We will not attempt to picture our feelings while here, at almost the highest point over London to which a mortal has ever climbed. Old St. Paul's had a spire that extended up 165 feet above this, and so men have climbed up 520 feet, to the top of the highest building ever erected in Great Britain. On this building they have been to the top of the cross, 20 feet higher than we were when in the ball; but this is exceptional, and we had done almost as well as the best. Here had sat the immortal Wren. Here had been kings and queens, the nobility of all lands, poets, philosophers, prelates, and many of no renown.
As we pass down we examine the Whispering Gallery, inside of the cathedral, in the drum of the dome. We look down as before from the top, or eye of the inner dome,—on pavement and pygmies below. How awe-inspiring and vast! From this height, as also from the more elevated position above, we were fully impressed with the immensity of the structure, and were able to realize something of the greatness of the architect who conceived it.
The attendant in the Whispering Gallery tells us to put our ears against the side wall, and he would whisper to us and exhibit this accidental wonder. He, being opposite, against the wall, says in a whisper: "This Cathedral was built by Sir Christopher Wren, and was finished in the year 1710. This dome is, &c., &c." All was as distinctly heard as if we were by his side. We had heard for ourselves the wonder. We had experienced all that any one can experience, so far as the material work is concerned. When we put our name on the visitors' book we felt that we did more than that, for we joined the company of those who for two and a half centuries have been doing as we did. As long as mind endures, as often as the hand of thought reaches out, it must gather whether it will or not.
It is not far from 6 p. m. of this Sunday. Service is being held, and the great nave is half filled. The audience are trying to hear, and a part of them are sincerely worshipping; the remainder, like ourselves, are "seeing the cathedral." The sounds were confused and the echo troublesome, though not so much so as at other places. We were favorably impressed with the great length of the cathedral, and with its general look of vastness,—not awe-stricken, but filled with delight at the privilege we were enjoying in being in great St. Paul's. The large piers and arches, and the arched ceiling (tunnel-like, but here and there pierced with small and too flat domes), all appeared heavy and substantial,—built to last. Elegant colored-glass windows are about the apse, or chancel end, but the others are of small square lights of clear glass. A common square black and white marble tiled floor; monuments and tablets here and there against the columns and walls; an elegant oak organ-case, in two parts, on the side walls of the choir, and just back of the high, iron screen-work that separates the choir from the nave; the rich oaken stalls,—these make up the interior of St. Paul's. The great central dome has dim paintings by Sir James Thornhill, done at the time the cathedral was built. Seen, as the inside of the great dome is, through smoke, which the rays of light from the large windows above penetrate and make visible (this effect is ever present during the light), the great dome awakens a feeling of solemnity. We felt something of what we were contemplating.
The shades of night were falling; the assembly had broken up, and here and there were solitary visitors, moving about weird-like in the dim light as if loth to leave. We at length passed out, and returned to our lodgings at West End.
What ground has been gone over between the hours of 4 and 8 p. m. Hyde Park, Westminster Abbey and Bridge, Parliament Houses, the almost classic river, a look at St. Paul's,—and we are at home and resting.
The comparatively recent construction of St. Paul's deprives it of such ancient monuments as may be found at the Abbey, and in other English cathedrals. Those here are of white marble; and, although some of them are nearly a century old, they yet have a newness of design akin to statuary. One to the memory of Lord Nelson is the most costly and attractive. It is in one of the alcoves, or small chapels, at the west end, and the entire room, some twenty feet square, is devoted to it. It is elaborate and highly decorated. There is another of some eminence at the left side of the choir. It is a life-size statue of Dr. Samuel Johnson, the great lexicographer. He is buried at the Abbey; but one so poor as to live in the obscurity of a garret, at length became so great as to win the second monument in this important church.
"There's a divinity that shapes our ends,
Rough-hew them how we will."
The monuments of this church are of consequence as regards their elegance of design. In no other English cathedral is there so large a percentage of works of this kind. Impediments to the introduction of monuments were offered; and it was not till 1791 that the opposition was overcome, when application was made to erect a stone to the memory of John Howard, the philanthropist, who died at Kherson, Russia, Jan. 26, 1790. The door thus being opened, under the supervision of the Royal Academy many others have been erected, among which those of men of military fame prevail. The first monument was set up in 1795. In the south aisle, against the wall, is a full-size statue of Bishop Reginald Heber. He is dressed in canonical robes, his right hand on his breast, his left resting on a Bible standing endwise. He died at Trichinopoly, India, April 3, 1826, at the age of 42, and is celebrated as being the author of the well-known hymn beginning, "From Greenland's icy mountains." The cathedral has a fine basement, hardly inferior in interest to the great room of the cathedral above it, and always visited by the tourist. Here, as at the Whispering Gallery, the fee of a shilling is charged. The room is fifteen feet high, and is clean and airy. The floor is paved with stone slabs, and a large number of windows thoroughly light it. Innumerable columns of stone, for the support of the arching overhead, and floor resting upon it, give the room a forest-like appearance; though by no means depriving it also of the look of a vast chapel, for at the proper place there is an altar and its appurtenances. In this vicinity are a few effigies and tablets from the first cathedral. Forming an architectural museum, are a lot of relics that were found in the ground at the building of this cathedral, and so are of Roman origin, or were used as parts of the old cathedral.
Under the centre of the great dome, in this crypt, stands the granite sarcophagus in which rests the dust of Arthur Wellesley, the Duke of Wellington, who died at Walmer Castle, near Deal, Sept. 14, 1852, at the age of eighty-three. This sarcophagus is grand. So justly great is the public esteem for the man, that monuments to his memory are almost as common in England as are tablets of "the Lion and the Unicorn fighting for the crown," or as Washington Streets and men named "George W." are in America. In the crypt is the gorgeous catafalque on which were borne the remains of Wellington at the funeral procession,—the elegant wheels made from cannon captured by him. For a small fee persons are admitted within the iron fence to make examinations,—always accompanied by a guide, whose duty is to see that visitors carry away nothing save the story he tells them.
To us the most interesting object in the entire cathedral is in this crypt. At the right hand, as one faces the rear end, and well along on the side, is the last resting-place of the architect of the building, Sir Christopher Wren. The spot was selected by himself, and is really, though unpretending, a choice place of sepulture. It is under one of the windows, and is very light; and, if we mistake not, rays of the sun at times fall on the tomb. There is no imposing monument,—only a level stone slab some three feet wide and six feet long, two feet from the floor, bearing this simple statement:—
HERE LYETH
SR. CHRISTOPHER WREN
The Builder of This Cathedral
Church of ST. PAUL &c.
who Dyed
in the Year of our LORD
MDCCXXIII
And of his Age XCI.
On the western jamb of the window is a marble tablet, six feet three inches long, and three feet high, sunk into a panel, finished with a well cut egg-and-tongue moulding, and inscribed as follows:—
LECTOR SI MONUMENTUM REQUIRIS
CIRCUMSPICE.
(Reader, if you seek his monument, look around you.)
He contracted a cold in coming from Hampton Court to London, which doubtless hastened his death, but he died as he had lived, in great serenity. In the last days of his life he was accustomed to take a nap after dinner. On the 25th of February, 1723, his constant servant, thinking he slept longer than usual, went into his room and found him dead in his chair.
