a dream. What most deeply concerned us was the desire
to secure an uninterrupted session of contemplative
enjoyment. We had lost our hearts to the beauty
of the cathedral, and cared little or nothing for a
clever dissecting of its parts. We came again and
again ; and it was the glory of tlie cathedral as a
whole — its expressive, noble character, its breadth
and grandeur, the poetry of its dusky aisles, and
the play of the rich shadows about its massive
columns — that charmed and enchained us. It

TO EXETER. 385
was one of the few English cathedrals, we said to
each other, that possess the Old-World continental
charm, the charm of perpetual entertainment, and
whose beauty has just the right quality of richness
and completeness to evoke an intense and personal
sympathy ; for in all the greatest triumphs of art
there is something supremely human.
Our last visit was like a farewell to a friend.
The occasion was the more sorrowful because we
knew that it was not only our last of Exeter, but
also that it was our last cathedral. The brief half-
hour was imbued, therefore, with the sentiment and
the solemnity of a final parting As if in response
to our emotion, the organ poured forth a mournful
tender groaning, the twilight shrouded the interior
with a silvery pallor, and the faces on the tombs
seemed to smile forth upon us a melancholy bene
diction of peace.

25

386 CATHEDRAL DAYS.

CHAPTER XVII.
FAREWELL TO BALLAD.
¦\ T 7E felt that if only in justice to Ballad, after
his five days' imprisonment in the Exeter
stables, we should all take a bit of an outing into
the open country before the moment came when he
was to take one road and we another. It Avas use
less to deny that to two of us, at least, this inevitable
separation was about to bring sadness in its train.
To part A^ith a friend is bad enough ; but all human
partings have at least this drop of honey in the
bitter cup, — there is always mingled with the grief
the cheering hope of a future meeting. But Avith
even one's most intimate friends in the animal
kingdom there can come no such soothing comfort.
To bid farewell to a dog or to a beloved horse is the
same as to bury him, — the world is so Avide and
men are so fickle. The opportunity is always open,
of course, to prolong an intimacy with a four-footed
companion by buying him. But friendship thus paid

FAREWELL TO BALLAD. 387
for usually, I find, ends as do all such mercenary
relationships ; when the period of cooling sets in
sentiment evaporates, and the question of how much
remains to be made out of a poor bargain is the
ultimate result of all the fine frenzy. We had con
cluded, therefore, rather to part with Ballad than to
run the risk of tiring of him. We preferred to leave
him behind, that he, like the other features and
incidents of our charming journey, might remain
as an unalterable part of the delight still to come,
— the joy we were yet to have in retrospect.
There were two or three days spent in exploring
the country about Exeter ; there were mornings in
the lovely valley of the Exe, and a day and night
given to Chagford, a wonderful little village set on
a spur of the Dartmoor hills. These little trips gave
us a series of delightful glimpses of Devon scenery,
— of its rusticity and its wildness, of the charm of
its woodlands and the grandeur of its noble hill-
country. It was as if we had undertaken, with
premeditation, a review of Devonshire's perfections.
Nature and the season were in conspiracy to make
these final days the harder. We were leaving a
land of pure gold. The grain covered the fields like
a yellow cloud. Here and there over the meadows

388 CATHEDRAL DAYS.
were signs that already the harvest was garnered,
amber mounds dotting the plains we passed on the
last of our drives. The fields along the hill-sides
were vocal with the sound of the mowers moving
their scythes in rhythmic measure; and this mu
sic, which followed us into the thickly peopled
Exeter streets, reminded us that if charming tours,
like life itself, must come to an end, at least the
harvest of pleasure is not OA-er with the ending, but
may be garnered and husbanded for future use and
delight. On one particularly sunny morning a sad little
procession wended its w-ay to the Exeter station, —
two, that is, out of the five composing the company,
were sad. The other three, it is to be feared, took
a merely perfunctory interest in the proceedings ;
for, like mutes at a funeral, the chief reason for their
being Avith us at all was their hope of making some
thing out of the mourners. These unfeeling three
were the hotel porter, who had come w-ith us that
he might point out the man who had placed Ballad
in his box-stall in the train ; the hostler who had
attended to Ballad's physical wants while stopping
at the Rougemont ; and the usual odd man who

FAREWELL TO BALLAD.

389

never fails to make his appearance in England
when anything unusual takes place, — ^ the man who
never does anything in particular, but Avho always
contrives to get the fee for something that some
one else has done. With so many escorts, much
time was lost in coming to a decision on any point ;
and it w-as quite by chance that we found ourselves
close to the freight-van in which Ballad was about
to be whirled away from us to Chichester. A door
was opened, a window unhinged, a considerate
guard lifted me into the van, and behold. Ballad's
sensitive, high-bred face was confronting me. At
the first he received us with a start of affright,
with quivering nostrils and high-arched ears ; but
at the sound of our voices the trembling ceased,
his dark eyes lanced a glance of recognition, and to
my caressive touch he responded by an answrering
whinny of glad greeting. It was hardly to be
expected that the moment was as freighted with
importance to him as it was to us. Even solitary
confinement in a box-stall did not seem to haA-e
impressed him as the preliminary of our separation.
Animals have a way of accepting the unusual,
which in man would be termed philosophically stoi
cal. I, for one, had no stoicism at my command.