Two events of special interest took place in this year. On the 16th of July was born Sir Joshua Reynolds, the eminent painter. Elmes says:—
The placid soul of Wren might, by a poetical license, be imagined to have informed the equally placid mind of Reynolds, for no two men could be found to form a more just parallel; equally distinguished for industry, love of art, placidity, modesty, communicativeness, and disinterestedness.... At the head of your respected arts, ye both lie in honor, and in possession of the love and reverence of your countrymen, beneath the same vast dome that honors both your memories. Goodness and ye fill up one monument.
In this year also, 1723, was erected our old Christ Church on Salem Street, Boston. The design of this has been attributed to Wren, and we are inclined to think that indirectly he aided its conception. As he died at the great age of ninety-one, and was very feeble before his death, it can hardly be presumed that he made the drawings; but he may have dictated them. More probably he may have made a design some years before, which, being at hand, found its way to Boston; or the plan may have been made by a former apprentice, who carried on his master's work. Again, this design may have been copied, almost without the change of a line, from St. Bartholomew's-by-the-Wardrobe; for that, so far as the interior is concerned, is its prototype, even to the painted cherub-heads in the spandrils of the arches over the galleries. St. Bartholomew's was built from Wren's designs in 1692, and so was 31 years old at the time of the erection of our Boston church. The London church is 79 feet long, 59 feet wide, and 38 feet high. The dimensions of Christ Church are 70 feet, 50 feet, and 35 feet. Aside from the likeness of their interiors, there is a singular agreement in the pillar-capitals and gallery fronts, and also in the mouldings, combinations, altar-work, and vases. Their exteriors have little in common. There are two ranges of windows in each; but those of the London church are circular-headed on the second range, and only segmental for the first, like those at Boston King's Chapel; while at our Christ Church all the windows have circular tops. The London church has a plain flat-roofed tower, 80 feet high, without a steeple, though it is quite possible there may at some time have been one. This tower is at the right-hand corner instead of at the centre of the front.
The steeple on our Christ Church was blown down in the great gale of 1815, and rebuilt by Bulfinch, it is said, according to the original design. In its important features, and even details, this steeple is much like Wren's. This is not the place to argue the case,—but we repeat, the probabilities are that Christ Church was indirectly designed by the distinguished architect of St. Paul's.
The National Gallery of Paintings is a building of large dimensions, situated on Trafalgar Square, one of the main business centres, which is not far from half a mile from the Thames, and about midway between Westminster and St. Paul's. It contains eleven rooms for the display of over six hundred pictures, all of them being choice works of the Masters. The building is open to the public daily.
The British Museum is an enormous building, light and airy. In it, free to the public, is an unsurpassed collection of preserved animals, which can better be imagined than described. How wide is the field to which one is introduced, in the works of art or places of entertainment, in this vast metropolis! Museums and galleries abound. Accessible to the public, they are practically free, and better than can be found elsewhere in the world.
How abundant are the means of travel. The cab system is here at its perfection. The low prices are regulated by law. It costs one passenger a shilling, and two passengers a shilling and sixpence, to go a reasonable distance,—farther than from the Boston North End depots to those at the other part of the city. Cabs are plenty and are to be found standing in the centre of all principal thoroughfares. It is the law also that a tariff-card, in readable type, shall be put up inside of every cab.
Omnibuses abound, always with seats on the top as well as inside. The horse-cars, or trams, are heavier than ours, and not so handsome, but they are clean and well managed. Like the omnibuses, they have seats on top, where the travellers sit back to back. Then there is the underground railway. This runs almost around the entire city, and has a double track. Steam trains, of many carriages, are constantly passing both ways. At convenient points are stations where passengers descend and return by wide stairways through well-lighted and spacious trainhouses. This road is in all respects a great success. Perhaps half of it is through tunnels, but much of it is open to the sky, and the cars are lighted artificially. So frequent are the trains that one goes to the station at random, as he would to an omnibus, sure of not having long to wait.
We have spoken of the oft-running and well-patronized boats on the river. London is perfectly supplied with facilities for transit. Not for a moment would the over-crowded horse-cars, often seen here in our Boston be tolerated. We do not remember once standing in any public conveyance in England or on the Continent.
The public parks of London are very numerous, and are admirably located for convenience. Their total extent is greater than in any other city of the world. Prominent among these are Hyde Park, containing 400 acres; St. James's and Regent's parks, containing 450 acres each; and Kensington Gardens with 290. All these are within the metropolitan district, and are as readily accessible to the public as Boston Common or the Public Garden. Besides these, London's suburban parks are of incredible number and extent. It is enough to name some of them, and say that all these, and many more, are within six or eight miles of the centre of the city and easily reached. Victoria Park has 300 acres, Finsbury 115, Hackney Downs 50, Woolwich Common and Greenwich Park 174 each, Peckham, Rye, and Southwark 63 each, Wandworth Common 302, Wimbledon 628. A little farther off is Richmond Park with 2,253 acres, the largest park near London. Then comes Windsor with 3,800, and Hampton Court and Bushey Park 1,842 each, and finally Kew Park and Gardens (the finest botanic garden in England), containing 684 acres. Most of them date back for centuries. Kew Garden is remarkable for its neatness, and hundreds of thousands annually visit it. In the vicinity are refreshment houses, kept in good order, which make the gardens a favorite place of resort, on Sundays as well other days.
Volumes might be written in regard to these parks, and then only vague descriptions would be given. None of them are finished like Central Park, New York,—that is, as far as bridges and lodges are concerned,—but in all else the London parks are its equals, and the city has done nobly for the comfort and health of the public. The more one experiences of London life, the more he realizes its greatness. Everywhere he discovers what is well adapted to the wants and tastes of our century; the old appears new, and the new old. Within a few minutes' walk of each other are over forty churches built immediately after the fire of 1666, two hundred years ago. Some of them have fine interiors, as St. Bride's, St. Stephen's Walbrook, Bow Church, St. Martin's in the Fields, and St. Clement Danes. In beauty, save perhaps the pews, these excel the churches newly built, with the exception of a few modern Gothic structures. Few of the churches named have many worshippers; the population has removed, but veneration for the old spots, and an inherent disinclination to change, say "Stay!" and so the old churches stand forlorn.
So interesting are all the old churches of London, that it is with an effort we refrain from speaking of them in detail. One, however, we feel justified in naming, and in giving a few items of its history. St. Sepulchre's is near the Old Bailey prison. Here preached John Rogers, the first of the martyrs during the reign of Queen Mary. He was burned at the stake in Smithfield, Feb. 4, 1555. The place of his execution is now a small square near his church. He is the John Rogers of the New England Primer, wherein we are told that "his wife followed him to the place of execution, with nine small children, and one at the breast." The perplexing question of number has been solved, for other accounts say distinctly that there were ten children in all.
Of more than common interest to Americans is the fact that in St. Sepulchre's church are buried the remains of Capt. John Smith, who in 1606 made the settlement of Virginia at Jamestown, and whose life was saved by the intercession of Pocahontas. He was born at Willoughby, England, in 1579, and died in London, June 21, 1631. He made voyages of discovery along the coast of New England, landing at the Isles of Shoals. Just 250 years afterwards, in 1864, a stone monument was erected to his memory on Star Island. There was formerly in this church a monument in remembrance of him, which has long been removed. We have been fortunate enough to obtain the poetical part of the inscription:—
Here lies one conquered, that hath conquered kings,
Subdued large territories, and done things
Which to the world impossible would seem,
But that the truth is held in more esteem.
Shall I report his former service done,
In honor of his God and Christendom?
How that he did divide, from pagans three,
Their heads and lives, types of his chivalry?—
For which great service, in that climate done,
Brave Sigismundus, King of Hungarion,
Did give him, as a coat of arms, to wear,
Three conquered heads, got by his sword and spear;
Or shall I tell of his adventures since,
Done in Virginia, that large continent?
How that he subdued kings unto his yoke,
And made those heathens flee, as wind doth smoke;
And made their land, being of so large a station
An habitation for our Christian nation;
Where God is glorified, their wants supplied;
Which else, for necessaries, must have died.
But what avails his conquests, now he lies
Interred in earth, a prey to worms and flies?
Oh! may his soul in sweet Elysium sleep,
Until the keeper, that all souls doth keep,
Return to judgment; and that after thence
With angels he may have his recompense.
By the will of Robert Dow, a London citizen and merchant-tailor, who died in 1612, the annual sum of 26s. 8d. was bequeathed for the delivery of a solemn exhortation to the condemned prisoners of Newgate near by, on the night previous to their execution. Says the historian Stow:—
It was provided that the clergyman of St. Sepulchre's should come in the night time, and likewise early in the morning, to the window of the prison where they lie, and there ringing certain tolls with a hand-bell appointed for the purpose, should put them in mind of their present condition and ensuing execution, desiring them to be prepared therefore as they ought to be. When they are in the cart, and brought before the wall of the church [on the way to Tyburn], there he shall stand ready with the same bell, and after certain tolls, rehearse the appointed prayer, desiring all the people there present to pray for them.
A work entitled "Annals of Newgate" says, it was for many years a custom for the bellman of St. Sepulchre's, on the eve of execution, to go under the walls of Newgate, and to repeat the following verses in the hearing of the criminals in the condemned cell:—
All you that in the condemn'd cell do lie,
Prepare you, for to-morrow you shall die.
Watch all and pray, the hour is drawing near,
When you before th' Almighty must appear.
Examine well yourselves, in time repent,
That you may not t' eternal flames be sent;
And when St. 'Pulchre's bell to-morrow tolls,
The Lord have mercy on your souls!
Past twelve o'clock!
We visited many of these venerable churches, generally always on week-days, and found female sextons in attendance,—sometimes almost ready to hang their harps on the willows, as they related the decline from days of old. Our Old South, on Washington Street, is not nearer to commercial activity, nor more removed from the resident population, than are a hundred churches in the world's metropolis.
On our visit to St. Clement Danes, in the Strand,—an elegant structure without and within, nearly 200 years old,—we inquired for Dr. Samuel Johnson's pew, for he there attended church; and we found it near the end of the left gallery, a front pew, No. 18. There are columns as in King's Chapel, Boston, and against one of these the old lexicographer sat for years, often with the smooth-thinking and easy-going Boswell beside him. Making mention of one of these occasions, Boswell says:—
On the 9th of April, 1773, being Good Friday, I breakfasted with him, on tea and cross-buns; Dr. Levet, as Frank called him, making tea. He carried me with him to the church of St. Clement Danes, where he had his seat; and his behavior was, as I had imagined to myself, solemnly devout. I shall never forget the tremulous earnestness with which he pronounced the awful petition of the Litany: "In the hour of death, and at the day of judgment, good Lord deliver us!" We went to church both in the morning and evening. In the interval between the services we did not dine; but he read the Greek Testament, and I turned over several of his books.
In memory of the former occupant, a brass plate, some six inches high and eight inches wide, is let into the back of the pew, and reads as follows:—
In this pew, and beside this pillar, for many years attended divine service the celebrated Dr. Samuel Johnson, the philosopher, the poet, the lexicographer, the profound moralist, and chief writer of his time. Born 1709, died 1784. In the remembrance and honor of noble faculties, nobly employed, some of the inhabitants of the parish of St. Clement Danes have placed this slight memorial, a. d. 1851.
The inscription is said to have been prepared by Dr. Croly, rector of St. Stephen's Walbrook. Each of us sat where the verger informed us Johnson used to sit. The pulpit is placed as it is in King's Chapel, and the Johnson pew is within easy reach of it. We thought of Dr. Taylor, the rector, who was called up at night, when Johnson's wife Tetty died, to go to Johnson's house, and attempt to soothe and assuage his grief. He had a great mind and, when stricken, great was his sorrow. The record is:—
The letter calling him was brought to Dr. Taylor at his house in the cloisters, Westminster, about three in the morning, and as it signified his earnest desire to see him, he got up and went to Johnson and found him in tears, and in extreme agitation. After a little while together Johnson requested him to join with him in prayer. He then prayed extempore, as did Dr. Taylor, and thus, by means of that piety which was ever his primary object, his troubled mind was in some degree soothed and composed.
Dr. Taylor once told Boswell that, on entering the room, Johnson expressed his grief in the strongest manner he had ever read, and that he much regretted his language was not preserved. It was doubtless in this house in Gough Square, that Johnson passed ten melancholy years. Sad indeed must have been his distress, when he was compelled to write the following to his friend Richardson, the novelist.
Gough Square, 16th March, 1756.
Sir,—I am obliged to entreat your assistance. I am now under arrest for five pounds eighteen shillings. Mr. Strahan, from whom I would have received the necessary help in this case, is not at home, and I am afraid of not finding Mr. Miller. If you will be so good as to send me this sum, I will very gratefully repay you, and add to it all former obligations. I am, sir, your most obedient and most humble servant,
Sam. Johnson.
Sent Six Guineas.
Witness, William Richardson.
This reminds us of Will's Coffee House where Johnson, Addison, Goldsmith, and others of like spirit so often congregated. We found it an ordinary three-story brick building, at the corner of a street near Covent Garden. There is a common liquor store in the first story, and a tenement above.
There are three particular things one who visits London should always see,—the Tower, Hampton Court, and the Bunhill Burial-ground.
The Tower, as it is familiarly called, is not a tower simply, nor any single building, but twelve acres of ground enclosed by a massive stone wall, one side of which borders the Thames. Inside the enclosure are stone buildings, the principal of which is the large one in the centre. It is several stories high, square in plan, measures about one hundred and fifty feet on each side, and has square towers at each angle. These are continued up some twenty feet above the main building, and each is crowned with a Moorish dome and a weather vane. The White Tower, as it is called, is another of the buildings, and was erected in 1078.
One finds a comfortable waiting-room just inside the grounds, and there is always a company of visitors in waiting. When twenty are present, one of the guards leads the way hurriedly through the portcullis, calling attention to the several parts of the edifices.
We go through the Museum of Armor. On each side are effigy horses, facing towards the passage-way, and on them are images of the kings dressed in the armor worn in life.