390 CATHEDRAL DAIS.
I will not say that my emotion unmanned me, — I
did not drop a tear ; but I am quite willing to
confess that I left the print of a very grateful and
regretful kiss on Ballad's high white forehead.
I have sometimes wondered during the past
winter, as I have sat seeing in the flames of the
open fire the vision of those six weeks of pleasure,
whether Ballad retains a vestige of the memory of
our happy time together; whether his adventures
as an experienced tray-eller have brought him wis
dom, or whether, like so many another tourist, he
carried no more home with him than he started out
with. His gain must ever remain more or less a
matter of speculation ; but this I knoAv, that in re
turning to the world the commonplace and the prac
tical have been vastly less tedious because of our
gay holiday. Life, it appears to me, may be made
very endurable indeed if its pleasures are riglitl}'
managed ; and surely, those pleasures are best
that linger longest in the memory, that continue to
vibrate, like cathedral chimes, long after they have
ceased to be, and that are the more complete for
being enjoyed with the best of companions.
THE END.

3fn anil ©ut ot
%\\vtt jBtormantig jfnns
BY ANNA BOWMAN DODD
New edition, ivtih numerous fatt-page plate and other tllastrations,
12mo. Cloth, extra. Price, $2.00...,.
12mo. Paper, tvith frontispiece. 50 cents
<©}jinion^ on €|)ree i^ormanbp 3fnnjf
The reader who lays down this book without wishing there were more of it
is to be pitied. . . It is rarely that so thoroughly delightful a bit of travel and
study is discovered. These sketches of Normandy coast scenes, people, and
inns, are really quite ideally good. The author has done good work before, but
nothing so good as this. . . The inns so capitally treated are at ViUerville,
Dives, and Mont St. Michel, and it is hard to say which of them is the most
fascinating — New York Tribune.
Charming alike in matter and literary style. She has the eye of an artist
for the picturesque, and the art of presenting her impressions in pure and grace
ful English. Nothing could be more charming than the description of ViUerville
in the opening chapters. It literally " breathes of the sea " and of the fisher-folk
who have their homes within the quaint old village. — San Francisco Call.
No one, we fancy, will be able to close this enticing volume without a desire
to cross the sea and follow in the footsteps of its author, from ViUerville to
Dives, from Dives to Caen, thence to Coutance, and finally to the summit of the
cathedral-crowned Mont St. Michel. . . She has the art of making pictures
for her readers which pulsate with real atmosphere and glow with veritable
color. There is quick apprehension, close observation, a keen sense of the
comical — and there is also, here and there, a, delicate touch of feeling. —
Literary World.

LITTLE, BROWN, & COMPANY, Publishers
254 Washington Street, Boston, Mass. [over.]

<i^ptiuong on g:t)rce jjSonnanp^ jiiing
In truth, we must say this author has fine adaptiveness (anybody can bolt,
but few discriminate), and the hterary quality of her " Three Normandy Inns"
is of the best. It deserves distinguishing consideration, and will add to the
reputation already won among readers of her delightful " Cathedral Days." —
New York Times.
It is long since a more vivacious and thoroughly charming volume of
travels has appeared. Old as the theme is, and familiar as the ground is, Mrs.
Dodd has given to her narrative an individuality and a freshness that are
delightful. — Book Buyer.
Gives the reader a curious insight into the customs and life in this province
of Northern France which has been so idealized by the artists. The author has
a dainty touch ; she sees all that is picturesque in this land overshadowed by its
stirring history. — San Francisco Chronicle.
It is charmingly and humorously written, with a keen insight into the char
acter of the sturdy, vigorous coast people. — Richmond Despatch.
Agreeably vivacious and well written. But it is of the sea-encircled Mont
St. Michel that the author writes best — how well, only those who have visited
the abbey, and, above all, partaken of the wonderful omelettes of Mme. Poulard
can know. — Philadelphia Press.
The writer is a keen observer of men and things, and, described by her magic
pen, the most commonplace scenes and incidents become as attractive reading
as the most exciting novel. — Omaha Bee.
As the beautiful country always presents some novel features, so does the
clever book, with its " ins and outs,'' give you a fresher appreciativeness.
" Three Normandy Inns " is a book apart. This was to be expected of the
author of " Cathedral Days." One might tire a little of painters' slang, some
times of their ways, but not so when the Unknown, and Charm, her friend, and
John Renard, and M Paul, and Madame the Countess talk and tell, as in this
volume, of what they saw, and give you their impressions. You are no longer
driving in the hot sun, along monotonous roads, or plodding along sea beaches;
you are face to face with the unexpected. . . .
AA'hen the strategic AVilliam was preparing for his descent, and England
and Harfleur were to be overcome, on the great waters of the Dives, he
buUt his boats, and there stood on the spot for centuries an inn, formerly a
manor-house, and le Sieur de Semilly, who quartered the arms of Savoy on his
escutcheon, held the place. Here it was that that lively lady, Mme. de Sevigne,
mth a gallant company, stopped some centuries ago. With infinite grace, and
in touch with the period, Anna Bowman Dodd describes that visit. The con
clusion of the scene is as neatly done as if a de Goncourt had written it. — New
York TiTnes.

LITTLE, BROWN, & COMPANY, Publishers
254 Washington Street, Boston, Mass.

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