We go into the dungeon where for twelve years Sir Walter Raleigh was confined; the ancient chapel of St. John, five hundred years old; the modern armory; the dungeon-keep where are deposited the crown-jewels and other articles of royal value, all enclosed in glass, and protected by iron-work.
Hastily we see the Traitor's Gate, through which Raleigh, Sidney, and Russell were taken into the Tower; the room opposite, where the two sons of Edward IV. were murdered at the instigation of Richard III.; the Beauchamp Tower, where Anne Boleyn and Lady Jane Gray were detained; the old banquet-hall, in which are sixty thousand rifles. For particulars the reader is referred to "Historical Memorials of the Tower," by Lord de Ros, published at London in 1867.
Hampton Court is reached by steam railway, and is fifteen miles from London. This palace was founded by Cardinal Wolsey; and of his building, three large quadrangles, in the Tudor style, remain. Large additions were made by William III., from designs by Sir Christopher Wren. The state rooms contain a splendid collection of paintings by Holbein, Vandyke, Kneller, and West, and also the seven original cartoons of Raphael. Some of the rooms are still furnished as sleeping-rooms, as they were when occupied by kings and queens centuries ago. The public are freely admitted to the entire premises.
The extensive grounds are laid out in Dutch style, with fine avenues. In its greenhouse is the largest and the most productive grapevine in Europe. It was planted in 1767, and at the time of our visit it was said to have over three thousand bunches of Black Hamburg grapes upon it. The roots of the vine are in a garden, and the trunk, which is about six inches in diameter, extends three feet from the ground, along the wall of the house, which it then enters. Inside, the vine spreads over the entire top, which is built in the usual conservatory style, with a roof having but one slope. It is hardly needful to say that these grapes are raised solely for the royal family.
There are hundreds of acres in the grounds, and adjoining it is a park, the circumference of which is over five miles,—a delightful spot to visit. The trees, embowered avenues, terraces, gardens, and long vistas yet remain as they were centuries ago. The soil, once sacred to the tread of royalty, is now a republican delight to the multitude.
A remarkable depositary of the sainted dead is Bunhill Burial-ground, in one of the busiest parts of London, on a great thoroughfare, opposite the house in which John Wesley died on the 2d of March, 1791. Almost adjoining this is the church in which Wesley preached. The burial-ground was laid out for a sacred purpose; the burial of Non-conformists and their friends, who have made the ground classic. No cathedral cemetery, to which they could not be admitted, has an honor greater than this. Here rests the sacred poet, Isaac Watts, whose monument tells us that he died Nov. 25, 1748. There is a monument to the memory of Susannah Wesley, the mother of nineteen children, two of whom were John and Charles. Here is the grave of John Bunyan, who died Aug. 31, 1688; and that of Daniel Defoe, the author of "Robinson Crusoe." Could the doctrine of a literal resurrection be true, no grander company would assemble at one spot, or walk forth into glory clad in whiter robes than theirs. No pope or bishop, of Roman Church or English, could understand the plaudit, "Well done good and faithful servant, enter thou into the joy of thy Lord," better than would they. These came up out of great tribulation, and so would shine resplendent.
London is great. A volume appropriated to each of a thousand things would not tell the story. Her history has a vast reach and the records have been well kept. Her population is a round four and a half millions,—as much as New York, Philadelphia, Chicago, Cincinnati, Boston, and ten more of our largest New England cities combined. Her great Library at the Museum has as many books as Harvard and Yale colleges, and the Boston Public Library, all put together.
Our stay here was from Sunday, May 12, to Saturday the 25th, about two weeks, and no hour of time was unemployed. We were amid scenes of which history had made the letter somewhat familiar; and now personal observation made the spirit a living reality. No one can know London till he sojourns there for months, visiting its places of interest, and reading anew the history of each in the admirable works written for the purpose.
As regards the habits of daily life we find but little that is peculiar. The influence of the press and of travel have changed the system of domestic as well as political economy. Both nations, American and English, have given and received. It savors perhaps of egotism, but it is exceedingly easy to say that the influence of the daughter excels that of the mother. There are more traces of America in England, than of England in America. The modifications have been from our direction, for it is true now, as in Bishop Berkeley's day, that "Westward the star of empire takes its way." Liberalism in England is not Communism, and will never be. Liberty may be ill-used by fanatics, but the sound sense of England will take care of itself, and "out of the bitter will come forth sweet." There are some points of English polity to be spoken of, but not now.
On this Saturday, May 25, we take a train at 1 p. m. for Oxford.
CHAPTER IX.
OXFORD.
We now begin a tour through the central part of England, in a northerly direction towards Scotland, for we intend to see England with unusual thoroughness. Our first place of sojourn is Oxford, where we arrive at 3.30 p. m., Saturday, May 25, having had a two and half hours' ride from London. The place presents a rural appearance, trees and gardens being interspersed among the buildings. Nowhere is there a commercial look, for it is emphatically a university town, and dependent mainly for support on its colleges. It was made a seat of learning at an early day, and is thus referred to by Pope Martin II. a. d. 882. Situated between the rivers Cherwell and Isis, it has a population of 31,544, and is irregularly built, with many narrow and crooked streets. Many of the buildings are old, yet in good repair. Tradition says that this was a favorite resort of Alfred the Great.
In one of the public streets the martyrs Latimer, Ridley, and Cranmer were burned. The spot is opposite Balliol College, and marked by a very imposing brown sandstone Gothic monument about thirty feet high, erected in 1841, from designs by Gilbert Scott.
Latimer and Ridley were led to the stake Oct. 16, 1555. A bag of gunpowder was fastened about the body of the former,—probably as an act of charity, to hasten his death,—and so he died immediately. While being bound, he said to his companion: "Be of good comfort, Master Ridley, and play the man; we shall this day light such a candle, by God's grace, in England, as I trust shall never be put out." It never has been extinguished, and will continue to "shine brighter and brighter, to the perfect day."
Latimer and Ridley, John Rogers, who was burned at Smithfield, Feb. 4 of the same year, and Cranmer, burned in Oxford March 21, 1556, were graduates of Cambridge, the rival university of Oxford. These two distinguished seats of learning are to England what Harvard College and Yale are to New England. Cambridge has long been recognized as liberal and reformatory in tendency, while Oxford has prided herself on her conservatism. Dean Stanley, in a late speech, ventured the remark that Cambridge was celebrated for educating men to be martyrs, and Oxford for burning them. Cranmer was a fellow-laborer with Latimer and Ridley. He was arrested and cited to appear at Rome within eighty days, but could not do so, and was condemned as contumacious. He was at first firm, but the fear of death overcame him and he recanted, and repeated his recantation many times, but without avail. In his last effort he declared that he had been the greatest of persecutors, and comparing himself to the penitent thief, humbly begged for pardon; but in spite of all, on March 21, 1556, Queen Mary—who had a bitter hatred towards him, as did the bishops, who were resolved not only on his degradation but his death—directed him to prepare for the stake. A recantation was given him, which he was ordered to read publicly to the spectators. He transcribed and signed it, and kept a copy, which he altered, making a disavowal of his recantations. After listening to a sermon, he finally avowed himself a Protestant, declaring that he would die in his old faith; that he believed neither in papal supremacy nor in transubstantiation, proclaiming that the hand which had signed his recantation should be the first to suffer from the fire. He was taken to the spot where Latimer and Ridley were burnt the October before, and died like them, his death adding light to the candle which could never be put out. As the flames rose about him he thrust in his right hand, and held it there till it was consumed, crying aloud, "This hand hath offended; this unworthy right hand." His last audible words were, "Lord Jesus, receive my spirit."
The city has been for centuries one of great respectability and repute, and Charles I. once made it his headquarters. The cathedral attached to Christ's College is on the site of a priory, founded in the eighth century. It is Gothic, of the style of the twelfth century, and has a spire 146 feet high. This is one of the five cathedrals of England having spires; but it is, however, only a remnant of a church which, probably, when entire, had little merit. St. Peter's is the oldest church in Oxford; but St. Mary's is also venerable, and has a steeple 180 feet high.
The Bodleian Library, opened in 1602, contains three hundred thousand volumes. There is connected with the library a museum containing many portraits of distinguished people. In this room, among other prominent objects of interest, is an oaken chair, once a part of the ship in which Sir Francis Drake made his celebrated voyage around the world. He set sail from Plymouth, England, Dec. 13, 1577, over three hundred years ago, and reached home again in November, 1580. He died and was buried at sea, near Puerto Bello, Dec. 27, 1595.
The poet Cowley, in 1662, composed the following verse, which is engraven on a silver plate and affixed to the chair:—
To this great ship, which round the Globe has run,
And matched in race the chariot of the sun,
This Pythagorian ship (for it may claim
Without presumption, so deserved a name)
By knowledge once, and transformation now,
In her new shape this sacred port allow.
Drake and his ship, could not have wished from Fate,
An happier station, or more blest estate;
For lo! a seat of endless rest is given,
To her in Oxford, and to him in Heaven.
Here is exhibited the lantern used by Guy Fawkes in the memorable plot to blow up the Houses of Parliament, Nov. 5, 1605. It is an ordinary lantern, with holes through the tin. In fact, it is precisely like those used in New England fifty years ago.
The college buildings are mostly built of yellowish sandstone, now bedimmed with age, and many of them are much decayed. They are unlike our college buildings, being constructed with an imposing façade, through whose centre is an arch, under the second story, opening into an enclosed quadrangle. These quadrangles vary in dimensions, from one hundred to one hundred and fifty feet square, and the students' rooms open into them. Out of the quadrangle nearest the street, similar arches may often lead into other quadrangles in the rear of the first, or at its sides; so that the establishment may be extended, in a series of buildings, without losing its primal characteristics.
These roofless squares have velvet grass, with wide walks around the outside, against the buildings, and cross-paths leading to the doorways and arches. Scrupulously clean is every inch of college ground in Oxford. Not a piece of paper litters the lawn; and many students have flower-pots at their windows. Fuschias, petunias, nasturtiums, and geraniums were abundant. The buildings vary in design, but are all three or four stories high. Some of them are built out flush; and others have corridors, cloister-like, under the second story, around their quadrangles.
Connected with many colleges are large parks, for centuries used as places of academic resort. They have avenues and trees like Boston Common, and the main avenue at Merton College has a circuit miles in length. Too much cannot be said in praise of those classic grounds. Flower-plats are cultivated, and fine shrubbery; and there are brooks, embankments, and bridges. In a word, if paradise ever was lost, much of it has here been regained. It is no stretch of the imagination to think that Milton, educated amidst similar grounds at Cambridge, was on their account more inclined to meditate on "Paradise Regained."
The antiquity of Oxford as a seat of learning is undisputed. It is so referred to by Giraldus Cambrensis, in 1180, more than seven hundred years ago. Vacarius, a Lombard, lectured here on civil law, about the year 1149. The first use of the word University (universitas), in this sense, appears in a statute of King John in 1201. It was applied to similar institutions in Paris, in an ordinance of Pope Innocent III., bearing date 1215. The place was so recognized as a desirable resort for persons of education, that Wood, its principal historian, says: "At one time there were within its precincts thirty thousand persons claiming to be scholars, though of course not all belonging to the university." Its first charter was granted by Henry III. in 1244.
On the 10th of February, 1355, a disturbance occurred,—or what in our day would be designated a rebellion,—which ended in an edict from the Bishop of Lincoln, whose diocese included Oxford, that thereafter there should be annually celebrated in St. Mary's Church a mass for the souls of those who were killed, and that the mayor, two bailiffs, and sixty of the principal citizens should be present and offer a penny each at the great altar, in default of which they were to pay one hundred marks yearly to the University. The penance was afterwards mitigated, but was not abolished till 1825; so that, in some form, it remained for nearly five hundred years.
Passing over many interesting facts, we name the colleges in the order of their foundation.
The University comprises twenty colleges: University, founded 1249; Balliol, 1263 to 1268; Merton, 1264 (removed from Malden in 1274); Exeter, 1314; Oriel, 1326; Queen's, 1340; New, 1386; Lincoln, 1427; All Souls, 1437; Magdalen, 1456; Brazenose, 1509; Corpus Christi, 1516; Christ Church, 1546-1547; Trinity, 1554; St. John's, 1555; Jesus, 1571; Wadham, 1613; Pembroke, 1620; Worcester, 1714; Keble (by subscription, as a memorial to Rev. John Keble), 1870. The number of undergraduates for the year 1873-4 was 2,392; the whole number of members on the books was 8,532. The college buildings are located near each other, though they extend over an area of at least a square mile. Three or four are sometimes on a single street, their grounds adjoining. The undergraduates in each college average one hundred and twenty—or if all the students and members be included, the average is four hundred and twelve: numbers, which are small when compared with those of our leading American colleges.
These colleges are in most respects as independent of each other as if they were in different towns. Each has its own Master, or, as we should say, President. It governs its own affairs to the minutest detail, but acts always in subordination to certain regulations made by the Council of Management, which is composed of all the Masters.
No institutions have exerted a greater influence on the world than this and its companion at Cambridge.
As we walked along the shadow of these venerable walls, beneath the shade of their old trees, or sat beside the gently flowing streams; as we went into the dining-halls and looked upon the portraits of renowned men and upon their heraldry; as we sat on the benches which had been occupied by eminent men; as in the chapels we were inspired with new reverence for things great and good; as we wandered at will—at this time of college vacation—from close to close, and remembered the name and fame of the ecclesiastics, poets, historians, philosophers, scientists,—new school and old, High Church, Low Church, and No Church,—and thought of the six hundred years of results since the charter and first foundation,—we felt that Oxford was inexpressibly great.
The fine weather—which, as we say at home, was apparently settled—enabled us, for the first time since our landing, to dispense with overcoats; but, as the sequel proved, only for an hour.
The new foliage, the odor of flowers, the birds, the familiar croak and incessant wheeling of the rooks, seemed part and parcel of the premises, as if, like the trees and buildings, they had been there for a century.
We attended worship at St. Peter's, heard the service read, not intoned, and listened to a matter-of-fact sermon, about as well delivered as the average of sermons at home; and at 5.30 p. m., of this same Sunday, were ready to move on to Stratford-upon-Avon, the home of Shakespeare. Our visit was in vacation time, but many students remained in the city, and we noted their fine physique. None of them were puny, and hardly one had the "student's look." They were good specimens of Young England, square-built, solid, healthy, and stocky. Uniformity of size, demeanor, and conversation prevailed. With the pleasantest memories of Oxford, so admirably adapted to its great purposes, we moved out of the station towards the home of one who did so much to make great thoughts the common property of literature and life.
CHAPTER X.
WARWICK—STRATFORD-ON-AVON—LEAMINGTON—KENILWORTH—COVENTRY—BIRMINGHAM—LICHFIELD.
When we started Sunday for Stratford we only thought of briefly visiting Old Warwick on our way; but after a two hours' ride, arriving here, we were tempted to remain over night, and were soon at a comfortable hotel, a commercial-travellers' house, near the station. It being but eight o'clock, and not yet sunset, we walked out for a view of the historic place, which we soon decided was one of much interest. Half the houses were picturesque, many of them built in the timbered and plastered style. All sorts of thoroughfares were there, from broad and level, to narrow crooked and hilly. Evening service being just ended, an unusual number of well dressed people were in the streets, and the hour reminded us of a New England Sunday.
Warwick is situated on the right bank of the Avon, and has a population of 10,986.
The castle is one of the finest feudal structures in England. It is grandly situated, its colossal rear making a bank of the river, and there are meadows and groves near by. All is in most perfect repair, and on Monday it was our good privilege to visit it and its remarkable grounds. It is occupied by the Earl of Warwick, who kindly permits strangers to examine the premises at certain times. One passes through the arched gateway, on one side of which is a room containing a museum of antiquities. A prim young miss, daughter of the matronly gatekeeper, glibly but bashfully gives the history of an enormous punchbowl and other interesting things. An optional fee makes things agreeable, and we pass through the grand avenue, turning back now and then to look at the high solid walls of the ivy-covered tower.
We go through a remarkable lawn and gravelled avenues, and not far in the distance at our right, partially embowered in green,—at times on a level with us, at others on the little hillsides,—we see the ruins of monastic establishments. How scrupulously everything is cared for, bearing evidence of constant watchfulness of the servants, such as only the English aristocracy can secure.
Next we walk over the great lawn, to the greenhouse five hundred feet away. We are invited there by the venerable gardener, but not without hope of reward. Here is the celebrated Warwick Vase; and who, claiming knowledge of art, has not heard of it? It stands on a pedestal six feet high. It is of marble, now of yellowish tinge, but tolerably white. It is remarkably rich in carvings, and of great age, its early history being lost in antiquity. It appeared to be six feet in diameter, and the same in height. It was years ago found in a lake near Tivoli, and presented to the Earl of Warwick. All over the civilized world may be seen copies of this vase, made by permission of the owner.
Standing at the door of this conservatory, and facing towards the castle, a scene of wonderful beauty is presented. The spot is somewhat elevated, and we look for miles over hills, velvet fields, and woodlands. Conspicuous among the trees, making our picture's foreground, are spreading cedars of Lebanon. The river meanders on its quiet way; and the winding road, half hidden, adds its charm. Bordering the lawn which makes our left foreground is the cheerful castle, in color a sort of buff-tinged granite. It is by no means ancient in appearance, but the reverse, except in its design. The main tower is 128 feet high, and dates back full five hundred years. There is another, 147 feet high, of uncertain date. Ivy has its way, and covers parts of the great structure. The castle is colossal, its outlines broken by octagonal and square towers. Let us visit the castle itself. An additional shilling is to be paid to the young woman who guides us, and who only commences her tour when the proper number of visitors has accumulated. We pass through four or five large rooms, of elegantly finished oak and pine, painted and gilded. The furniture and upholstery are rich in design,—some ancient, some modern, but all in keeping with the place. Pictures abound,—many of them are by the Masters. Bric-a-brac is in profusion, much of it hundreds of years old, presented to former earls by royalty. There is also a museum of armor. In one room is a chimney, or open fireplace, with its cheerful fire. It is some nine feet wide, projecting well into the room, and is high enough to walk into.
What fine views from the rear windows! Beyond are the meadows and the groves; and to the right, extending countryward, are the hills and scenery before described.
The town was formerly walled, and there yet remains a gateway, surmounted by a chapel. Half a mile up the main street is Leicester Hospital, endowed centuries ago by the Earl of Leicester, and charmingly described by Hawthorne. Here is the ancient chair, said to be a thousand years old, accurate copies of which are for sale.
Near by is the church, built in 1693, with its massive tower of delightful proportions. How charming are the old mansions with their profusion of trees, all combining to make Warwick a most inviting place.
In the twilight, at the late hour of 9.30, the worshippers were coming out of old St. Mary's Church, which is situated at the most public centre, in the midst of a venerable churchyard. It is an ancient Gothic edifice, having an end tower with a tall spire above it. The dim-lighted interior carried us back into a distant age.
What ground have we gone over in a few hours!—hours not over-crowded by any means.
Monday we are up early for a new ramble,—first to see the town anew; next to visit the castle already described; and then to go over the Old Hospital, and to hear its history from a guide-inmate. Built and endowed by one of the old earls hundreds of years ago, it has apartments of two or three rooms each, accomodating perhaps ten families. These are for old soldiers, who are past a given age and possess certain requisites. They must have wives, and on the death of one soldier his place passes to another. About $350 a year is given them for subsistence, out of an endowment fund, and of course the rent is free. On the death of the husband, $100 is given to the widow, who must vacate the premises. If the wife dies first, then the husband also gives up the apartment and endowment, and goes into the common home, in another part of the building. Great neatness prevails, and all is under supervision of the chaplain, or Master.
STRATFORD-ON-AVON.
We arrived here at 2 p. m., after a ride of an hour, and took coach to the famed Red Horse Hotel, made famous by Washington Irving's "Sketch Book." The parlor, a low room some twelve feet square on the first floor, fronting on the street, is used by visitors. This is the room occupied for months by Irving, and his armchair is still in use. The tongs and shovel, and the iron poker—Sir Geoffrey's Sceptre—are still there, though the latter, having become classic, is on exhibition and not for use.
The town is small, and is somewhat of a business place at the very centre; but it is mostly rural, though a few of the streets are paved and the buildings of some consequence. It is situated on the River Avon, a small stream, and has a population of 3,833. It was a place of some consequence as early as the eighth century.
It of course derives its principal interest from associations with the great poet, born here, probably, April 23, 1564, and who died here on his birthday in 1616. The house in which he died was torn down by its proprietor many years ago, much to the regret of the inhabitants, as well as the visitor; but that in which he was born, and lived for many years, still stands. It is situated on a principal street, though in a quiet locality, and stands close to the sidewalk, with no yard in front. It is two stories high, having a pitched roof, with some breaks in it for windows; and is now supposed to be as in Shakespeare's early days. It is a timbered building, with bricks filling the spaces, plastered over and painted a light-gray or steel color. Its extreme length on the street may be forty-five feet. Like our Mount Vernon, it is owned by an association, and kept for the inspection of those interested in places of the kind. Two matrons—some sixty-five years of age, genial in demeanor and at home in conversation, and having the whole story at their tongues' end—take turns with each other in doing the agreeable, which costs each visitor a modest shilling. We are shown the kitchen, or living-room, into which the street door opens. It has no furniture except a chair or two for the accomodation of visitors. The fireplace is still there,—the worn hearth and the oak floor. Next we see the dining-room, and the chamber in which tradition says Shakespeare was born. The low ceilings and the saggy condition of everything aid the imagination; it is easy to feel that probably he was born here. In an adjoining room are collected many things once owned by the great bard; letters written by him, and other writings with which he was associated; portraits of him by various artists. The number of daily visitors is large. After a walk of ten minutes we are at the Church of the Holy Trinity, a Gothic structure, large and in thorough repair. Situated in the centre of a burial-ground, and enclosed with trees, it is very long, and has a tower and lofty spire. A source of revenue to the parish are Shakespeare's remains. A shilling is paid, and we enter on the side, near the west end, pass down the nave, and come to the holy of holies. The chancel is perhaps thirty feet long and twenty feet deep, enclosed by a simple altar rail at the front. On its left end wall, some six feet up from the floor, is the celebrated bust of the poet. It is painted, as described by Briton, in 1816:—
The bust is the size of life; it is formed out of a block of soft stone, and was originally painted in imitation of nature. The hands and face were of flesh color, the eyes of a light hazel, and the hair and beard auburn; the doublet, or coat, was scarlet, and covered with a loose black gown, or tabard, without sleeves; the upper part of the cushion was green, the under half crimson, and the tassels gilt. After remaining in this state above one hundred and twenty years, Mr. John Ward, grandfather to Mrs. Siddons and Mr. Kemble, caused it to be repaired and the original colors preserved, in 1784, from the profits of the representation of "Othello."
In 1793 Malone foolishly caused it to be painted white. In his right hand he holds a pen, and appears to be in the act of writing on a sheet of paper lying on the cushion in front of him. Beneath is a tablet containing the following inscription. The first two lines in Latin are translated as follows:—
In judgment a Nestor, in genius a Socrates, in arts a Maro;
The earth covers him, the people mourn for him, Olympus has him.
And next are those in English:—
Stay, passenger, why goest thou so fast?
Read, if thou can'st, whom envious death hath plast
Within this monument,—Shakespeare; with whome
Quick natvre dide; whose name doth deck ys tombe
Far more than cost; sieth all yt he hath writt,
Leaves living art, but page to serve his witt
Obiit ano. Dei. 1616; Ætatis 53, Die. 23 Ap.
Near the monument, and in the chancel, is a plain stone, beneath which the body lies buried; and upon it is the following inscription said to have been written by the poet himself:—
Good frend, for Iesvs sake forbeare
To digg the dvst encloased heare;
Blesete be ye. Man yt. spares thes stones,
And cvrst be he yt. moves my bones.
In the charnel house of this ancient church are many human bones. These Shakespeare had doubtless often seen, and he probably shuddered at the idea that his own might be added to this promiscuous heap. This thought seems to have been present when he makes Hamlet ask: "Did these bones cost no more i' the breeding, but to play at loggats with them? Mine ache to think on't." This dislike perhaps influenced him to bestow a curse or a blessing, as future authorities might disturb or respect his remains. His wife lies beside him. On her gravestone is a brass plate, with the following inscription by an unknown author:—
Heere lyeth interred the body of Anne, wife of William Shakespeare, who departed this life the 6th day of Avgv: 1623, being of the age of 67 yeares.
There is also a Latin verse, written by her daughter, and rendered into English as follows:—
Thou, Mother, hast afforded me thy paps,—
Hast given me milk and life; alas! for gifts
So great, I give thee only stones. How would
I rather some good Angel should remove
This stone from hence; that, as Christ's body rose,
So should thy form! But wishes naught avail.
Com'st thou soon, O Christ! let my imprisoned
Mother, from this tomb soar to seek the star.
A brief outline of Shakespeare's[1] life is as follows:—
Tradition says that he was born April 23, 1564. The ancient parchment parish register—which we were permitted to see—shows that he was baptized three days after. At the age of nineteen, an unusual proceeding took place in the quiet old town, for the authorities were asked to permit the marriage of the young man to Anne Hathaway, and after but one publication of the banns, instead of three, as was both practice and law. A bond signed by Fulk Sandalls and John Rychardson, for indemnity to the officers of the Bishop of Worcester's ecclesiastical court,—for granting the questionable permission which they did, and issuing the document,—bears date Nov. 28, 1582. The marriage took place during the Christmas holidays, but the exact day is to this time shrouded in mystery.
On the 26th day of May, 1583, six months after the hastened marriage ceremony, the parish register has a record of the baptism of his first child Susanna, and on the 2d day of February, 1585, of his second daughter.
It is presumed that his first play, the "First Part of Henry VI." was brought out at Blackfriars Theatre, London, in 1590, while its author was at the age of twenty-seven; and it is reported that he produced a play once in every six months afterwards, till the completion of all attributed to him. On the burning of the Globe theatre of London, (Southwark), which was simply a summer theatre and without a roof, he removed back to the town of his nativity in 1613, where he died April 23, 1616, on his fifty-second birthday, and realizing his own lines,—
We are such stuff
As dreams are made of, and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep.
We have no reliable account of the cause of his comparatively early death; but the Rev. John Ward, vicar of Stratford-on-Avon, in 1662, forty-six years after his death, writes as follows:—
Shakspeare, Drayton, and Ben Jonson had a merie meeting, and drank too hard; for Shakspeare, it seems, died of a feavour there contracted.
The next object of interest is the spot where was born and resided Anne Hathaway, the wife of Shakespeare. This is in a cluster of farmhouses called Shottery, situated within the parish of Holy Trinity, and about a mile away from Shakespeare's birthplace. From a gateway on the common road, a circuitous lane continues half a mile through gates or bars, then resolves itself into a footpath, fenced in by light wirework. The houses are of the usual rural style. At last we are at the cottage where, three hundred years ago, the Shakesperian courting was done. It stands endwise to a beautiful road, but some fifty feet from it, and enclosed by a wall. No house in England is more picturesque, either in itself, or its surroundings. It looks ancient, though in good repair. It is not far from sixty feet long, a story and a half high, or fifteen feet, with a pitched roof covered with thatch. The small upper windows, cut into the eaves, show the thatch a foot and a half thick. The building is of stone, plastered and whitewashed. It is entered from the side, and occupied seemingly by two or three families. There are vines climbing over it, and flowers in the long yard by the entrance; and there is a museum in the Anne Hathaway part.
We have not ceased regretting that we did not go in there; let the reader be admonished not to go and do likewise.
Children were at play in the old road, as they were three centuries ago. We had come three thousand miles to look upon what they hardly think of; but without the right kind of eyes one is blind. Another says, and says well: "A dwarf, standing on a giant's shoulder, may see more than the giant himself." There may be an undeveloped—unevolved, perhaps we should say—Shakespeare among those boys. He was once thoughtless and playful as they. Here Shakespeare walked and thought. A good road extended from Shottery Village to his home, but the short-cut across the fields alone would satisfy his mind. Philosophy and poetry were at their best in the shorter footpath, away from the "busy haunts of men." He could go quicker to the house he would go to in the early eve, and quicker also to the one to which he must return at the early morn! So it continued, until about Christmas of 1582, when hope ended in fruition, and Richard Hathaway's daughter became Anne Shakespeare, so to remain for forty-one years till 1623,—seven after her William had been gathered to his fathers. It is a coincidence worthy of notice, that Shakespeare's mother also survived her husband, John Shakespeare, seven years.
The bond of indemnity—holding the magistrates safe from penalties that might be imposed by the Bishop of Worcester or his consistory court—was in the sum of $200. The signature of the bondsman bears the mark of R. H., the initials of Richard Hathaway, the bride's father; so he of course approved the proceeding.
At 8 p. m. we took cars for the beautiful town of
LEAMINGTON,
where we arrived after an hour's ride, and remained over night, much enjoying our accommodation at the Avenue Hotel. Next morning, after breakfast, took a stroll out over the town. It is a noted place of aristocratic resort for pleasure, and for its springs—a sort of cross between English Bath and American Saratoga. Everywhere were facilities for the enjoyment of pleasure or health-seeking tourists. It would seem as though one could hardly be sick here. It was in this place that Sir Walter Scott wrote "Kenilworth," and as one breathes the exhilarating air, he is inclined to reduce the honors usually accorded to the great writer, and imagine that it is nothing strange that, with such surroundings, he wrote as he did. A visit to Leamington, and one is in the secret of Sir Walter's power when he wrote that smoothest of romances.
Perhaps we ought to make a more economical use of adjectives in describing the neatness of streets and the beauty of public and private grounds, for this is the universal and not exceptional condition.
The pink hawthorn is in bloom, and such pansies as we never saw at home. Remember, this is May 28. We have not anywhere in our travels seen Indian corn growing, and think it is not raised. We have seen no fields of potatoes, only small patches for family use; and these are six inches out of the ground. Carrots and early cabbages are fully grown and exposed for sale. We visited one grapery, where the Black Hamburg vines were forty years old and in good bearing, the grapes being about the size of peas. The vines were set in the borders of the greenhouse, which were two and a half feet wide, and the vines were three and a half feet apart,—the stocks, or trunks, being not more than an inch and a half in diameter. On the outside of a small conservatory was a fine heliotrope, one and a half inches in diameter, nine years old, which had often been well pruned and was in profuse bloom.
The town has a population of 22,730, and is very pleasantly situated on the River Leam, a tributary of the Avon, and is one of the handsomest towns in England, and more American in appearance than any other place we saw on our journey. The spring waters are saline, sulphurous, and chalybeate. They came into use in 1797, and are visited constantly by the élite of the land.
KENILWORTH.
"Kenilworth Castle!" says the reader. That and more! The station is reached by a half-hour's ride from Leamington, being about five miles in a direct line from Stratford, Leamington, and Coventry. The country is hilly and abounds with fertile fields, on which are grazing sheep, cows, and horses in countless numbers. Everything has an inhabited look. Elms, oaks, horse-chestnuts, and poplars abound. There are fine groves that might be called woods. The town itself is a small one of 4,250 inhabitants. It has manufactures of ribbons, gauzes, combs, and chemicals, and is a market-town, to whose public square the farmers bring their produce, while traders, from temporary stands, offer for sale all kinds of wares. For centuries these market-days have been a part of the weekly life of the people.
There is a very ancient church, and the ruins of an abbey, founded in 1122; but the great object of interest is the ruins of its celebrated castle, made so familiar by Sir Walter Scott's romance. The spot was reached by a pleasant walk of about a mile from the station. When we had passed through a well shaded country road,—through the woods, as we should say in America,—there was presented to view a most enchanting scene. Ahead of us, say five minutes' walk, our road seemed to terminate in a gently rising plain, a miniature common, on which were three or four stone residences, partly public and partly private in appearance. The scene reminded us of a New England common.
To the left, bounding the road, was a stone wall; from this, gently sloping, for perhaps two hundred feet, was a grazing pasture. At the upper end of this were the ruins, not of the castle proper, but of some of its outbuildings. These massive and ivy-dressed ruins alone would have satisfied us, and we mistook them for the castle itself, but we went up to the little plateau, and round to the left hand, to get admission to the grounds; for we were now somewhat educated on the ruins question, and believed there was more in waiting for us. Lads and lasses, and some very old women, offered their services and guide-books. They told their story well, but we told ours better. We found the gateway, paid our shillings, and decided to be our own guides.
First, there was a flower garden,—centuries ago cultivated as now, but then only for the inmates of the castle. Here was also a museum, containing many articles once used in the castle. We did not get up enthusiasm enough to go in; and now content ourselves by saying, "Where ignorance is bliss, 'tis folly to be wise." Beyond another gate, we find ourselves in a closely cropped sheep-pasture. No lawn in our Boston suburbs equals this carpet of green, acres in extent. To our left, five hundred feet away, were the ruins observed before. We don't discount this beauty even now, and we never will. Put those ruins in Brookline or Brighton, and we'd stand our ground even with Englishmen. But what shall we say about the ruins of the castle itself,—there on our right, two hundred feet away?
This is Cæsar's Tower. Square in plan, the surface is broken with piers and vertical projections of varying width; the top is perhaps sixty feet from the ground, and made irregular by its decay. It is roofless, of course, and has walls sixteen feet thick at the bottom; half the surface is covered with dark-leaved ivy, precisely such as is grown in our houses. We go nearer; now on our right, two hundred feet on our front, and left, leaving a half enclosed square, are other portions of this great castle. What variety of outline! What solidity! There are patches of ivy fifty feet square. Measuring a single trunk, conformed to the crevices of the wall, we found it to be 3 feet 10 inches wide, and 16 inches thick at the centre, decreasing to a thickness of 3 inches at the edges. We should have been unable to believe this story, had it been told by others, and will not find fault with any one who now doubts our accuracy.
The castle was founded by Geoffrey de Clinton, treasurer to Henry I.; and in 1286 it was the place of a great chivalric meeting, at which it is said, "silks were worn for the first time in England." The very gorgeous entertainment given here in 1575, to Queen Elizabeth, is immortalized by Scott in "Kenilworth." Of the original castle, all now remaining is the corner tower. All else, though to all appearances as old looking, is of later date. The hall erected by John of Gaunt, who died Feb. 3, 1399, is 86 feet long and 45 wide, having mullioned windows on each side, and large fireplaces at each end.
The domain passed to the crown, and was bestowed by Henry III., who died Nov. 16, 1272, on Simon de Montfort, Earl of Leicester. When he was defeated and killed, his adherents held it for six months, but at length made favorable terms of capitulation. Edward II., who was murdered Sept. 21, 1327, was a prisoner in it for some time. It next fell into the hands of Edward III., who died June 21, 1377. Then it fell to John of Gaunt, who died twenty-two years afterwards, when it passed to his son, Henry Bolingbroke (Henry IV.); and on his accession to the throne, Sept. 30, 1399, it became again vested in the crown, and so remained until Queen Elizabeth bestowed it on her favorite Dudley, Earl of Leicester. She visited it three times, the last visit being so graphically described by Sir Walter. It was dismantled and unroofed in the time of Cromwell, and has never been repaired. At the Restoration it fell to the Clarenden family, and is now the property of the family of Eardley-Wilmot.